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TWENTY-THREE
“What are you going to paint for the exhibit?” Brandon asks when we return to the room after eating.
“Not sure. Maybe I’ll use one of my recent sketches. Ms. Jung says we have between next week and the following to submit our work.”
“Instead of giving it to me, sell what you don’t use,” he suggests. “Have you ever sold your art before?”
I shake my head. “I was nervous about my skills when it came to oil painting. But lately, I’ve been more confident. Maybe I should.”
He treats me to a partial smile. “Well, you are a talented little artist.”
His compliment turns me into a sappy mess. My voice is soft as I reply, “Thank you.”
Sitting at the foot of the bed, I flip through the pages of my sketchbook for ideas.
“Let me see,” Brandon insists, standing before me with his palm open.
I hand the book over, no longer shy about him seeing five particular sketches.
Taking his careful time, Brandon looks through my drawings, creasing his forehead as he studies each page.
He stops on the sketch of the academy’s small flower garden where I lay in the grass so he could trace my skin with a white rose.
“This one, perhaps,” he suggests.
“Sure. I’ll see how it looks.”
My throat tightens as he turns the thick pages to the more recent ones. He pauses at the first sketch of himself. His lips part just a tad, and he looks at me.
I become hot from the intensity and touch my neck.
Brandon keeps skipping, coming to the second sketch, features softening by the third and fourth, and finally the last.
He observes me while closing the book. “Why do you draw me, Kayla?”
“You have a great outline,” I joke, collecting the book. I straighten from the bed to prepare the easel. “Are you sure it’s okay to paint here? Even though you spread a sheet on the floor, I still don’t want to mess up anything.”
“It’s fine,” he huffs. “Now, tell me the truth. Why are there sketches of me in your book?”
Stalling with the brush, I slant to Brandon and say in a near whisper, “Let me touch you, and I’ll show you why.”
His jaw stiffens.
My stomach sinks, knowing he won’t.
Sighing, I swivel back to the easel. I’m about to dab the brush in green paint when Brandon clutches my wrist.
I turn to him, heart sprinting.
It’s as if time has slowed down as he gradually lifts my hand. Body shaking a bit, he draws deep breaths while guiding my hand to his neck.
Brandon squeezes his eyes shut when my fingers graze his smooth skin, and I savor the feeling.
So far, he’s the only one to do any touching, and it’s been aggressive. But this is different. He’s allowing me to be gentle.
A wave of excitement washes over me. I inch closer, wanting to caress him some more, possibly embrace him.
But his dark blue eyes pry open, and Brandon throws my hand from his neck and backs away nervously.
