What happens when the star baseball player hits a home run into the art studio window?
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All Sadie Lane Garner needed to make herself happy was a canvas and paintbrush.
With copious projects due and little studio time, she volunteers to clean t...
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I PACED AROUND at the studio.
My painting's brown eyes bored into mine, begging for me to add the finishing touches and be done. However, my brain was moving at one hundred miles per hour and I knew I wouldn't get anything productive done if I sat down.
Yeah, I found Elijah attractive. Who didn't?
He was gorgeous and kind. So annoyingly kind, considering how popular he was.
But I didn't like the profound feeling blooming deep inside of me. It ebbed and flowed throughout my body and mind, but swelled in my stomach. I hadn't noticed how strong it was until Elijah walked away from me this afternoon, and I haven't been able to rid the feeling since.
I heard footsteps approaching.
My hands fell to my side, and I sprinted to my stool like I ran track. I didn't run track.
Picking up my pallet, I dipped my brush into a clump of white paint and blew out a shaky breath to steady myself and pretended I'd been painting this entire time. I was as cool as a cucumber—on the outside.
Two knocks, and then Elijah entered. "Hey, you're here."
I glanced across the room before he noticed me looking. My heart rate sped up, and I lowered my face. "Hi, midterm project due next week," I said, motioning to the canvas.
"Right." He set his backpack on a chair and pulled his sweatshirt off. "It's coming along great."
I didn't turn around as he approached my easel and waited for his move.
His left hand gripped the side of my stool, barely grazing my upper thigh, and his chest brushed against my back, causing my spine to stiffen. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying to subdue my breathing because if I took the breath I needed to fill my lungs, I'd gasp.
"It looks finished to me." his voice tickled my ear.
"It's getting there. I still have a lot of details to add that will pull everything together."
His chin hovered over my right shoulder, with pursed lips and squinted eyes, he observed my painting. I liked the way he looked at my art like he was standing in Louvre admiring hundred-year-old work.
"Why is she sad?
His question made me look forward.
The female's eyes sagged, the corner of her lips drooped into a pout. Her cheekbones were hollow and the blue hues I scattered throughout the canvas made the painting seem cold. For not being able to paint portraits, I was semi-proud of what I'd accomplished.
"I don't know, we had to choose an emotion, and this is what I naturally ended up painting."
