Besides, all I need is a passing grade in this class. And if every human I draw keeps coming out looking like a rabbit, I can kiss my GPA goodbye anyway.
Liza finally texts me back.
LIZA: Say less! Three words: you, me, and sneaking snacks into Towne Theater.
KATE: That’s more than three words, but I’m so in!
Miss Njay tuts a disapproving sound, and I snap my head up. It’s clear that she’s been talking to the class for a hot minute because thecircle of students already have their sketchbooks open, pencils poised, and are listening intently.
I fumble for a pencil and try to ignore deformed rabbit after deformed rabbit as I flip through my sketchbook for a fresh page.
Miss Njay’s voice is thick and deep, like a human bulldozer. “Today we study the male form. Since we have completed our unit on light, I expect the shading to beprecise.” She waddles around the raised center platform in the middle of the room, flicking on an overhead lighting system.
The door to an adjoining classroom opens. A tall guy with broad shoulders shuffles out in a black bathrobe, stalling behind one of the lamps.
Miss Njay claps her hands and bulldozes on. “This is a breathing example of what extra credit opportunities look like in the fine arts department.” She snickers, giving me the evil eye like she’s already planned my half-naked humiliation to save my grade.
She prods the bathrobe guy from behind the lamp, and a pair of startling green eyes crash into mine.
My jaw drops two seconds before Brandon’s bathrobe does.
I fling my hands up to shield my eyes as I let out a tiny squeak.
Please don’t be naked.
I can’t stay in this class—sit in thisseat—sketching the blocky abs of the guy I ghosted two weeks ago. The one I still can’t stop thinking about.
Please don’t be naked.
My fervent prayer continues as I duck my head behind my raised sketchbook, mind spinning for an escape. Ofcoursethe heater had to be farthest from the door. I curse. Maybe if I fake sick, I could bury my face behind my sketchbook and high-tail it out of here?
Can a person barf on demand?
I’ve got one finger poised and ready to gag right as Miss Njay ruins all chances of me escaping unnoticed.
“Katherine Chen,” she reprimands.
I clap my sketchbook to my desk as my face burns with the fire of a thousand suns.
“If you are uncomfortable witnessing the male form, then you may leave. With a demerit on your grade, of course.” Her smile is wry, practically goading me to leave so she can fail me.
I set my chin, ignoring what I thankfully see is a pair of black boxers in my peripheral vision.
“I have no problem with themaleform,” I say.
Just thisparticularmale.
Brandon’s lips twitch, his own initial shock ebbing away. He’s now seeming to enjoy my discomfort. He steps onto the circular riser, bare, muscular thighs flexing, and the class quiets. Pencil scratches and tension—on my part—fills the air as Brandon settles into a sitting position, one arm looped around a propped knee.
Shadow and light fall over his bare torso, shoulder, collarbone, and neck inked with thorny roses. His somewhat-gaunt cheekbones only serve as a public reminder that this man’s body fat percentage is ridiculously low. Brandon turns his head at the last second, and his eyes lock onto mine.
I swallow.
He doesn’t look away. But why would he? He’d be a terrible form model if he kept moving. Which means the next forty-five minutes is going to be spent withwaytoo much eye contact from a guy I honestly hoped I’d never see again.
Just my luck.
As if reading my thoughts, Brandon smirks. Deep creases of laughter frame his mouth, though he stays still as stone and just as mute.
