He doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “No. There are a few students who are actually enrolled, but no one sticks around. There’s no supervision for this elective because the instructor was awarded a residency at the Louvre. It’s almost always just me.”
Once again, he turns his broad back to me as he reaches for another slim stick of charcoal.
“Mrs. Brown added me to the class,” I tell him.
His shoulders slump. “This must be a joke.”
“No joke.” My voice is knife-sharp. Connor might be gorgeous, but he’s annoying me in a way that renders his beauty moot. Almost. How dismissive he is, how freaking mysterious, feels like an act. One I want to rip down so I can call him out as a total fraud.
Takes one to know one.
“Are you an artist?” he asks, not bothering to turn around.
“I dabble,” I hedge. The truth is, I don’t have a fraction of the artistic talent my mother has in her pinkie finger. But like everything else in my life lately, I guess this is one more lie I’ll have to spin into the truth.
“What’s your preferred medium?”
I glance around the room, my brain spinning as I try to come up with an answer. Hanging on a wall labeled STUDENTGALLERY, I spot some abstract-looking blobs of sheer color on thick, creamy-looking paper. “Watercolor.”
“Hmph.” I never realized a single sound could capture so much disappointment.
“I guess I’ll just … find some supplies,” I say, turning toward the supply closet I spy in the corner.
“What’s your name?”
“Billie.” I wince at my mistake. “Well, Belinda.”
This seems to pique his interest at last. He turns fully in my direction, his head cocked at an inquisitive angle. “Which is it? Billie or Belinda?”
Nice going, Billie.First the yearbook, now this. I can probably cross “undercover detective” off my list of potential careers. I feel my shoulders starting to hunch and force myself to stand ramrod straight.Belinda Winters persona activated.
“My friends back home call me Billie.Youcan call me Belinda,” I tell him, infusing as much snobbery as possible into my tone.
A long beat of silence stretches between us. The cold steel of Connor’s gray gaze melts a little, and he presses his lips together like … like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Well,Billie, you can use that easel over there.” He pulls his gaze away from mine, waving a hand toward an easel across the room. “And just to let you know, I prefer to work in complete silence.”
He says nothing else, and for a moment I remain quiet, too. Is he for real right now?
His continuing silence tells me yes. Yes, he is.
“What are you, the artist in residence at Wickham?”
His expression doesn’t shift at my sarcastic question. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”
When it’s clear that this conversation is over, I straightenmy shoulders and head toward the supply closet, which is much larger than I thought it would be. It’s filled with shelves stacked high with art supplies, and there’s a short countertop and cabinets with a sink to the right of the closet. I take stock of my options, deciding to grab a pad of watercolor paper and a set of paints, along with some brushes. I set all of my supplies on the counter, ready to fill a glass jar with water to dip the brushes in when I spot a stack of stretched canvases in the farthest corner of the room. An idea blooms.
Maybe that would be the perfect place to hide Isla’s yearbook and the dossier.
After I fill the jar with water and leave it in the sink, I glance over my shoulder to watch Connor, but he’s too busy creating his Dark Lord masterpiece. Chewing on my lower lip, I slowly unzip my backpack and pull the yearbook and dossier from within while continuously checking on what Connor is doing, but he’s not paying attention to me.
Clutching both items to my chest, I slip over to the stack of canvases, testing one of them to see how heavy it is. I note the frame of the canvas and how it allows some space to stash something behind it. I slip both items between two canvases, where they fit perfectly. I check on Connor yet again, but he’s either completely in the zone or his peripheral vision is seriously lacking.
I’m guessing it’s the former.
Once I’ve got my backpack zipped back up, I sling it over my shoulder, the load and my heart both a little lighter now that the incriminating evidence connecting me to Isla is safely hidden. I reenter the art studio and drop my backpack on the ground by an empty easel before I start setting up my supplies.
As per usual, Connor doesn’t bother looking in my direction.
