“Oh, um.” I teetered my lip back and forth. “He wanted to talk about my past transcripts and let me know that I could use the art room whenever I wanted.”
“The art room?” Mercedes sat at the end of the couch, wiggling underneath Sloane’s legs.
“Yeah.” I smiled shyly, pulling my long sleeves farther onto my hands to hide my wrists.
“Oh, yes, didn’t you know?” I quickly straightened at the sound of Cade’s voice. He strode into the room, looking just as dreamy as he did in art, except I knew those honey-brown eyes could be deceiving. Sliding down beside me, resting his shoulder against mine, he peered over at me. “Gemma is quite the artist. You should have seen her sketch in art the other day.”
I hastily moved my arm away from his, annoyed that he was touching me. “It would have been nice if I could have finished my sketch. But someone took advantage of my generosity.” Shit, why did I just say that? What was it with these guys that fired me up?
A girl from a few seats down snorted under her breath. Mercedes smashed her lips together as Sloane mused, “Okay, I officially love my new roomie.”
I wasn’t sure why she said that, but I assumed it was because I had talked back to Cade. It wasn’t on purpose, but I was still a little bitter that he had tricked me and worked alongside his friend to corner me in the closet. I was amazed at the confidence I had when allowed to speak my mind for once.
“Uh-oh. Someone’s bitter.” My eyes moved swiftly over to a pair of black combat boots that were so close to touching my own shoes I could have moved a centimeter and they’d have been joined together. I refused to travel the length of his legs to meet his face.
“Of course she’s bitter,” Sloane mumbled. The couch cushions moved behind my back, so I knew she’d sat up. “The school thinks she had an infamous closet date with you after one day of being here.”
Brantley, one of the other Rebels that Sloane had pointed out during breakfast, made an appearance. “Did you hear that? Your closet dates are infamous, Isaiah.”
Cade made a high-pitched whistling sound. “I don’t know about you, but I think I hear some jealousy in Sloane's tone.”
“Absolutely not,” she was quick to rebuttal. “I don’t screw around with Rebels.”
Brantley stepped closer to us. “Who do you screw around with then?”
I finally turned around and glanced up at Sloane. She and I hadn’t talked much about her since I’d arrived here. We’d talked about the school, a little about my life, but not so much hers. That probably meant I was a bad friend. I needed to ask more questions, get to know her a little better.
Sloane’s face stayed even, but I saw the smallest amount of pink spread over her cheeks. Before she could answer, Isaiah cleared his throat, and the tip of his boot hit the edge of mine.
Finally, I brought my attention to him, craning my neck back to peer up at his tall stance. I tried to brace myself for the impact, but my stomach flopped anyway.
The angle of his jaw was even sharper from where I was sitting, the edges of it looking like a sharp blade. His blue eyes were icier than ever, too, but somehow soft as he peered down at me. “Can we talk?”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Butterflies were definitely swarming my stomach. I gulped when I pressed my lips together again, suddenly feeling dizzy. Say no. I needed to say no. He made the entire school think I had done something with him in the art supply closet. He was the whole reason my cell phone was burning a freaking hole in the back of my jeans, just waiting for Richard’s cold voice on the other end telling me he’d seen the blog post on Mary’s Murmurs. I wasn’t sure how to access the site, but Richard was a smart man. He’d figure it out.
“I think you’ve rendered her speechless, bro.”
Another voice came from beside Cade. I think it was Brantley. “I think you’ve rendered everyone speechless.”
Isaiah and I both took a quick scan of the room, realizing everyone was staring at our little moment. Not a single person was speaking. Their attention was solely on us.
It didn’t take long for my body to grow hot. Gasoline was poured over my head, and their scorching eyes were the match. If there was a mirror in front of me, I wouldn’t even have to look to know my entire body was flushed.
Once I peeked back at Isaiah, his head moved slightly. My breathing had quickened, the couch cushions behind my back shifting again, telling me that Sloane was about to swoop in and save me.
“Fine,” I whispered, slowly climbing to my feet. Isaiah dipped his head down to my legs and then back up again. The single movement of him scanning me from head to toe made the room spin. I was in a time warp. Time had passed, I was sure of it—maybe only a few seconds—but to me, I felt it had paused all together. I was rooted to the floor, my feet becoming heavy in my shoes, but eventually, the moment was gone, and I trudged after him.
See? I could do this. I could get past the way he made me feel when he looked at me. It was fine. Isaiah Underwood would not become a distraction. And plus, I was pretty sure the only reason I was feeling so erratic around him was because I’d been so starved of human interaction my whole life. It had nothing to do with the way his blue eyes seemed to burn a little brighter when he locked onto me.
The very second Isaiah and I stepped out of the lounge, we were met with the quietness of the long, empty hall. A trickle of a faucet dripped in the distance as I tiptoed after him, my shoes barely making a noise on the floor. The water dribbling and the pounding of my pulse were like an orchestra playing in my head, but it quickly came to an end when Isaiah halted in front of me. I made sure to keep a good distance behind him so I didn’t fall into the hard planes of his body again like the first night we’d met. I slowly looked at his attire from behind, seeing that he was wearing black jeans and a red-and-black flannel shirt that was rolled to the middle of his forearms, and I hated that my stomach dipped.
“Come on.” Isaiah’s hand wrapped around my wrist, and my eyes shot down to where he was touching. I was suddenly thankful I had pulled my sleeves over my hands before taking a stroll with him. Why was he touching me?
The art room was dark, uninhabited by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but Isaiah didn’t bother turning on any of the standing lamps as the outside light shined through the far windows, basking the room in a faint outdoorsy glow.
The shuffling of his cool, casual stride gained my attention as he strolled over and flicked my earlier sketch that hung from a piece of string over Mrs. Fitz’s desk.
“You’re talented, Gemma.”