One of Those Faces (8)

I shrugged and set another bottle of wine on the counter. “I mean, it’s not unheard of. A girl from your building went missing.”

“Yeah, but they found her later. She wasn’t murdered by some psycho.”

I actually was bothered by the proximity of the murder. And the timing. I thought about that metallic scratching emitting from the alley. I remembered the cops hovering around the garbage can and shook my head.

The first few people drifted into the studio. Erin approached and escorted them to their painting stations.

As I looked up, the door closed again, and I noticed a man glancing around the studio before making his way to Erin at the front. I froze.

It was Jawline from the bookstore.

“Are you with a group?” Erin asked, leaning over the counter toward him.

“No, just me,” he said, briefly surveying and then dismissing her with his deep brown eyes.

Erin showed him to the only empty easel in the back. She then fixed her eyes on me across the room. “Harper, do you want to come and explain how this works?” she called. Jawline didn’t look up; he flipped through his phone and placed it on the table in front of him.

I shook my head, and she smiled bigger and nodded. I relented and walked to the back.

“This is Harper, our instructor,” Erin said, gesturing toward me and then leaving us.

He lifted his head finally, and recognition lit up his eyes. “Hi,” he said, his lips slowly parting into a smile. “So you really are an artist.”

I tugged my hair over my shoulder, hoping it covered the scar. “Are you here alone?” I asked.

“Yeah.” His cheeks flushed a light pink under his golden cheekbones. “I was supposed to come yesterday with some friends, but apparently they don’t give refunds here?”

I now realized why I had recognized the voice on the phone the other night. “You’re Iann? I was the one on the phone last night rescheduling your class,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you really sold the paint-your-pet night.”

“Do you have a pet?”

“A dog,” he said, picking up his phone. He turned it toward me, showing off a picture of a large scruffy golden retriever with kind brown eyes not unlike his. I always found it uncanny how almost everyone’s pet resembled the owner in one way or another. “His name’s Leo.”

“He’s cute,” I commented. “More importantly, he’s easy to paint.”

“Thank god,” Iann sighed.

I returned to the front of the group once it looked like every person was accounted for.

“Do you know him?” Erin asked, raising her eyebrows.

“He’s the coffee shop guy,” I muttered, turning my back to the class and taking up my brush. As I directed the class and began painting on my canvas, I could feel his eyes on my back. I felt a heat and nervousness that I usually didn’t anymore when I taught a studio crowd. Almost like I was performing.

As the night went on, I found myself stealing glances at Iann in between my walks around the room, giving tips when requested.

I made sure to stop by Iann’s station on my last survey of the room. He was leaning away from his canvas, glaring at it. I stepped around the easel and surveyed his work. “It actually looks like a dog,” he said in mock disbelief.

I smiled and returned to the front to describe the final steps. My subject for painting was a generic fluffy brown dog since that was the pet that most people came to paint. “Thank you for coming,” I said, facing the room. “Everyone’s paintings turned out great.”

Erin suddenly appeared beside me. “Our artist will be sticking around for a little bit if you have any questions.” She looked at me and tilted her head toward Iann before clapping her hands softly together and addressing the packing painters. “Please check out our event calendar by the door or online and join us for another class!”

The door opened, and Erin’s date slipped into the studio. Iann turned and smiled at the guy, exchanging words.

Erin grabbed her purse and jacket from underneath my easel. “Okay, I’m heading out with, uh . . .” She furrowed her brow. “Jeremy,” she declared, triumphantly. “Good luck with the bookstore guy.”

Both Jeremy and Iann walked toward us.

“Okay, I’ll lock up,” I said to Erin.

“Hi, Jeremy,” she purred, touching his shoulder lightly. “This is Harper, our resident artist.”

“Ah,” he said, extending his hand out toward me and giving me a once-over. “I enjoyed the class last night.”

Probably not as much as he would enjoy tonight. I shook his hand, resisting the urge to recoil from his limp and cold grip. “Thank you.” I withdrew my hand. I wanted to wipe it on my apron, but he was staring right at me. “Have fun.” I turned to Erin. “Text me when you get back tonight,” I said in a low voice.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“See you later, man,” Jeremy said to Iann as he ushered Erin toward the door, his arm already around her waist. Other painters quickly followed behind them, gingerly cradling their canvases.

Iann remained beside me.

“Do you know each other?” I asked.

“Jeremy? Yeah, he’s in the Psychology Department with me.”

So that was the group Iann was originally going to come with? “His painting turned out okay.”