Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(49)

I take my sketch pad out of my bag. The design I started to work out last night is on the first page. When I wouldn’t give in to Harper’s pokes and prods about my evening, only telling her I’d been sketching, she threw out a suggestion. A thunderbird, Dogwood Lane High’s mascot, sits in one of the dogwood trees. It’s a cute touch.

Slumping against the wall, I lower myself until I’m sitting. The floor is cool beneath me as I take in the spot where the mural will go. But after a few minutes, my attention is dragged to Penn.

A bead of sweat glistens on his forehead as he focuses on his work. I wonder if Meredith would mind if I just painted a mural of him, preferably shirtless, instead.

Forcing the thought out of my mind, I go back to the sketch pad. But as my hand starts to doodle again, it pencils a set of abs instead of the lake I was planning.

“That might be one way to get more views on this thing,” I mumble and laugh before I can stop it.

The sound catches Penn’s attention. He leans forward, his palms resting on a stack of lumber as he looks at me.

“What’s so funny over there?” he asks.

“Just wondering how bad Matt is going to hurt you for sticking him with Meredith,” I say, erasing the quick version of Penn’s stomach as fast as I can. “She’s nice. I don’t know why you two try to avoid her.”

“She’s nice. She’s just full of so much . . . enthusiasm. Who gets that excited about renovating a building?”

I shove off the floor and get to my feet. “What if someone was going to build a huge pond so kids that were in trouble or had extra energy could go and learn to . . . fish? Cast a line? I don’t know the lingo.”

He laughs. “That would be super awesome of someone.”

“No one says ‘awesome’ anymore.”

“I do,” he says flatly.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Anyway, this is Meredith’s fishpond thing. It makes her feel good to make people happy and to think she’s making a difference in the world.”

“Well, making other people happy makes me feel good, too, if ya catch my drift.”

All I can do is shake my head.

He moseys across the room and stands next to me. Peering down at my sketchbook, he nods. “This is great. Did you do all this?”

“Yes.”

He reaches for the book. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, um, sure,” I say, handing it over.

He walks around the room, inspecting my sketches with the care of a surgeon. I bite my nail as I watch him pore over each little thing. A few times, he looks up at me with what looks like awe, and it gives me chills. Pride swells in my chest as I take in how impressed he is.

No one has ever really taken my art seriously. Sure, my father would use my art connections to benefit a charity auction he was involved with from time to time, but painting and drawing were considered my silly little hobbies. They were nothing compared with my sister’s talent of finding married men to sleep with.

Not having that in my face every day is more of a relief than I even dreamed it would be. I never truly understood how cold my life was until I got to Dogwood Lane and experienced its warmth. This kind of community should be something everyone gets the chance to have in their lives.

“How much time did this take you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “I worked on it for a few hours last night. I wasn’t sure what direction Meredith wanted to go. I was just kind of messing around.”

“Holy shit, Ave.” He gives me a huge, wide grin. “What else can you do?”

I couldn’t smile wider if I tried. I grin from ear to ear, my cheeks aching as I all-out beam at his compliment. “A girl can’t give away all her secrets.”

“Hopefully a boy can dig around and discover some more.” He wiggles his eyebrows until I giggle. He seems to catch himself, and his features smoothen out. “In all honesty, these are beyond impressive.”

“Let’s not get crazy.”

He hands the book back to me. Our fingertips touch, rocketing a blast of energy through my body. His eyes go wide, but he recovers quickly—probably quicker than me.

He blows out a breath. “Better get back to work.”

Work. Yup.

As he turns and walks away, I swear I hear him mumbling something about friends.

I resume my spot on the floor and try to focus on sketching the lake. The pencil goes back and forth across the paper, and my brain bounces back and forth between Penn and the drawing.

People who are ridiculously attracted to one another can be friends . . . right?

I look up to see him wiping his face with the edge of his shirt. A slice of his abs shows just above the top of his pants.

My gaze flips back to the sketch pad like I’ve been burned.

Friends, I remind myself. We are friends.

I look up to see him grinning.

With no benefits.

Sigh.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AVERY

A shot of pain courses up my arm.

“Ouch!” I say, cupping my shoulder with my other hand.

“You okay?”

Penn is standing across the room, his brow furrowed in concern. The light coming through the windows is now muted, and I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here, sketching.