Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits #1.5)(73)

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

I dare to peek at him from the corner of my eye. Hunter picks up the stool and places it next to me. A nonverbal for me to sit, and I do. He remains standing, and my knees bounce.

“The other people in this program have spent months of their lives filling out applications and gathering portfolios for the opportunity I’m presenting to you.”

I check over my shoulder, and there’s no one there. Oh, heck, he’s talking to me.

“Study under me for the next year, Echo. We’re on a break, which is why it’s so disorganized at the moment, but in two weeks, I start teaching classes again.”

My pulse thuds in my ears. “I have a scholarship to college.”

“You’ll have a scholarship here. Most of my students do, but it’s a barter system. You’ll work in the coffee shop and the gallery twenty hours a week in exchange for studying under me. Most of the students find apartments together. If you still need extra money, I’ll pay you for anything you work over the twenty hours.”

My eyes dart in front of me, but I’m not finding what I’m looking for. Hunter Gray just asked me to study under him. The room shakes, though it’s more my hands than the floor. The best artist in the country believes in my work enough that he invited me to study under him.

“On top of that,” he continues. “If you can get this painting in decent shape before next week, I want to show it at the Denver Art Festival under my work-in-progress section along with those ten sketches of hands you’ve done.”

I snap out of my stupor. “That was in my sketchbook.” And I haven’t shown you that.

He points to the floor where I had left my sketchbook for anyone to peruse. How would he respond if he knew those are Noah’s hands? Drawn while he slept beside me. Drawn after he had caressed me so tenderly in the night.

“What do you say, Echo?”

What do I say? “Yes.”

A huge smile brightens his face. “Good.”

Hunter pulls out a key from his back pocket and lays it on the easel. “This is yours. Come and go as you please. I’m assuming you’ll need to return home and collect some stuff, but I expect you back here by the start of session in two weeks.”

Go home...then return here... Noah...my stomach plummets. “I mean, no. I mean...I mean...” This would mean being separated from Noah. “I mean I can’t...”

“You’re saying no?”

“No,” I rush out. “I mean, I don’t know.” I rake my hand through my hair, pulling at the roots. What’s wrong with me? “I need time to think.”

“What’s there to think about? You’re going to college for art, right? Is their program better than studying underneath me?”

“No,” I admit weakly. “But...” But Noah won’t be here. There’s no doubt he’ll go home. The state’s paying for his education. His entire world—his brothers are back there. There’s no way he’d cut off ties and leave his home to be with me.

“But what?”

“My father...” I whisper. But my father is moving. Moving forward, moving out, moving on. Our relationship works better via phone than it ever did in person. “I...told him I would try business classes as well as art because I was good at it...the business stuff as well as the art.”

“Business?”

My neck cracks to the side. I’m so exhausted having to explain this. “It’s not just my father’s idea, I believe it’s a good move, too—”

“It’s a brilliant move.”

That stalls all train of thought. “Excuse me?”

Hunter grabs a stool and sits across from me, and this rattles me more than him standing over me like a kid called into the principal’s office. It’s like he values me as an equal.

“This is where most artists run into problems—the making money part. We can paint anything we want, anytime we want, but it changes when we attempt to make money. Art is art and will always be art, but I also like eating. You, Echo—” he leans forward and his leg brushes mine “—are a genius for thinking ahead.”

Mouth completely open. “What?”

“When does college orientation start?”

“Two weeks.”

“Where are you studying?”

“The University of Louisville.”

He blanches like he tasted sour wine. I know, I know. Not the Mecca of art, but they have a great program. He taps his finger to his face in a persistent pattern as he assesses me in this slow, agonizing way that makes me self-conscious. I’m clothed, right?

His hand lands on my knee, and my body goes rigid under his touch. “I’m going to work on this, but in the meantime, you need to get the painting of Aires in decent shape for the showing.”

Hunter hops off the stool and is across the room before I can process anything that happened. He touched me. He’s offering me the world. He’s changing the game. Forget that...he touched me.

“Wait!”

Hunter glances at me over his shoulder. “What?”

What? “Really? That’s all you have to say. You offered me the chance of a lifetime, and I may or may not have accepted it, and you tell me you’re going to work on something?”