Portrait of Us (3 page)

I rolled my eyes. “Hardy-har. No, I'm working on an art project.”

“How's that going?” Ava bounded into my room, and I closed the door behind her. She stopped when she looked at my sketch with the original picture pinned on the corner of the easel. “Oh, that is going to be amazing,” she said on a long exhale. “I love this picture of you guys. You look so cute.”

“Thanks.” I filled her in on the details of the contest. “So I'm trying to hurry and get it done before then, because I have to enter.”

She groaned and smoothed a hand over her hair, her green eyes slanted in disappointment. “I
knew
I should have joined the workshop. That sounds like so much fun. New York City.” Ava had toyed with the idea but ultimately decided she didn't want to. While she was artistic, she preferred focusing on photography and letting the muse lead her. Plus, it was a time commitment she hadn't been sure she wanted to commit to. “Who else do you think is going to try to enter?”

I shrugged, plopping down onto the bed beside her and tucking a soft white pillow across my lap. “I have no idea. There are some great artists in there.”

“Anyone from our school in your class?”

I tilted my head. “Um, there's Becca Venn from English last year. Remember her? The one who always had ink all over her hands?” She was constantly drawing while in class, not even caring about trying to hide it. “And Matthew Bonder, the basketball jock,” I added.

Her eyes widened, and she fanned herself. “Matthew is in there with you? How do you even concentrate long enough to get anything done?”

“Please. He isn't that attractive.” Okay, that was a bit of a lie. His nose had a slight bump in it, but rather than detract from his masculine features, it gave him a bit of character. He had a classic profile, a strong jaw, piercing eyes.

Her eyebrow rose. “Uh-huh.”

“Whatever,” I said, brushing her off.

“What if the teacher sponsors his project?”

I thinned my lips. “Doubt it. He'll probably draw something five minutes before Friday's class and hand it in. If he even enters, that is. He puts no effort into his work, just a bunch of weird scribbles and lines.”

She frowned. “Hey, now. Just because you don't get modern art doesn't mean it doesn't have value. The art world is big enough to appeal to everyone, regardless of personal taste.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, hands held up in a truce gesture. She was right. I was all classical, but Ava loved anything and everything. I didn't want to offend my best friend. “That was rude of me.” Obviously Teni had seen something in his art.

“Okay, thanks.” She smiled again and smoothed the front of her dress. The air-conditioning kicked on and ruffled her hem as her legs dangled over the side of my bed. “Well, I hope it works out for you. And if you get bored, draw some pictures of him for me.” She waggled her eyebrows.

I snorted a laugh. “Yeah, sure, because that's super subtle. He'll never notice that at all.”

Ava stood. “I won't keep you from your art. I just wanted to say hi. We're going to visit my aunt in Kentucky over the weekend, so let's plan to hang out next week sometime? You can tell me more about your class and how unattractive you think Matthew is.” She crooked her mouth in a knowing grin.

“Okay,” I said with a groan. “He's . . . attractive. I'll give you that.” I remembered the way his blue eyes had fixed on me, and
my face flushed all over again. “But he's my competition. Besides, he and I have nothing in common.” I didn't care about sports at all. I didn't like his art style. What would he and I even talk about? If the chance ever arose to talk, that was. Um, not that it would, because I was going to stay focused.

“Uh-huh. Maybe if you sat down and talked to him, you'd find out you have more in common than you think. Like, maybe he enjoys chick flicks and Chinese takeout too.” She giggled.

I shoved her lightly. “Sure. Maybe he and I can discuss the artistic values of our school logo.”

Ava gave me a quick hug. “Text me a picture when you're done,” she said. “I'm eager to see how this one turns out.”

When she left, I turned back to my drawing. A good start for today. Tomorrow I'd block in the base colors and make the image come to life. And pray that my technique was strong enough to make my painting stand out among the crowd.

Chapter
Three

T
he small old woman stared
hard at the croissants. She tapped her wrinkled lips with a pudgy hand. “I can't decide if I want three or four,” she mused.

I smiled and dusted my flour-coated hands on my jeans. “Take your time, Miss Figler. I'm right over here if you need anything.” I stepped a few feet to the left and kneaded the pizza dough a little more, getting it to just the right texture.

“Corinne?” she asked. “I think I'll have four. And a couple of your grandfather's scones. They're the best I've had since I visited England.”

“Grandpa loved London,” I told her. “I think he studied under a baker while he was there.” I prepared her order and boxed them, then rang her up. Then I divided the pizza dough into separate bags and popped them in the freezer.

Saturday mornings were either super slow or super busy. Right now we were having a slow stretch. But it gave me time to get caught up on packaging call-in orders, make more dough, and clean up my station.

The only downside was, I wasn't quite distracted enough to keep my mind off my art project. In yesterday's class, I'd turned in my entry. I'd stayed up late every night this week working on getting it just perfect. Long after my family had turned in, I'd hovered around my easel, washing layer after layer of watercolor over the image.

When I'd put the last touches on it on Thursday night, I'd collapsed in exhaustion in bed and nearly overslept yesterday morning.

Almost every student in class had turned in a piece for the competition. My stomach had been in knots. A few students in there I'd anticipated, sure—but I hadn't expected that many people. The weekend was going to drag painfully slowly, especially if we didn't get more customers in.

My grandfather popped his head out and gave me a wink. His dark golden eyes glinted in the bakery's lights. “Everything okay out here?”

I grabbed the bleach and began scrubbing down the counters. Grandpa ran a tight ship, and he insisted on the place being clean.
A sloppy shop turns customers off,
he always preached to me.

“Things are fine,” I replied. “It's a little slow but not horribly so.”

Grandpa stepped out and surveyed my progress. He nodded. “Doing a good job. Keep up the hard work.”

I warmed under his praise. He was a tough boss, one who pushed me to do better. If I was giving a 100 percent, he wanted a hundred and ten. But this job had taught me a lot so far. Plus, having extra money in my pocket—that I'd earned myself—was never a bad thing.

“How's things at home?” he asked as he walked to the bread shelf and straightened the loaves.

“Good. Mom asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow, by the way,” I said.

His nod was short. “Can do.”

Grandma had passed away a few years ago, from cancer. He'd loved her heart and soul, and though he wasn't one to show a lot of emotion, her death had broken his heart. We'd all been worried that Grandpa would pull away, so Mom had started insisting he come over for Sunday dinner from time to time. That, plus the business, had spurred Grandpa to get out of bed every morning.

Time hadn't erased all the pain, but he was gradually getting his old self back. Mom, however, hadn't backed off on having him over regularly. But it was nice having him around.

The phone rang. He shuffled back into his office, and I heard his gruff voice as he took someone's order. Not the most emotional man, but his cakes were out of this world. And his designs . . . I didn't know how he did it. He'd never gone to art school, yet somehow they were richly decorated, sheer perfection.

While I added a few more croissants to the glass case in front of our counter, the door dinged. In walked Matthew, followed by a few of his basketball-jock friends. The guys behind him were loud, shoving each other, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

I had to be nice to the customers, even if they were super annoying.

Or if one of them had piercing blue eyes that kept drawing my attention back.

I was glad Grandpa wasn't here to see the hot flush on my cheeks. He was pretty astute and would see it immediately. I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”

One of Matthew's friends, a stocky Asian who I think was going to be a senior this year, pursed his lips. He strolled to the counter, dragging his fingertips along the glass. Ugh. “I want a doughnut,” he said, looking back at his two buddies.

Matthew's brow furrowed, and he bore holes into his friend's face. What was that all about?

The guy cleared his throat, then glanced back at me. “Uh, please.”

At least one of them had manners—and enough common sense to make the other ones behave politely. Guess I could give Matthew a point of credit for that one. I gave a nod and walked over to the doughnut section. “What would you like?”

The guy tilted his head. His black hair was spiked in the front, and he rubbed a hand absently over the top of it. “Something loaded with chocolate.”

Matthew's other friend, a guy who was in science with me this year—Thomas—came to the counter too. “Hey, get two of them. You owe me for buying you a Coke yesterday.”

The first guy grumbled, then nodded.

I pulled two chocolate-covered doughnuts out and made myself look at Matthew. For some stupid reason, my pulse picked up. “Anything for you?” At least my tone was steady, even if a little chilly.

He shook his head and pursed his lips. “I'm not sure yet.”

I put the doughnuts in individual minibags and rang the two guys out. They clomped to the door.

“Hey, man, you coming?” Thomas asked as he shoved his shoulder to the door. The little bell rang, and a blast of warm air burst inside.

“I'll be out in a minute,” Matthew replied.

The guys shrugged, then started chowing on their doughnuts as they headed outside into the warm summer heat.

Matthew took his attention off the glass case, then gave me a crooked smile. “Sorry about them. I don't think they get enough oxygen in their brains.”

That made me crack a small smile. At least he felt bad for them being such meatheads. “Anything in there interest you?”

He tilted his head, and a smile widened on his face.

“Um, what?”

“You have . . .” He reached toward me, then stopped, gesturing at my cheek. “Uh, there's a little flour . . .”

Ah, crud. I spun around and scrubbed at my cheeks. When I kneaded dough, flour got everywhere. Why hadn't I thought it would be on my face, too? Awkward. I turned back and fought the wave of embarrassment. “Thanks.”

Matthew leaned toward the case, careful not to touch the glass and keep his fingers on the metal rim. “So, how did your project come along? You entered, right? I thought I saw that.”

I swallowed. Somehow I hadn't anticipated him asking me about art. But of course he would. “It went fine, thanks.” My spine was so stiff I could snap in half if another breeze rolled in here. What was it about him that set me on edge so much? “So . . . you entered?” I made myself ask.

“I did. Took me all week to work on my piece. I stayed up really late.”

I tried to envision what postmodern art he would have worked on that could take more than ten minutes. Then I shoved that snotty thought out. Ava's words about me being judgmental popped to the forefront of my brain. “I did too, actually. I did a watercolor for my entry.”

“I did an ink-and-newspaper collage for mine. Kind of a mixed media. A bit of a social commentary . . .” He gave a self-conscious shrug, then cleared his throat. “Um. Anyway. Good luck. I've seen your pieces, and you're really talented.”

Wow, that was really nice of him. My heart thudded in surprise at the compliment. If Ava were here, she'd be poking me in the ribs. “Thanks. I appreciate that. And good luck to you, too.”

Matthew rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and I couldn't tear my gaze away. As much as I hated to admit it, he really was handsome.

“I'll see you Monday, then,” he said, his grin crooked as he backed away from the counter.

I tipped my head in response and watched him turn to leave. Every movement of his was effortless, from the way his legs ate up the distance between him and the door to how his arm reached out and pushed it open. A sort of ballet, full of confidence and self-assurance.

Wow, was I getting ridiculous or what? Maybe I'd breathed too much flour in this morning. I shook those thoughts out of my head and turned my attention back to cleaning.
Focus,
I ordered myself. A guy could be as cute as he wanted, but that didn't mean he thought I was cute in return. Or that I'd even want him to.