Chapter 24 Drawn to disaster
DAISY
The scent of paint lingers in the air as I wipe my hands on the front of my apron, half-listening to our instructor drone on about form and depth. Painting and Drawing class has never been the most exciting of my electives, but it’s a peaceful kind of boring. Predictable. I like that.
That is until the door creaks open, and chaos walks in wearing black.
Zeus McAllister.
Tall, intimidating, every bit as broody and frustrating as I remember him. My heart skips a beat, and I immediately want to punch it for reacting at all.
Why is he here?
The instructor straightens, his face lighting up in a way that makes me even more suspicious. “Ah, Mr. McAllister. We’re honored. Please, take a seat.”
Honored? Really?
My eyes scan the room. All the seats are taken. Except one.
The one next to me.
Of course.
He walks with the confidence of someone who knows all eyes are on him and couldn’t care less. He drops into the seat beside me without a glance in my direction. His scent invades my space; woodsy, dark, crisp, and I swear it curls around me like smoke.
I clear my throat and scoot half an inch away. Maybe a full inch.
A moment later, our model for the day walks in, and it’s some random guy in a toga. He strikes a dramatic pose in front of the class, and we all pull out our sketch pads.
Everyone else gets to work immediately.
I, on the other hand, cannot stop sneaking glances at the storm cloud beside me.
He’s already sketching, eyes narrowed in quiet concentration. His strokes are precise, sharp, calculated, each line confident, as if his hand already knows where it’s going before it lands.
He can draw.
Of course he can draw.
God forbid the McAllister boys weren’t good at everything.
I’m not even halfway through my own outline when he speaks, his voice low and rough, without looking up from his paper.
“You going to keep staring, or do I need to move?”
My stomach tightens, and I glance down at my blank page. “I was just… wondering what the odds are. You joining this class right after we bumped into each other?”
His pencil doesn’t stop moving. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Now he looks up, finally meeting my gaze with those unreadable grey eyes. Cold and cutting. “You’re not that important.”
Ouch.
A flush crawls up my neck, and I grit my teeth. “You know, you’ve got a real talent for being an ass.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been told.”
I look away, fingers tightening around my pencil. This is exactly why I didn’t want anything to do with him. Arrogant. Condescending. Infuriating.
And stupidly good-looking, which only makes it worse.
I decide right then and there that I’m done letting Zeus McAllister take up any space in my head. I focus on my sketch pad, finally putting pencil to paper. The model’s jawline is all wrong in my first attempt, but I keep going, determined not to look at Zeus again.
For the rest of the class, I draw like my life depends on it.
I don’t know what I expect when the instructor finishes his rounds. Maybe a quiet nod of approval, or nothing at all. That would be fine. But instead, he stops right in front of Zeus’s sketchpad and lets out a breath like he’s looking at the freaking Mona Lisa.
“Well,” he says, clapping once. “There’s no question who’s got the best hand in the room today. Mr. McAllister, this is… remarkable. Clean lines, perfect shading, and proportions are exquisite.”
Of course.
I clench my jaw and try not to roll my eyes.
It’s not that I want to be the best or anything. But does he have to be good at everything? And why does it bother me so much that the instructor’s practically falling over himself to praise Zeus like he just reinvented art?
“Let’s give him a round of applause, shall we?” the instructor says.
The class claps. I don’t. I pretend I’m still sketching, even though my hand hasn’t moved in over a minute.
I sneak a glance at Zeus. He doesn’t even smirk. Just sits there, calm and collected like none of this matters. That annoys me even more.
“Alright,” the instructor continues. “Now for something exciting. We’ve got a new project coming up. You’ll be working in pairs to create a joint masterpiece. Something inspired, raw, cohesive. Your combined work will be auctioned at the next school fundraiser to help raise money for supplies and materials.”
A soft murmur runs through the class.
Someone from the back asks, “How are we picking partners?”
The instructor beams. “Great question. I believe collaboration starts with proximity, so partner up with the person you’re sitting next to.”
My heart stops.
Next to.
I look at Zeus out of the corner of my eye.
Of course.
Out of every chair in this classroom, the only empty one had to be the one next to me. The universe must be laughing itself sick right now.
Zeus doesn’t react. He just leans back a little, arms crossed as the instructor wraps up his instructions. I can't tell if he’s amused or annoyed, but knowing him, it’s probably both.
The room slowly empties as students begin chatting with their partners, brainstorming ideas already. I sit there, trying to sort through the mess of thoughts in my head.
I should be excited, no, thrilled to work closely with the guy I’ve secretly crushed on since forever. But instead, I feel this weird knot in my stomach. Like a warning. A red flag waving violently at me.
Because this isn’t some fantasy.
This is the real Zeus.
The cold one. The brooding, arrogant, impossible-to-read jerk who thinks I’m beneath his notice.
And now I’m supposed to create art with him?
Great.
I clear my throat and turn toward him. “So… I guess we’re partners.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I try again. “We’ll probably need to come up with a concept soon. You know, something that-”
But he’s already standing.
Grabbing his sketchpad. His bag. His stupid, expensive pencils.
And then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he walks out.
Like I never existed.
Like we didn’t just get assigned to work together.
I stare after him, blinking. “What the hell?”
Around me, other students are still talking, laughing, scribbling ideas in their notepads. No one seems to notice the way Zeus McAllister just walked out of the room like our project was the least important thing in his world.
And maybe it is.
But still, it stings.
I gather my things slowly, cheeks burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment. I was trying to be civil. Professional, even. But no, he had to do what he always does. Push. Dismiss. Walk all over me.
Whatever little crush I’ve been nursing is already starting to shrivel and die.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I walk out of the classroom, pretending it doesn’t hurt more than it should.