Page 31 of Beneath Your Beautiful
I dragged my stool over and sat in front of the sofa, my sketchbook in my lap.
Killian sat on the middle cushion, his arms draped across the back of the sofa, his legs slightly spread. He dominated the room, but I had the feeling he’d dominate any room he entered. I studied his symmetrical face. The strong chiseled jaw. Broad cheekbones. His full, sensuous lips. Deep-set almond-shaped eyes. Straight nose. Thick, dark eyebrows. My gaze dipped down to the scar on his neck. I held my pencil horizontally and measured the distance between his eyes. A rough estimate but I could work with that.
I lowered my head and lightly drew the shape of his eye.
“I feel like an animal in the zoo,” he said.
I laughed, feeling some of the tension lifting. “Which animal would you be?”
He thought about it for a minute. “A wolf.”
I pictured him as a big cat. A panther or a tiger. A predator—sleek and powerful and graceful. But I guess he could be a wolf. “You’d be the alpha, leading the pack.”
“Or a lone wolf.”
A lone wolf. I could see that. Even surrounded by people at the bar, Killian appeared to hold himself apart.
“Or the big bad wolf,” I teased.
“Sounds about right.”
“Which animal would I be?”
“One of the big cats,” he said without hesitation, as if he had already given this some thought. I wanted to tell him I felt the same about him, but I didn’t. “A snow leopard. They’re the rarest. And beautiful,” he said, his voice low and husky.
My cheeks flushed with warmth. After a beat I said, “I think wolves are beautiful.”
Were we talking about animals or each other? I kept sketching. Shading in his nose. Drawing the planes of his face. By the way he kept rubbing the back of his neck, I could tell it was making him uncomfortable and he didn’t like me watching him so closely. But he was doing it. For me.
“This isn’t meant to be a form of torture,” I said.
He ran his hand through his hair and blew air out his cheeks. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…”
“That you feel like an animal in the zoo?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, I’ll entertain you with a story. I can talk and sketch because I’m a multi-tasker.”
“Prove it,” he challenged, a teasing tone in his voice.
“Okay.” I filled in his dark hair, and the off-center part that wasn’t really a part but the natural way his hair fell. The ear-length layers in front, longer in the back. While I sketched, I told him about the time Sawyer and I were sword-fighting on the beam of our wooden climbing frame.
“We were into pirates that summer. The beam was our plank. The swords were two sticks tied together with string. When he stabbed me, I enacted a dramatic death scene. It was pretty sensational. I fell off the plank and got eaten by crocodiles. But Sawyer was disappointed. He was aiming for my eye and hoped I’d have to wear an eyepatch the rest of my life.” Sawyer and I were using our own version of sailor jargon and we were pretending to be drunk on rum, so we were staggering and saying “aaargh matey” and “bloody hell” a lot. “He called himself Captain Mad Dog, and I was Captain Chicken Little.”
Killian found the story hilarious. I’d never seen him laugh so hard. “Why Chicken Little?” he asked.
“He said I had scrawny chicken legs.”
Killian’s gaze swept over my legs, and I thought maybe he appreciated the view, but he didn’t comment on it. “Are you and Sawyer still close?”
“Yeah. We’re a lot alike and we’re only fourteen months apart. Growing up, everything was a competition. He drives me crazy. But he was always my best friend and, secretly, I love him best. I worry about him all the time.”
“Why?”
“He’s a Marine. He’s in Afghanistan right now. But he’ll be home soon.” My voice rang with conviction. I needed it to be true. He’d been there for six months already, and Marines rarely stayed longer than seven months. So, yeah, he’d be home soon, and he’d come home in one piece. The last email I’d gotten from him, he said it was quiet, routine stuff. But he always said that, even the last time when it hadn’t been true.
We grew silent, and I continued sketching. The next time I lifted my head, Killian’s eyes were closed. He’d sunk lower on the sofa, his hands folded over his stomach, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I watched him sleeping as the sun rose in a burst of orange and purple then faded to a pale yellow. His face was at peace in a way it never was when he was awake, the frown lines smoothed out. With his guard down, he looked softer, more vulnerable, and achingly beautiful.
