Midnight Muse

CHAPTER 11

QUINN

Okay, so I was horribly wrong.

I’m currently on my second glass of wine—which is really my third because I chugged the other half I started with at my apartment before we left—and stuck sitting between Knox and Slate at Tipsy Canvas, and I am most definitely tipsy.

Why we chose to do this on a Thursday night instead of the actual weekend, I’ll regret tomorrow.

Ace and Rory sit opposite me at the table, their canvases hiding their faces. I can only see them when Ace leans over to whisper something to my best friend or when Rory leans over with a calculating look on her face as she assesses his work. She’s failing to bite back her flirtatious smile and I bring the glass of wine back to my lips as the realization sets in that her crush on Ace might not be as little as I once presumed.

“Hey, let me borrow some of your blue,” Slate says, leaning over me to grab at my palette. We haven’t even begun using that color yet, per the instructor’s tutorial, but somehow the entirety of Slate’s canvas is painted a deep shade of cobalt.

How the hell did he mix that color?

His shoulders are so wide that when I lean back in my chair to avoid him, I almost teeter out of it. Knox is the one that saves me, a firm hand gripping my bicep as I begin to flail. I’m stunned when he rights me and Slate has disappeared from my space, staring at him in shock. His hand is still locked around my arm and Knox looks as confused as I do.

The warmth of his hand on my arm is nice. I can feel every single one of his calloused fingers pressing into my skin, electricity branching from his touch through every nerve in my body.

“Blue,” I blurt, like a total idiot. It snaps him out of whatever stupor he’s in because he removes his hand just as quickly, turning back to his painting. It already looks amazing, the sand of the beach we’re supposed to be dotting in looks like Knox found a cup of it and thrown it at his canvas for effect. I continue sputtering nonsense because I can’t focus on anything but the lingering feeling of his hand on me. “I have to get more blue.”

Stumbling from my seat, I pluck my palette from the table as I spin on my heel, off to retrieve more paint from the counter at the back that’s filled with bottles of it. It’s conveniently placed next to the bar, and I’m clutching my wine glass to my chest, so I may as well get a refill while I’m at it.

Setting my things down on the table, I flip the cap off the bottle of paint, squeezing it a bit too hard when a figure suddenly appears by my side, startling the fuck out of me.

“Hey, Quinn,” Ace says, eyes bugging when the paint squirts out, splattering onto the other colors. The container makes the loudest squelch while there’s a lapse in conversation throughout the class and my cheeks burn bright red. The only sound to be heard is a snort of laughter from Slate, but I don’t dare turn around to see if every single set of eyes is on us right now.

Maybe I can convince the bartender to let me take the entire bottle back to my table.

Ace glances down to my mess of a palette before meeting my gaze. He looks like he doesn’t really know what to say, so I busy myself with capping the paint while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sorry about that,” is what he goes with, taking my palette and trading it with his own. “Here, you can use mine.”

“Thanks, Ace,” I answer sincerely, taking note of how all of his colors are full. He didn’t come over here to get more paint, he came over here to ambush me because I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.

Great.

The chatter of the class picks up again and he glances over to our friends nervously, as if needing reassurance in my presence. He looks embarrassed, almost, as he plays with the blond hair curling at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows are pinched, like whatever is going to come out of his mouth next is as painful to say as it’s going to be for me to hear it.

“I, um, wanted to apologize,” he mutters, and all of a sudden, it’s him that can’t look me in the eyes. A surge of gratification has me standing taller, biting back a smirk because he should feel like an ass for treating me the way that he did at the art supply shop weeks ago. “For, you know…”

I raise a brow, waiting. He may be taller than me, but I feel a whole lot more confident right now, even more so with the wine flowing through me veins. “No, I don’t.”

Those ocean eyes meet mine and I can tell he wants to sigh in frustration. But he knows that he’s going to have to work for my forgiveness if he wants to continue pursuing my best friend like he so blatantly is doing.

“I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“Which time?” I ask, cocking my head to the side and feigning confusion. That’s right, I’m going to play this apology out for as long as I can so I don’t have to go back to sitting next to Knox.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Ace’s gaze grows sharper, but it’s not quite a glare yet. He studies me like he’s looking at the exact same girl who’d gone blow for blow with him at the art shop. In a way, I suppose he is. I’m still annoyed about the situation and he’s acting like I’m the one that owes him something, not the other way around.

“I’m sorry I called you grumpy,” he relents, shoulders slumping a bit with the movement. He doesn’t seem all that rushed to get back to his seat, but that’s probably because he and Rory are miles ahead of the class, being the painting majors they are.

“And?”

“And?” Ace echoes, incredulously. His eyes are wide and if he and I were better friends, his surprise would make me laugh. I watch him scramble for something to say, puffing out an amused breath when he answers, a very unsure lilt to his voice, “And I’m an asshole?”