ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

21. deal with the devil

BEING A WOMAN on a mission typically entails having a mission. What is mine, you may be asking?

Well, I've yet to figure that out.

Maybe that's why I'm by myself in the lobby ten minutes before class starts, slouched in one of the huge cloth chairs and facing a gold-gilded frame of Fragonard's Swing on the wall, staring at it through half-closed eyelids, judgemental.

I remember learning about the painting in school—a woman flying through the air on a swing, billowing pink skirt, dainty slipper flinging off her foot, and a man crouched in the bushes underneath, gazing up her dress in scandalized awe.

Men.

"Interested in Rococo art are we, Cleodora?"

And speaking of the insufferable assholes...

I turn at the sound of Dane's voice, searching for the body that goes along with it, finding it with ease. His hands are in his pockets, stance appraising the piece like a seller at an auction.

"Not in the slightest. It's here, so I'm looking."

"I guess you're not the only one." He moves forward to run his finger along the silhouette of the man in the grass before turning around to face me.

I'm expecting an immediate dig the second his eyes land on me, but instead they widen. It's the movement of a half-second, closing in on my dress before dipping to my bare, crossed legs, lace-up stompers that rise to my knees.

"What, like what you see?" I sarcastically trill his words from the night at the pool back to him, and he swallows roughly, clears his throat.

"That outfit is incredibly inappropriate for an academic setting."

"You think so?" I don't particularly care what he thinks about my outfit, but I decide to humor him nonetheless.

"Yeah, I do."

"You know, if you think I look hot, you could just say that."

He blinks like my words aren't clicking. Twice. Then thrice. "Is that what you think I'm trying to say?"

I stand up now, and hazel follows my every move, soft thuds on carpet until I'm standing inches away from him. "I mean, it's what you're thinking. And you hate that you think about me, don't you?"

His eyes narrow into slits at the question. "I don't think about you."

"What are you thinking about right now?"

My heart's pounding in anticipation, acrylics digging into my arms. I'm plunging into icy water after forcing myself to walk the plank.

Dane's jaw ticks, a bad habit of his, intent gaze shifting skittishly from me to the painting then back again. "Fragonard." Voice crack on the last syllable.

I let the sound echo in the silence, mean grin twisting up the corners of my lips before speaking again. "Fragonard, huh?" My hand slips toward his forearm, squeezing lightly. "What about now?"

He wets his bottom lip, looking down at me with a strange mixture of gum on the bottom of his shoe and molten-hot darkness.

"How desperate you must be."

I chuckle louder now, and it comes out as a villain's cackle. "Spare me, Doggy. Your poker face gets worse by the day."

"Then what are you thinking about?" The tables are turned, gaze burning into me. "Please, I'd just love to know."

"What am I thinking about?" I pause for effect, "Well, I'm thinking that you're a pretentious dog who doesn't deserve the face you have—"

"So kind of you to say."