Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Persephone Autumn (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

Walking into the large and open classroom, I scan all the various projects the teacher has kept throughout the years. Oils and watercolors, charcoals and pencil. Each unique on their own. The air rich with canvas and pencil shavings and earth. As my eyes follow around the room, they stop when they spot a head of black-as-night hair.

Cora sits at one of a dozen long, rectangular tables. Her head down as her fingers draw vigorously on a sketch pad. Almost like the artist version of a mad scientist. No one sits beside her, so I gather myself and head for the table. Of all the classes I could share with her, art feels beyond perfect. A way to express yourself without speaking.

When I sit down beside her, my wooden stool squeaking against the linoleum floor, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift her head or greet me. She is so focused on what is in front of her, it’s as if the rest of the world isn’t really here. And a part of me kind of digs her level of concentration.

Seconds pass and her head remains down, hovering six inches above the table. I peer around her hunched body and sneak a peek at what she sketches, my eyes widening and breath falling short as I see it come to life.

The trunk of a tree. Shade and foliage hovering above. A raven-haired girl, her face hidden by an open book. And a boy. Taller than her, lean in stature. He watches her from the corner of his eye, a timid smile on his face.

It’s her. And me.

A strange contentment washes over me. Although the image is nowhere near done—no shading or fine lines and details—the outlines are all in black and white. She abandoned the tree early to come draw the two of us beneath it. My stomach is sort of queasy, and I don’t think it is from the mystery casserole.

How has she put this on paper so quickly?

And it occurs to me. Maybe she had previously drawn herself alone under a tree. She did say she was a loner. Five minutes was definitely not enough time to have this much detail on paper. Not even by the best.

The bell rings and I inspect another twenty bodies in the room, all seated at the other tables. Footsteps tick on the tile and the teacher walks to the front of the room. But I don’t look at the five foot, four inch red-haired woman at the head of the room introducing herself as the art teacher.

Because just as the teacher begins speaking, Cora lifts her head and realizes I’m sitting beside her. And that I have seen her drawing. Her face is stoic and as unreadable as a professional poker player.

A smile breaches my lips and I face the teacher at the head of the room. Beside me, I hear the sketchbook close and a soft sigh. A sigh I will remember for the rest of my days.

Chapter Sixteen

Gavin

Present

The sun wakes me up just before seven, although sections of the house remain somewhat dark. Cora still sleeps and the house is quiet. Too quiet. As if no noise exists here. Seems odd to have no noise. No cars driving by. No people talking outside. Not even the chirp of birds in the early morning light.

I should leave. The last thing I need is for Cora to wake up, find me in her house and not remember why I am here in the first place. All it would do is freak her out and set us back. When it comes to Cora, I need all the forward momentum possible.

Rising from the couch, I stretch out my limbs then fold the blanket and drape it over the couch. I tiptoe through the house in search of the bathroom. After I relieve myself, I wash up and tiptoe back out.

Finding a piece of paper and pen on the desk nestled between the living and dining area, I write a quick note. As I set the pen back in its place, I bump the corner of her open laptop and the screen lights up.

Shit.

Snagging the note, I go to close the lid of the laptop and hide its bright light. But just as I begin to push the top down, I see a photo from one of our shoots this week. A photo she left open. A photo of me.

Confusion flickers in my veins. Rapid-fire questions pop up left and right. Was the photo left open because of work and editing? Or was it left open for other reasons?

A strange, woozy sensation floats in my chest at the possibility of her ogling a photo of me. Of her sitting in this very spot and gawking at my images. But I shut down the idea, not wanting my hopes to get the best of me.

I ignore the laptop and leave it open since it will return to sleep mode within minutes.

Walking over to her bedroom door, I stand in front of it and close my eyes. Do I go in and leave the note where I know she will find it? Or should I slip it under the door? This isn’t my house. And technically, Cora isn’t my girl.

My internal battle continues a minute before I choose the obvious path.

I slowly twist the knob and am thankful the door stays silent as it opens. Padding through the room darkened by black-out curtains, I walk toward her bed and set the note on top of her phone. A place I know she will find it.

Before turning to leave, I stare down at her a moment. Although I should leave now, the selfish part of me stays to observe Cora without distraction. To take in the woman who has held my heart captive most of my life.

And for a moment, I study the lines of her face as she sleeps. How her brows arch up,