SECRETS & LIES 7 (Secrets & Lies #7) - H.M. Ward Page 0,2

I head over to the classroom one last time to see if there’s anything else I should do to my painting. I’m turning it in this week, and the truth is I’m worried I’ve ruined it—and everything else in my life. It’s not the random gnawing of doubt that sometimes floods through me. It’s different this time. I feel like I stepped on a slippery slope at some point and fell on my ass. I’ve been barreling down the side of a ravine at full speed. The unease relentlessly twisting inside of me is truly apprehension toward my imminent impact.

The hallways are empty, and the building is streaked with long shadows spilling across the floor in shades of orange and pink. I take the stairs two at a time, and as I pass Nate’s office, I slow, stop, and circle back. If he’s here—I could talk to him without Carter discovering it.

I rap my knuckles on his door. “Professor Smith?” That’s not his real name. He’s a Ferro. How weird is that? I wonder if he’s going to tell anyone or if it will remain his deep dark secret.

There’s no answer. I turn away and continue down the hall. When I get to the classroom, I yank open the door, walk inside, and flick on the lights before heading to my cubby and pulling out my painting. I put it on an easel and step away. My hand rises to my chin as I sweep my eyes over my work. I was afraid the gashes would seem like a mistake after a few days passed, but I like them more now.

I mix up a few colors to add some highlights to the girl’s hair and along the hem of her dress. Tugging back my hair, I twist it into a bun and stab it with a paintbrush. After a few minutes the silence gets to me, so I turn on some music and crank it up. I find myself singing softly at first, making careful strokes with the brush. But after a while, I relax, and my voice is no longer soft, my feet are no longer still, and my ass begins to sway as I sing about the son of a preacher man, bobbing my head and waving my arms rhythmically with a big smile on my face.

I forget about the painting, caught up in the dance, eyes closed, body swaying to the beat, and singing like I’m totally in love with the sweet-talking son of a preacher man. When the song climaxes, I hold a paintbrush to my lips and belt out the words like it’s a microphone. I shake my hips, swaying and spinning in a full circle while holding the brush to my lips, my head tipped back, and my eyes closed.

That’s when a small sound catches my ear—the scuff of a shoe. A chill races over my skin and my eyes flash open. Nate is standing there, hands in his pockets, a fascinated smile on his face as he leans into the doorway. His eyes glitter blue with too much affection, bursting with emotion that’s too strong for someone he isn’t involved with.

I freeze, hand over my head, mouth open wide in the middle of a long note with my butt jutted out. It’s an incredibly awkward pose to hold. I stop and straighten like I wasn’t doing anything. “'Sup.”

CHAPTER 3

Nate’s booming laughter rings out, warming the room. His eyes flash up to meet mine, then fall to the floor as he steps across the threshold and closes the door behind him. “I thought I heard someone, so I came to see who it was. I didn’t realize you could sing.”

I’ve not spoken to him since he stormed off the other night. He’s acting like that never happened, like we didn’t fight. Fine by me. I bat a hand at him and scoff. “I can’t sing.”

“You’re wrong about that.” He grins, revealing a dimple on his cheek. “If you couldn’t I would have offered you a sock—because I already know you put on a great puppet show—but this? Damn, woman! You’ve got a set of pipes the music department would kill for.”

My face is bright red, hot. “Yeah, right.”

“You sound like Aretha Franklin. You. The little white girl with a bus.” He watches me for a moment, those blue eyes searching my face for something I can’t fathom.

I joke, “You like my bus.”

“That I do," Nate says, grinning as he steps closer. "I like a