“Scooch over,” he says.
I move over until I’m against the giant root extended out from the tree, leaving very little room next to me. Still, Cooper squeezes in between me and a root to his right.
“What are you doing?” He nods at my sketchbook.
“Homework.”
“For what class?”
I avert my eyes. “French.”
“Chloe said you guys never have homework in there,” he says. I look at him, immediately getting sucked into those eyes, and he raises his thick brows. He knows I’m lying. “What are you always drawing in there, Mitchell?”
“Nothing.” He’s so close, I have to work not tostareat the light dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks. Not to reach up and run my fingers over them.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He reaches over and tentatively grabs the sketchbook, giving me a chance to tell him to back off. But I loosen my grip and let him take it because, for some reason, I trust him with it.
I trust him not to destroy me.
I stare ahead, out at the green lawn peppered with leaves, and the few remaining students lingering in the parking lot, while Cooper flips through my sketchbook and my heart pummels my ribs.
“Ellis, these are…” I hold my breath and turn to him. He shakes his head as his eyes wander over the designs. “These are unbelievable.” He turns to me. “I didn’t know you design clothes.”
I shrug. “It’s just something I do for fun sometimes.”
He’s sure to hold my gaze when he says, “You’re incredibly talented.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, ducking my head, flustered by the flattery.
He points to one of the designs—the mixed buffalo-plaid shirt I was wearing at the pumpkin carving party.
“Youmakeclothes too?”
“Meh, not often. I taught myself how to sew in middle school, and I got really into making clothes freshman and sophomore year. But then…”
“You got busy.”
“Yeah.”
He looks at my sketchbook and nods, his expression almostdisappointed. Then he points at the black dress I drew last weekend. “What about this one?”
“I’ve actually never made a dress before. I usually stick to structured shirts. But I’ve been watching a lot ofPractical Magiclately, and I can’t get Nicole Kidman’s wardrobe out of my head, so I kind of just drew it for fun.”
His looks me in the eye, his voice soft and sincere when he says, “It’s perfect.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing.
“You should make it.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You think? I mean, there’s no real reason to. Where would I even wear something like that?”
“I don’t know. But even if you just wear it around Naomi’s house, it’d be worth it. That dress should exist, Ellis.”
My cheeks burn at the intensity of his gaze. I look away, suddenly feeling bashful. Exposed. Like heseesme. “Yeah?”
“Definitely. Make it.”
