Drawn To You by Lily Summers Read Free Book Online

over his shoulder. “Just so you know, your roommate made me promise to come get her if you refused.”
    Oh Audrey, of course. I know she’d come out here the second I asked, but I also know I’ll never make her leave a party where she’s obviously having so much fun.
    I’m out of excuses. To be honest, I don’t know why I was searching for them to begin with when he’s so lovely in the low light from the warehouse. I hear myself say, “She’ll kill us if we make her leave.”
    Ezra’s lips curl into a smirk. “Guess that leaves us with no other choice.”
    My pulse is pounding in my ears. I fight the urge to pull my hand out of his, despite how much I love his reassuring pressure, the electric sensation of his fingers laced with mine. He falls into step beside me and I fight away a crazy, stupid grin that’s creeping across my face. I shouldn’t be doing this. Getting too close is something I can’t afford.
    But my brain is egging me on, playing a constant refrain of “get closer, get closer, get closer” with a side of “I bet his hair feels nice.” I feel my hand go numb in his. I don’t deserve to find out.
    Besides, what could he possibly see in me when he’s got girls like that lead singer fashionista fawning over him?
    He clears his throat as we pass a 24-hour diner stuffed full of truckers and college students.
    “I’m glad we got away from the crowd,” Ezra says. The neon lights from the diner cast colorful shadows across his face, framing his hair in a halo of blues and reds. He looks like a figure from one of his paintings. “We couldn’t really talk back there. This is much better. So, what’s your story?”
    I snort. I can’t help it. “My story? Who are you, a greaser from the 50s?”
    Ezra throws his head back and laughs with me. “Okay, fair,” he says. “Maybe the diner had me feeling sentimental for sock hops and soda shops. But it’s an honest question. Tell me something about yourself.”
    The glow from the neon lights fade into the background. I chew on my lip and do my best not to look at him, at his captivating smile and magnetic eyes. I drop his hand.
    “I’m a bookstore clerk with charcoal stains on her fingers,” I say as I kick at a pebble.
    He elbows me gently. “I knew that much already. Tell me something else.”
    Something catches in my throat. What else could I say that wouldn’t clue him into the fact that I’m a flaming hot mess? It’s a miracle he hasn’t picked up on it already, but I can’t imagine I’ll be protected by his ignorance for long. Oh me? I’m just your average, shut-in, art school dropout with a tragic past. Good taste in beer, bad taste in TV, mountain of debt—the usual.
    “Tell me about one of your favorite artists.”
    The question is so unexpected that I stall in my tracks for a second. He stops to wait for me, cocking his head at my reaction. Laughter tugs at the edge of his expression, his lips softening.
    I’m overwhelmed. I can’t help it. It’s like when somebody asks what your favorite movie is and you suddenly forget every single film you’ve ever seen except for that made-for-TV slasher flick you watched the night before. I start walking again, and the movement helps get my brain working. “Alphonse Mucha,” I finally say. “There’s something about the color and life breathed into his women. It’s like they’re in on a secret, inviting you to ask what it is.”
    “Nice,” he says in approval. “Didn’t he do those women who represent the seasons?”
    “Yes,” I say, my cheeks warming. The rest comes out in a rush. “He did more than one series of them, actually. I’m partial to the 1896 set.”
    “Which one are you?” Ezra asks, rolling up one of his sleeves casually, revealing a sliver of bright color on his skin. Oh no. Tattoos on hot boys are one of my many weaknesses. I have to lean forward to hide my glance behind my hair. Man, I’m doing a bad job of clamping down my attraction.
    Probably