Drawn To You by Lily Summers Read Free Book Online Page A

because I don’t really want to. I should. But I don’t.
    Then I remember that he asked me a question. “Huh?”
    “Which of the seasons?” he asks
    Oh. Duh. Well, maybe not duh, since nobody has ever asked me something like that before. Even after all that time in art classes. Leave it to Ezra to stump me about something I’m supposed to be an expert in. I steal a glance at him and see that he’s watching me, running a hand across his stubbled jaw thoughtfully.
    “You know, I don’t think it’s occurred to many people to cast themselves as the paintings,” I finally say.
    Ezra cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not many people.”
    He’s right about that.
    “Well?” he asks.
    I chuckle, shaking my head. Gamely, I think about each of the paintings in turn. “Autumn. I like sweaters and apple picking, like any stereotypical Northwestern girl. You’re Summer, obviously.”
    “Obviously,” he agrees. “Though my hair’s not quite as luxurious as Mucha’s Summer. I’m working on it.”
    Great. He’s funny, too. I’m a goner.
    I’ve drifted closer to him without meaning to, and I reluctantly make more space between us. I clear my throat and ask, “How about you? Who’s your favorite artist?”
    “Banksy,” he replies instantly.
    I half-laugh, shaking my head until I realize that he isn’t kidding. “Come on,” I say, “you can do better than freaking Banksy .”
    For a second I worry that I’ve offended him, but Ezra hasn’t lost that light in his eyes. He puts his hand to his chest in mock offense. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with my idol?”
    My lips quirk into a wry grin. “His stuff is such surface-level commentary. It looks all deep and profound at first glance, but all he does is tell us things we already know. War and fascism are bad, wow.”
    Ezra laughs, shaking his head. “I like your honesty, Mia. You’re authentic.”
    “Like Banksy?” I smirk.
    “Like you,” Ezra says, genuine now. “You and no one else. You say what you really think, like this morning in the shop, or back there in the party. It’s incredible after being around people who put up a front all the time.” He grows quiet for a minute, before adding, “The game gets old, you know?”
    We stop at the curb to wait for a light to change. I feel heat rising to my cheeks and wonder if they’re steaming in the damp night air. That glimmer of his vulnerability catches me off guard, snagging in my chest and pulling me closer to him. I clear my throat in the silence and say, “I have a lot of feelings about art.”
    “Me too.” The light changes and Ezra ambles forward, his thumbs hooked into his back pockets. Just like that, his vulnerability has melted away. I can’t help but marvel at his recovery as I catch up to him in the crosswalk. “I’d really love to see some of yours some time,” Ezra says. “Your art, that is.”
    My chest tightens. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, stepping onto the curb.
    He regards me for a minute and then lets it drop, to my relief. “Sure. Art’s personal. You can only show your soul to so many people, after all.”
    My throat goes dry. “How personal is your art?” I ask.
    Now it’s his turn to stop. A car turns the corner just behind us, careening through the night, then leaving us in a quiet lull. After a beat, Ezra looks away and chuckles, but it sounds a little hollow. Seeing him alone under the diffused yellow streetlight is like seeing an entirely different person. He’s more soft-spoken than the guy at the center of the warehouse party. More thoughtful, less boisterous and showy. Still pretty as hell either way.
    I like him. A lot. Too much.
    He blinks up at a street sign. “Are we close to your place?”
    “Oh,” I say, suddenly realizing that I’ve been standing rooted to the spot, staring at him like a total weirdo. I glance around, trying to get my bearings. “Yeah, I’m right around the next corner.”
    “Do you want me to --” he starts,