Untouchable (Private 3)

Damn, that woman was wound tightly. She shoved open a door down the hallway and I glanced after her. I could see what Kiran had been talking about at Thomas's funeral. Ms. LewisHanneman did have a nice body, probably the product of daily yogalates or something. And her dark-b

lond hair, back in a bun, gleamed under the recessed lighting. But had she really been carrying on an affair with Blake Pearson a couple years ago? Youngish or not, what kind of adult had sex with students?

There was a slam and she was gone. I was just about to breathe again when the door behind me opened and gravity took over. I fell backward, my stomach swooping skyward. Someone caught me in his arms.

"Reed Brennan. What, pray tell, are you doing falling into rooms where you do not belong?" Josh smiled down at me.

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'You scared me to death!" I whisper-shouted, whacking his arm as I stood up. Every inch of my skin was throbbing now, unwilling to respond to the fact that I was out of danger. I straightened my Dior coat and glanced around the room. It was circular in shape, and I realized we must be inside one of the four rounded turrets that stood at each corner of the building. It was dimly lit, thanks to a few green-glass torch lamps, and heavy curtains all but covered the two tall windows. But the most striking features of the room were the paintings. Every last inch of wall space was crowded with paintings of all sizes: portraits, landscapes, abstracts, still lifes. There was barely an inch of wall visible between each work.

"What is this place?" I asked, stepping toward a beautiful canvas, all yellow and orange swirls.

"The art cemetery," Josh explained. "People are constantly donating artwork to the school, and they don't have nearly enough space to display it all, so most of it ends up here."

"Seriously? What a waste," I said.

"Well, some of it sees the light of day occasionally," Josh said. He hit a few keys on a laptop set up on a low table, which sat between two round-backed couches--the only furniture in the room. He turned the screen toward me. "They keep a list of who donated what. This way if, say, Sir Cornelius Mosley calls and says he's showing up for tea with the dean, they can whip out his prized Manet and hang it in the drawing room."

"Wow." I stepped past him and squinted at the long, long list. "So . . . why are we here?"

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"Mr. Lindstrom's an old friend of my mother's, so he lets me help him with the collection. I keep the list up-to-date and make sure all the paintings go back where they're supposed to be, so I have keys to the room," Josh said, lifting a key ring out of his front pants pocket by his thumb.

"That's why you're here," I said, turning around to face him fully. "But why are we here?"

But I knew why we were here. It couldn't have been more obvious to the world. It was difficult to wrangle alone time at Easton. And an untrafficked room with a locked door in a remote corner of campus seemed almost too good to be true.

Josh smiled slowly. "I guess I was hoping it would impress you. Does it impress you?"

"Oh, so much. Really. The keeper of the art cemetery? Wow!" I joked, clasping my hands beneath my chin.

"Not that, you loser," Josh said, grabbing the flap on my coat and pulling me closer to him. "The fact that there is a room on campus to which I am one of only two people who have the key."

My heart pounded a sweet little beat as I wrapped my arms around his neck. "Now that is impressive."

"I thought so."

Josh grinned before leaning in to kiss me. Everything fluttered as his tongue searched mine, his hands cupping my face. We stood there for what felt like a very, very long time. Kissing, touching, gently searching. Slowly, he unbuttoned my coat, and I let the ridiculously expensive piece of couture hit the floor. I was very

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aware of the couch right next to us, and when my legs started to ache from standing in one place, I crooked at the knee and brought Josh down with me.

"We don't have to do anything," Josh said, breathless. His lips looked swollen and pink. He was trembling slightly. "I just wanted to see you. That's all."

"I know. I know," I said. I trusted Josh in that moment more than any guy I had ever touched lips with before. "Let's just.. . see what happens."

So we did. And everything that happened was sweet and pure and perfect.

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CONGRUITY

What is Josh doing right now? Is he painting? Studying? Possibly sitting on his bed pretending to be reading, but instead daydreaming about me?

I looked down at my open history text and smiled to myself. I was descending into dorkdom over this guy--and it didn't even bother me. Especially since Natasha was downstairs in the lounge and not here to catch me spontaneously smiling.