quality of the garments; they weren’t cheap. The shirt, creased from a day of being worn, didn’t hide the broad shoulders and muscled arms beneath it. And though he was leaning back in his chair at ease, his slacks didn’t fully hide the sculpted thighs they covered. Michelle took a breath and hoped he hadn’t caught her checking him out.
“Are you an artist already?” he asked.
“Not yet, but I—”
A voice interrupted her from the front of the room. The teacher for the class had just come in. “Welcome to Composition and Design Fundamentals.”
Rashad nodded at Michelle, and both turned their attention to the instructor.
For the first half hour, they got an overview of what they would be learning and doing that term. Then, after brief introductions, they were given their first set of vocabulary words and their first lesson in controlling movement within a picture. They then had an hour to create their own examples before they went on to the second lesson. Though the class was three and a half hours, the amount of information packed in it and the variety of exercises they did made the time sprint by.
Still, Michelle couldn’t help noticing her new acquaintance in the neighboring seat. Rashad took the class seriously, jotting down notes just as she did and concentrating on the abstract exercises that they were given. Periodically, he looked toward her and found her glancing his way. Each time she felt she had been caught in the act of ogling him, but each time he just smiled—the sweetest smile she’d ever seen—and went back to his task. It made Michelle smile, too.
For the last half hour, they got their final lesson and their homework. Then they were dismissed. People started to rustle, and some went up to the instructor with questions.
“Wow,” Rashad said. “That class went by like lightning.”
“I know,” Michelle responded. “And it was intense all the way through.”
“I know I’m going to get more than I expected out of this, which is great, considering the price.”
“I know. We have nine sessions of this, and it was under two hundred dollars.”
“Except for the supplies.”
Michelle had closed her portfolio and was packing her supplies in her satchel. When she finished, she riffled through her purse for her Metro card, which slipped from her hand when she moved to put it into her pocket.
Before Michelle could stoop to retrieve her pass, Rashad stepped around his chair, scooped it up and held it up for her.
“Thank you,” Michelle said.
“Hey, are you taking the Metro? I can give you a ride home.”
“Oh, I’m not nearby. I live in Greenbelt.”
“That’s okay. I’m on New Hampshire Avenue near East West Highway.”
Michelle gave him a puzzled look, and Rashad laughed.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“None. I know that Metro map, and that’s it.”
Both of them laughed.
“I’m in Maryland, too,” he said. “Right between Takoma Park and Silver Spring.”
“Hey. I got that!”
“So let me give you a ride home.”
Michelle wasn’t used to taking rides from strangers and gave Rashad a hard look.
“The trolley stops at ten,” he said. “So you’ve missed it and will have to walk to the Metro.”
Michelle looked down at her shoes; they were comfortable flats, so she could do the walk.
“You’re on the way for me.”
Michelle finally let her guard down and smiled. “Okay. That’s really, really nice of you. And,” she added, “I need to get home to my son.”
That usually put a halt to any interest a guy showed in her, just in case Rashad was showing interest. And she did need to get home to her son.
Actually, she said it more for herself than for him. She needed to put the possibility out of her mind because he had the most sensuous eyes she’d ever seen and looked as good as all get-out. But he didn’t seem to be hitting on her, so she might as well put the possibility out of reach. And she did want to know someone else in the class.
Chapter 2
Rashad Brown slipped the extra portfolio under his arm and followed Michelle to the elevator. He would have offered to take anyone home, but he was intrigued by this woman and wanted to know more about her. There was something about how easily she smiled and how open she was that let him know he would enjoy spending time with her. He couldn’t help being a little disappointed that she was taken already; son generally meant husband, as well. But she could still be a friend.
Now that class was over, he could actually look at her. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than he was, and her hair was long and loose, with a slight curl at the end. She had on a powder-blue top with lace around the neck, down the front, at the bottom of the sleeves and at the hem. It gave her a feminine quality that matched her smile. She also had on blue leggings that fit her curves in all the right places—at least as far as he could see. There was nothing fancy, but it all made her look beautiful.
When she turned around in the back of the elevator, he could see her face again. Her full cheeks gave her face the impression of always being on the verge of a smile. Her eyes were light brown, almost translucent, as if he could look right through them and they could do the same to him. Her lips were soft and plump, and they smiled now as she looked toward him in the crowded elevator and nodded. Now that he was facing her, he could see that her curves were filled out in every direction—supple, full, inviting.
Rashad glanced at the floor number when the elevator bell rang, frustrated that he couldn’t continue his perusal but mindful that it was probably for the best.
Their conversation erupted again—and as easily as it had before—as soon as they got to his car, which was in the parking garage right across the street from the Torpedo Factory.
“Can we park here?” Michelle asked. “I’ll be driving again by next week. My car’s only in the shop for a couple of days.”
Rashad hid his disappointment and explained the terms of the lot.
“There were other lots listed,” she said. “I’ll check those, too.”
“Before class started, you were saying that you aren’t an artist as yet.”
Michelle laughed. “I would love to say yes. But no. I love to draw and paint and want to learn how to really do it. I’m a student in the Department of Journalism in the School of Communication at Howard—”
“I went to Howard, as well, up through the MFA in design. Go Bisons!”
“Uh. Yeah. Go Bisons,” Michelle echoed halfheartedly.
