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His smile grows. “Consider this my official permission to do that at literally any moment.”
Angling my head to the side, I slip my hand into his. “Ready to get out of here? Or do you have things you need to do?”
He glances over at Rush, who is hoisting some supplies over his shoulder. He waves us off, clearly having seen our public display.
“I think I’m good if you want to head out,” Bishop says, returning his attention to me.
“Alright then…let’s go.”
“Good job today, Coach,” I tell him, squeezing his hand as we approach where his car is parked in the corner of the lot.
He chuckles. “It’s still weird when people call me that. But when you say it, it’s kind of sexy.”
“Good to know.”
Bishop tugs the passenger door open, but before I can step inside, he yanks me toward him, bringing our mouths together in a kiss that tastes just as delicious as it feels. His tongue twists with mine, and for a moment I forget where I am. I am lost to him and this moment, to the way it feels to be consumed by Bishop Mitchell.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are glazed and filled with desire. He puts his hands on either side of my face and just stares at me for a long minute, his eyes scanning over my mouth and my cheeks and my nose until he reaches my eyes again. He licks his lips then chuckles, kissing me one more time before backing away completely.
“Let’s get out of here or we’re going to get in a lot more trouble than when we were just drinking beer on the roof.”
I grin and hop into the front seat then Bishop closes the door behind me. That look was the same one he gave me the other night at my doorstep, the one that says he feels the very big feelings that come with a few very small words. As we drive out of the high school lot and onto the road, our hands intertwined, I’m finding I don’t mind as much as I thought I did.
In fact, maybe I don’t mind at all.
chapter twenty-one
Bishop
“This was not what I had in mind.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” she jokes. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t help.”
Sighing, I take a seat at the wheel, resigned to my fate. At the very least, I’ll learn a little more about pottery, the thing Gabi seems to love more than anything. That perks me up a bit, giving me a new perspective.
“And no,” Gabi says before I can say anything as she takes a seat next to me, “this will not look anything like Ghost.”
“Are you even old enough to have seen that movie?”
She scoffs. “Are you kidding? Every pottery nerd has seen that movie.”
Over the next ten minutes, she teaches me a little bit about the wheel and the clay and the steps that go into getting it ready to be shaped. Then she hands me a lump of clay and tells me to chuck it down onto the center of the wheel. Eventually, I’m adding water and using my hands to make the material into a smooth round ball in the middle of the wheel.
“If you were trying to make a bowl or a vase, I’d tell you how to use your hands to make those different shapes,” she says, leaning closer. “But right now, this is just giving you a bit of gentle exercise on your wrist and your fingers. So do whatever feels natural, or whatever you think imitates the exercises your PT uses.”
Licking my lips, I think it over, watching the clay as it spins in a circle in front of me. Then I put my right hand on the side of the clay and bend my left wrist, pointing my fingers and pressing them into the center so I’m stretching the clay outward and bending each of my fingers.
After we were done with our NSP meeting this afternoon, Gabi invited me over, asking if I could give her some help with my extra hands. I had no idea she was actually planning to give me a PT session by putting me at the wheel. Sure, there was that sexual innuendo lacing her words, which made me laugh, but mostly I assumed she was finally taking me up on my very real offer to help with anything she needs. I meant it when she asked if I’d be available to organize antiques or clear gutters. Not only because I want to be someone Gabi can ask for help, but also because I will gladly take every moment I can get with her.
Now, as my hands move over the wet clay, my muscles and joints getting small movements and tiny bits of pressure that demonstrate what a workout this is, a spot within me thrills at the fact that she is using something she loves to help me. If I were doing this on my own, I’d end up with a useless slab of clay on the wheel. But Gabi’s hands join me, and she takes a few moments to guide my movements so I’m using these simple shifts but still actually creating something, what looks to be a shallow, wide bowl.
“That’s so cool,” I say, grinning as the wheel comes to a stop. “I know I basically didn’t do anything, but it really is so amazing how things are created like this.”
“All I did was shift your hands just a bit,” she tells me. “You made that bowl, not me.” She pauses, glancing at it then back at me. “Did you want to keep it?” she asks. “I can reclaim it to use later, but if you want to keep it, I can put it on the rack to dry.”
My lips tick up at the idea that I could own a piece of pottery we created together. “Yeah, let’s keep it.”
Nodding, Gabi grabs a wire and scrapes it underneath the bowl then lifts it gently onto a board before carrying it over to a shelf in the corner.
