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The snow swallowed his laugh, but he didn’t slow down before opening the metal door with a clang and motioning me inside. Shaking my head, I followed him into the warmly lit space.
“Hey, dudes,” the very white, very scrawny twenty-something with teenage acne and questionable dreads said as we stepped into the warm studio. Every raging stereotype of a stoner was embodied in this one grinning human, with his half-hooded, bloodshot eyes, surrounded by hippy decorations, wearing a Rastafarian beanie, and setting a matching hacky sack on the counter. As though we’d interrupted his game in our attempt to patronize the establishment.
“Hey,” Broderick said back, squeezing my fingers when I didn’t immediately follow him in or greet him back. Frankly, I wasn’t sure which offense earned the pinch, but mustered the energy to both follow him and speak words.
“Hi there,” I chirped in a too-sunny voice. Broderick’s ensuing smirk and not-remotely-subtle side eye had me laughing to myself as he forged on ahead, as if I wasn’t a begrudging captive. A begrudging captive now staring at that perfect bubble butt as he walked in. I left the men folk to talk, turning to study the plates and bowls, and little jewelry dishes that were glossed and awaiting pickup on metal shelving to the side of the room. When Broderick materialized beside me, he held up two steaming mugs of tea.
“Happy tea,” he said, grinning. “Bobby promised it’s just Kava, not weed, despite his chosen aesthetic. Also, evidently it aids in relieving anxiety and insomnia, both of which I feel would be beneficial today.”
Shaking my head, I snagged a cup from him before eyeing the potter’s wheel Bobby was motioning us over to with the same level of distrust I’d allot to a coiled snake.
“I might prefer weed for this,” I muttered. “Tell Bobby to stop bogarting the good stuff.”
His grin was fantastically contagious as he shook his head. “I ever tell you that you're dramatic, baby?”
“Probably not often enough,” I laughed, looking to my steaming mug before taking a sip and grimacing at the bizarre taste.
“Ahh, man, that’d be the valerian,” Bobby said sagely as he eyed my displeasure. “Works miracles but tastes like gym socks.”
“Got a lot of experience ingesting gym socks, Bobby?” I asked, laughing when Broderick knocked his shoulder into mine.
“More than I’d like,” he admitted in his dopy little voice, grinning up at me under sleepy eyes. “Got bullied a lot as a kid.”
“Oh good, I’m the asshole,” I said, more to myself than them, but both of the guys laughed.
“Nah, it’s a fair assessment,” he said, bobbing his head as he set a crate of clinking supplies beside the wheel. “Stuff tastes nasty but does the trick. Hella chill, and you should sleep like a baby.”
“It’s not even six o’clock,” I pointed out.
“Didn’t say your timing was fabulous. I’d plan an early nap.” I was still laughing when he said, “Alright Mr. and Mrs. Allen. You two are set. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Bobby,” Broderick said, not bothering to correct his assumption. Mrs. Allen. That did something crazy inside my chest. Judging by the satisfaction in his smile, Broderick liked it too. I could have sworn he winked at the little hippy dude before he sauntered off like there was no rush in the world. A beat later, Tom Petty started over the speakers, and I turned and grinned at him. He shrugged and said, “Cool kid. Now, come here, baby.”
Eyes narrowed, I shook my head. “I’m sipping my dirty sock tea.” I did. And it was just as terrible the second time. Broderick was still shaking his head as he stepped forward and gently pried the mug from my grip, set it up on the bar top, and returned to snatch my hands in his.
There was a row of beige aprons hanging from pegs on the wall, like we’d stumbled into a grown-up Montessori school. Mara’s kids went to one, and I could swear the canvas smocks were identical, just on a larger scale. We slipped out of our coats and Broderick set his tie and button-up shirt aside, leaving him in his undershirt, looking way too hot to sit at a pottery wheel.
He hooked an apron around my neck, smirking as I begrudgingly tied it while he got his own. After going through the motions of washing hands, and bopping to the music, he led me back to the stool and had me sit before dragging a second one behind the first. Wordlessly, he returned to the wall, swiping his tie off the hook before closing the distance. Nerves skittered through my chest as I eyed the silky fabric warily.
“Whatcha’ doing with that, Professor? I don’t think we can implement it in this adventure, although I have alternates in mind.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, tone dripping with too much satisfaction as he straddled the apple box behind me, scooting in tight so his front was flush with my back. Of course he’d just leave my bait hanging on the hook. He pressed a kiss to my cheek and whispered, “Follow my lead for once, baby.” I nodded stiffly, and then he said, “Close your eyes.”
With butterflies going manic in my center, I burst out laughing as he brought the tie around my face. “Is there a piñata I don’t know about? Or am I pinning a tail on a donkey?”
Evidently ignoring my nerve riddled questions, he asked, “Ready to get your hands dirty, baby?”
“Born ready to get dirty, but I can’t say blindfolds were part of the plan.” Even as I said it, I felt him tug it snug over my eyes. The sudden sensory deprivation sent my heart sprinting.
“Just adding a little mystery to the experience.”
“Because stumbling around blind with clay covered hands is everyone’s idea of excitement?”
“Because if we eliminate the possibility of perfection, you won’t be so hard on yourself.”
Well. That was…an interesting theory. “Of all the hobbies you could have taken up in the last decade, this was the last one I would have expected.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
