It’s a mug.
Terracotta base, glazed a deep, glossy red, letters stamped imperfectly around the curve.
FIREPROOF HEART.
I look at it.
Then I look at her.
She’s watching me like I’m a kiln she’s waiting on. Like shecareswhether I like it. Which I hate. Because I do.
I take it from her, big hand swallowing the handle. The clay is smooth, still warmer than room temp. She must’ve fired it this morning.
I run my thumb over the letters, slow. Raised indents. Her work. Her hands.
“Cute,” I say.
Her mouth drops open. “Cute?Clay. It’s a bespoke, hand-thrown, small-batch piece of functional art.”
“It’s a cup.”
“It’s agesture.”
“It’s still a cup.”
She jabs a finger at me. “You are impossible.”
“Been told.”
She huffs, all theatrics, then narrows her eyes suspiciously at the mug in my hand. “You like it.”
I set it on the workbench carefully—because I do like it, and I’m not letting any of the guys break it—and lean back on my heels. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’tnotsay it.”
I give her a look. “You always argue like this?”
“Only with men who rescue me from burning buildings and then pretend they’re not soft inside.”
I snort. “I’m not soft, firecracker.”
“Uh-huh.” She tips her head, eyes flicking to the mug. “Don’t act like you’re not touched.”
“I’m touched, all right.” I let my gaze drag over her, unhurried, lingering on the paint smudge at her collarbone, the way her shirt falls off one shoulder. “Just not where you’re hoping.”
Her cheeks flush. Not shy. Just…hit.
Bingo.
The air between us tightens. I feel the shift happen—like oxygen getting sucked out right before a flashover.
She swallows. “Who says I’m hoping?”
“Your face.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is loud.”
