“He’s notmine,” I muttered under my breath.
I left the Morning Bell clutching two cups of coffee, the familiar smell of chocolatey goodness rising like a prayer. Rhett’s black coffee smelledbitter. It suited him, probably. Staring at Marigold’s across the street, I let out a long breath and took a much-needed drink from my latte.
The repairs, the festival, Margot’s return: I wasn’t sure anymore which scared me most.
But I did know one thing. I desperately needed to stop falling apart in front of Rhett Briggs.
Chapter Four
“I’m so sorry,” Rhett said the second I walked through the door at Marigold’s.
One of the fern pots laid on the floor, dirt and roots mixed with a spray of ceramic shards.
“I bumped it when I was inspecting the floorboards.”
He looked miserable. It was the first show of real emotion I had seen since I met him. Running his hand through his hair, he glanced from the mess, to me, then back to the fern again. My brain slowly but surely caught up to the situation.
“It’s really fine,” I murmured, offering him his coffee with a tiny smile. “Accidents happen.”
Rhett’s brows furrowed as if he had never heard the words before.
“I’ll go get the broom,” I said.
I felt his gaze on my back as I set my latte and bag on the counter and moseyed to the storage closet. When I returned with a broom and a bucket, he was busy folding up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and surveying the damage with a frown. My eyes caught on the symphony of tattoos stretching from his forearms and underneath the rolled fabric. I hadn’t expected someone sostarchy to be hiding an entire collection of artwork beneath his shirt.
“Those are cool,” I mumbled brusquely, setting the bucket at our feet.
Rhett glanced at his arms as if he’d forgotten they were there and replied, “Thank you.” He paused for a moment before clearing his throat and taking the broom from me to lean it against the window.
I balanced on my haunches and began picking fragments of ceramic from the soil, disposing them into the bucket. From the corner of my vision, I watched as he crouched down and followed suit.
“Can I reimburse you for the cost?” Rhett delicately placed a large piece in the bucket.
“Don’t worry about it,” I responded, tossing a handful of shards with a loud clatter. “I, uh… I made it.” His hands froze. I threw the last of the fragments into the bucket.
Peeking up at him, I noticed the way the light caught his jaw as it clenched. He appeared different just then—softer. As if, despite how he seemed coiled tightly enough to snap, I’d finally seen a glimpse of something beyond stolid judgement. It almost made me interested enough to look for more.Almost.
Rhett was silent as I gingerly picked the fern and its roots from the soil.
“Do you need this dirt?” he said suddenly, his voice sounding strained.
I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from my mouth. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just re-pot it,” I murmured, leaving Rhett to sweep up the rest of the pile.
A storage bin of fresh soil and a shelf of pots waited in the closet. Tapping my chin with one hand, I surveyed the array of ceramics and hummed quietly to myself. I only ever brought my best creations to Marigold’s. There was a cerulean drip glazewith handles, a rotund pot with amber checkers, and a taller, speckled and fluted style.
Delicately, I placed the fern on the counter and chose the latter. I remembered being so proud of myself when I finally perfected this technique—it took several late nights in the studio and many lattes at work while I dreamed about clay in my hands. The feeling of shaping a damp block into something beautiful and functional was unmatched, even compared to scoring one of the bakery’s specialty apple cider doughnuts.
“Did you make that too?”
If it weren’t for his heavy footfalls, I might’ve dropped it. Rhett watched me curiously from the other side of the counter, hands at his sides as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. I was beginning to wonder if a benevolent fairy had recently transformed him into a real boy.
I nodded wordlessly, scooping some soil into the pot.
“A lot more interesting than what I do,” he said, dark eyes trained on each of my movements.
The flush that rose to my cheeks was, once again, entirely aggravating “Well, thank you.” I moved a hair from my face with the back of my hand. “But it’s just a hobby.”
Rhett scratched his neck. “Do you… sell them?”
