“Hello!” the cheery attendant at the front counter greets us. “Welcome to Perfectly Painted Pottery. I’m sorry to say, but we’re fully booked for the next few hours.”
“We’re the two-thirty reservation for Swallow.”
The attendant’s lips part, and she says, “Oh. Welcome! Have you been here before?”
“No, this is our first time.” Coolly, I eye my reluctant partner. “Hopefully, not our last, though.”
Azalea glares daggers at me.
I, innocently, adjust the lightweight linen scarf hiding my bruises from view.
Her eyes widen a fraction, and she tames, standing patiently beside me while the attendant goes through explaining how we select our pieces and get our paint. Once left to our own devices, Azalea and I peruse the shelves of the quiet shop.
It’s quiet, it should be noted, because I reserved every space left a week ago and paid extra for each seat we wouldn’t actually be using so they’d be kept empty. Only a handful of people who placed their reservations before me scatter the seating area, talking beneath the dulcet pop station playing in the background.
“Dove.”
Azalea stiffens, dragging her attention to me. An alluring sparkle of worry greets me in her pretty blue eyes.
I ask, “Is there anything I can make for you that you’d use?”
Her forehead wrinkles, but she rakes a scanning look over the bleached white pieces awaiting color. Plates. Mugs. Figurines. The selection covers several center displays and numerous shelves along the walls. Her gaze locks on something, so I follow it.
To a bird.
Abird.
My heart seizes, and I realize—not for the first time—how dearly I love this woman. The idea that we might exchange a painted dove and crow leaves me breathless, tense, andyearning. Weak, I say, “Please.”
Her grip on her purse tightens.
Low and urgent, I implore, “I am begging you, Azalea. I’ll do anything if you make me a dove.”
“Anything?” she whispers, turning. “You mean what you’ve already promised you’d do for me?”
Hopeless, I look down at her and offer a breaking smile. “Maybe…I shouldn’t have told you so soon the lengths I’m willing to go for you.”
“It certainly puts a damper on your manipulation efforts now, doesn’t it?” She peruses an egregiously gaudy ornament.
“This isn’t manipulation; it’s pleading.”
“It really is.” She sets the ornament down. “I’m ashamed to say I rather like it.”
My heart pounds. “Would you have me make a scene?” I ask. “Do you wish me on my knees in a show of public humiliation?”
“I’d so dearly rather not be included in that, but…keep talking.”
I get closer, keeping my voice steady and deep beneath the music. This time, she doesn’t flee even as my breath no doubt skims her ear. “I would cut myself open if it meant you’d paint a little dove for me, Azalea.”
“Tempting,” she murmurs. “And I suppose you’d paint me a crow and expect me to accept it?”
“Everything we paint will go through hours of fire before it touches us again.”
“Reassuring, that.” Her eyes cut my way, and she fidgets, as though realizing for the first time that we’re an inch apart. She stops breathing.
“Please,” I beg.
“They’re neither doves nor crows,” she states. “Those are generic little songbird figurines.”
