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The teenager scratched the back of his shaved head as his face erupted into a violent blush. “Maybe you planted her,”
he joked.
Reagan wrapped her arm around his shoulder as she laughed. “Oh, you think I’m that clever, huh?”
“Yeah. You’re tricky,” he agreed while chuckling.
“That might be true,” Reagan agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not awesome at this and should see where it takes you.”
After discussing Freddie’s real chance of getting into an art program based on the strength of his portfolio, Libby chimed in. “Is the artist selling his work?”
Freddie’s blue eyes widened and darted between Libby and Reagan.
Understanding his unspoken question, Reagan responded on his behalf. “He should be.”
Freddie knitted together white-blond eyebrows. “But my mom wants this one,” he explained, scratching the back of his head again.
“Hmm. . . we definitely don’t want to start a bidding war.
Not with your mom, anyway,” Libby joked. “How about I commission something from you? I’ll buy the next thing you make.”
As Reagan watched Libby and Freddie discuss possibilities, she couldn’t stop the warmth spreading across her chest. It reminded her of drinking hot chocolate by a fire
the one and only time she’d seen snow. There was no way of knowing whether Libby was feigning interest, but the more she talked, the more Reagan guessed she was being sincere.
“That was very kind of you,” Reagan whispered when Freddie’s attentions were forced elsewhere.
Libby cocked her head to one side. “What was?”
Suppressing a smile, Reagan leaned in closer. Even with the odor of dust, chemicals, and wet clay permanently imprinted in the air, Libby’s perfume was sweet and intoxicating. “Thank you for coming today.”
Before Reagan could say more, Libby interrupted her. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she whispered, resting her hand on Reagan’s hip, sending a surge of electricity through her body. “How would it look if your fake girlfriend wasn’t here to support you? Fishy, right?”
The words, uttered softly and with a gentle smile, were a sledgehammer to Reagan’s stomach. She straightened.
“Yeah. Fishy,” she agreed before spinning on the balls of her feet. “Come on, let me show you some of the other gallery-worthy things my little geniuses made.”
As they walked, Reagan was reinvigorated. The pride of watching her students delight others with what they’d made was an unbeatable rush.
“That’s interesting,” Libby said, her eye on a pitcher displayed on a pedestal at the far end of the studio. It wasn’t meant to be exhibited. The focus wasn’t on her work. “Why are you hiding it?”
“I’m not exactly hiding it,” she replied, her feet moving of their own accord as they left the activity of the studio while following Libby.
“Half this stu is covered in canvas,” Libby countered, pointing to the fabric obscuring most of the pieces.
“Today is about what they’ve made. Not me,” Reagan explained when they stopped in front of the uncovered white
pitcher bearing the silhouette of a dark figure riding a horse.
The corner of Libby’s lips twitched in a tiny smile before turning her attention back to the ceramic jug.
“This is one of the first things I made. I went through a very rip-o -Picasso period when I started,” she joked. “I’m not down with bullfighting, so I used his work for inspiration.” Reagan plucked the piece o the base and handed it to Libby, who turned it over as she looked at it.
“It’s really beautiful.” Libby looked up from the pitcher and into Reagan’s eyes, forcing her to shift her weight and glance elsewhere for a moment to break the connection.
Her sincerity triggered a palpitation in Reagan’s chest.
“You think so?” She stepped close enough to indulge in the fragrance clinging to her warm skin. “I still didn’t really have the hang of finishing o the rim yet. You can see a dip here.”
