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Libby imaged Reagan as a little girl. All wide-eyed and hanging on her grandpa’s every word. Could he have known how much his stories would shape the course of her life?
“How did you end up running a pottery studio out of it?”
“I used to talk about it all the time. Having my own space.
I drove by the old factory on a whim. My ex’s idea, actually.”
She chuckled. “Said I had to stop dreaming and start doing.
What was the harm in trying, right? I thought she was nuts. I was twenty-four making just enough as a courier to a ord a car and a crappy excuse for an apartment. How could I a ord it?”“But you did,” Libby said, eager to hear the rest. In that moment, she realized she could listen to Reagan talk about absolutely anything.
“Only because the rent was dirt cheap and my landlord is an idiot.” Her dimples cut into her soft skin as she o ered a lopsided smile. “The utilities are expensive, though. My family helped me for a while, and I only let go of my day job last year.”
Libby stepped a little closer until her toes hit the tip of Reagan’s shoe. “Pottery classes don’t keep the lights on and the ovens roaring?”
“They might, but I don’t charge for most of them. I want to be part of the community, not someone who comes in and takes what little people have. In a perfect world, I’d subsidize all of it, but material isn’t free. Every now and again I think about doing fundraisers or something. Save enough to keep it running so everyone can find something special in that studio like I did. That and maybe buy it out right.”
“I’ve never seen anyone have so much love and passion for a building,” Libby replied, her skin buzzing from the bourbon and Reagan’s contagious energy.
Reagan furrowed her brow. “It’s more than that. More than a pile of bricks and poured cement. It gave countless people a new start. The chance to create, but more importantly, to earn good wages for hard work. I know it won’t do that again, but it can still be meaningful.”
“I meant it as a compliment,” Libby interrupted, desperate to bring back her inspirational enthusiasm. “It’s beautiful how you feel and the potential you see,” she added, swallowing the lump growing in her throat.
Reagan’s shoulders relaxed. “Sorry, I get a little wound up.” Her cheeks flushed, maybe from the booze or maybe from the rush of emotion.
Staring at her lips, Libby wanted to say something, but she couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. Her body was buzzing like a neon sign while feeling adrift and disconnected from it at the same time.
As Reagan leaned forward, tilting her head down, Libby craned hers up. With her eyes fixed on parted lips, Libby was vaguely aware of dark eyes darting over her face. Searching, always searching. Libby wished she knew what Reagan was thinking, what she was seeing when she looked at her like that.
Her trance shattered when Reagan cleared her throat and stepped back. “Maybe too much of a good thing.” She rattled the chunk of ice in her empty glass. “Shall we eat some of that delicious food you made?”
Libby laughed too loudly, an e ort to conceal how the shift in energy knocked her o balance. “I just picked up a few things. You can thank the car and the little Italian market a few blocks away.” Her voice was high-pitched and unnatural, but she couldn’t fix it.
The weight of her embarrassment was crushing. Her chest caved as she curled forward while reaching for the sliding glass door. It was as if her true form was a hedgehog and all she wanted to do was roll into a spiky ball to protect herself from the onslaught of emotions.
“I’m just going to wash my hands. I’ll be right back,” she called, erupting into a full body sweat as she raced up the stairs to her bathroom.
Reagan replied with something like okay. Libby wished she hadn’t heard the confusion in her tone. It only made her face grow hotter still.
For crap’s sake, isn’t there like a max body temperature?
Once in her bathroom, she locked the door. Not that she expected Reagan to follow, but she couldn’t risk looking even more unhinged in front of the eternally composed queen of cool.
Yanking o her shirt, Libby hovered over the sink and jerked the faucet lever open. Splashing her face and chest with cold water, she felt a little like a returning space capsule
landing in the ocean. All hot metal and cool water. She was surprised she didn’t hear an audible sizzle at the contact.
When she’d lowered her core temperature from nuclear meltdown levels, she looked at herself in the mirror. Makeup running and the tips of her no-longer-straight hair dripping water, her pale bra soaked and clinging to her modest chest.
The mess, as jarring as it was, couldn’t distract her from the inexplicable truth.
I wanted to kiss her. Libby pressed her palm to her twisting stomach. I want to kiss her.
C H A P T E R 1 6
“ELI!” a woman screeched from the doorway of Libby’s private o ce.
Jolting her out of her thoughts, Libby rolled back in her chair before jumping to her feet. “Zena! What the heck are you doing here?”
