AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You okay?” Fiona glances at me as we walk. “You’re looking very serious for someone who’s about to have her hands covered in clay.”
I force a smile and shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” When she arches her brows, I let out a laughing huff. “Fine. I’m nervous. I haven’t done anything artistic in years. It’s silly, I know, but it’s true.”
She’s quiet for a few steps, then her lips curl into a smile. “You know, my first couple of hours in Heart’s Cove were spent in this studio. That’s how I met Grant.” Her eyes glimmer. “I was so completely overwhelmed, because I’m as far from an artist as you can get, but now I love it. There’s no pressure in there. You can be as bad or as good as you want. There’s no rules to creativity.”
“Kevin used to mock my lack of artistic skills,” I blurt, then snap my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to say that. But he did, didn’t he? Little snide comments whenever I’d try to join him in the studio in the early days. I stopped going after a year or so, and he never asked me back. Art was his thing, and I wasn’t invited.
Fiona tuts. “Girl, one look at your face and I know you’ve got more creativity in your pinky finger than I’ve got in my whole body.” When I frown in confusion, she smiles. “Your makeup, Trina. It’s art.”
“It’s not fair!” Simone says, turning around to grin at us. “I can barely manage to put mascara on without poking myself in the eye, and here you are looking like a million bucks.”
My chest warms at their comments, even though I wave them away.
Then we enter the studio, and I scream. Literally.
Because Mac is there, wearing an old blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show off his mouthwatering hands and corded forearms. He’s got a brown apron wrapped around his muscular body, and it looks positively sinful.
The man wears leather, and I want to jump him. I never thought he’d look like pure sex in an apron.
I was wrong.
Mac’s face registers surprise, but it’s not the bad kind (I hope). He straightens up from the pottery wheel where he’d been positioning a stool and rakes his fingers through his hair, his eyes running down the length of my body.
I—
Wow. I want him to look at me like that every hour of every day for the rest of my life. It warms me from the inside out, makes me feel like the most beautiful, sexiest woman in the world.
That’s when I realize that everyone else’s eyes are on me, too. Simone and Fiona look like they’re having the time of their lives, fighting grins behind raised hands. Jen lifts her gaze to the ceiling. Candice is just unabashedly laughing like the evil older sister she is.
“Ladies,” Mac greets us in his deep baritone, eyes still on me. “Here for the pottery class?”
“You’re Mr. Blair,” I say stupidly.
Mac’s eyes gleam. “You know my name, Trina, but if you want to call me Mr. Blair instead, I won’t complain.”
Now Simone is laughing too. Oh no. I turn my red face away from Mac and stare at the fiery-haired woman who’s quickly becoming a good friend, then shift my gaze to Candice. My sister just grins.
There are a few students in the class I don’t know, and they’re all looking at me. Wonderful.
Mac saves me by introducing himself to everyone and starting the class at a long table at the back of the studio, where a few bags containing rectangular chunks of clay are positioned at regular intervals around the table. After we all get situated with paint-stained aprons on, he instructs us to open the bag and use a wire to cut off a big hunk of clay. We massage it to get the air out, which feels like a workout and a half, then cut it again and roll it into four balls. Mac demonstrates as he talks.
I was wrong about the tire changing. That wasn’t a show. This is a show. Those hands—I need help. I can’t stop watching them. My mouth waters as he handles the clay with confidence, shaping it into four equal-sized balls with a few expert movements. The slapping of his palm against the clay almost sounds like skin slapping against—
Nope. Not going there. Not in public. Not right now.
Then I realize everyone has already started, and all I’ve been doing is staring at Mac’s hands.
With trembling movements, I make four wonky-shaped balls, then wrap them back up in the bag to stop them from drying out. We’re led over to the wheels set at equal intervals in a circle in the center of the studio, and somehow, with all the other ladies moving at light speed before I can grab a seat on the opposite side of the room, I end up sitting beside Mac.
They seem totally impervious to my withering glares, avoiding my eyes as they take their seats. Jerks.
So I sit, and I wait for Mac to start teaching…but I’m not prepared for what happens next. Turns out shaping the balls of clay was only the start of the show.
“Place your ball in the center of the wheel. Smack it down hard.” Simone snorts, and Mac’s eyes flick to her, then to everyone’s clay. “Good. Pat it down a couple of times, then wet your hands and start your wheel. We’re going to center the clay, which will allow us to shape it into what we’re trying to create. If it’s off-center, you won’t be able to shape it properly. You’ll end up with one side thicker than the other.”
I can’t look away as Mac takes those huge, broad hands and dips his long fingers into a small pail of water. His forearms flex as he shakes off a few drops, then Mac starts shaping the clay. He’s saying something, explaining the process of centering the clay, but all I can do is stare.
Wet clay moves between his hands, smooth and sensuous. His fingers press, release, move like magic over the clay, making it dance up and down and through the gap in his hands. He cups the clay and shapes it in a smooth, tall—listen, there’s no other word for it—phallic shape. It looks like a massive grey dong on the center of his pottery wheel, and the sight of it makes me want to combust. I have to look away.
