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I could have said no. I should have said no.
Right?
That fact becomes apparent to me the minute Mac rolls the big, corrugated iron door leading to his studio. My eyes land on the workbench, that spot where I leaned my body and let Mac give me one of the best orgasms of my life.
Mac must see where I’m looking, because he clears his throat. “Are you okay being here?”
Okay? Am I okay? I’m basically having an orgasm by proxy just by being here, but yeah, I’m okay.
I try for a casual smile and hope it doesn’t look like a grimace. “I’m good, Mac.”
A bit of tension seeps out of his body at my words, and he rewards me with the sexiest grin I’ve ever laid eyes on. “All right, then.” His eyes linger on my lips, then he clears his throat. “Better get to it.”
We walk over to a shelf full of mugs, espresso cups, saucers, plates, and all types of pottery in the same peach-and-gold style. There’s a handwritten list pinned to the wall, with half the items ticked off. Mac moves to stand beside me, the heat of his body an inferno at my side. “I’ve been rushing to get the first half of their order done before the start of the school year,” he tells me, and I frown at his words. Why does he care about the start of the school year? It’s the second or third time he’s mentioned it. “It’s one of the biggest orders I’ve ever gotten, and I know I won’t have much time to work in the next few months. Glad the ladies liked the samples.”
“They’re beautiful,” I answer. Before I can ask about the school year comment, Mac grabs a box from the corner of the room and brings it over, showing me how to wrap up the pottery in paper to keep it safe for the trip over.
“If we do the flat stuff first, we’ll be able to pack the box a bit more tightly,” he says, grabbing a stack of paper and placing it on one of the shelves. I watch him wrap a plate up with sharp, efficient movements, and start doing the same.
We work in silence for a few minutes, stacking plates in the box and packing everything tight. When the box is nearly full, Mac hauls it up and moves it closer to the door before grabbing another box from the corner. In the meantime, I pick up a large vase from another shelf, turning it over in my hands. It has a huge, round belly and a delicate opening. It’s glazed in rich, royal blue with flecks of white across it, like a starry night sky.
It’s gorgeous.
I’m not sure how it happens, but I’m so busy admiring Mac’s work that I don’t hear him come up behind me with a new box. I don’t see him set the box down next to me. All I know is I’m holding a piece of art, and it’s so completely incredible that Mac made this with his bare hands.
I can see a groove where Mac’s fingers—or maybe some sort of tool—was held against the clay as it spun. I can feel the imprint of his hands on the piece, and there’s some kind of magic in that.
Kevin was talented. I appreciated his paintings, and I know he deserved the praise he got. But there’s something about holding this vase in my hands, touching the clay that Mac coaxed into this impossible, exaggerated shape, that makes my heart squeeze so tight. Maybe it’s just how easy Mac’s smiles are, and how much he seems to enjoy the fact that I’ve tried to do pottery with him. He wants me to enjoy it too. He’s not gatekeeping his art from me.
The difference between the two of them is stark. Being in Kevin’s studio always made me feel like I didn’t belong. Like I wasn’t welcome. Being here feels like there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Then I feel a warm hand on the small of my back, and I’m jolted back to reality. I jump, and that beautiful, fat-bellied vase with the night sky painted on it slips from my grasp. I don’t even have time to yell as it falls to the ground and smashes on the concrete floor. Shards and splinters and broken pieces of vase scatter halfway across the studio.
Gasping, I drop to my knees and scramble to pick it up, as if I’ll be able to put it back together. As if I didn’t just destroy something of Mac’s that was beautiful and perfect. As if my clumsiness didn’t just shatter something bigger than the vase, some intangible feeling I wasn’t able to figure out.
Tears fill my eyes when I grab a large shard of pottery, my breath staying stuck in my throat at the mess I just made. “I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It slipped, I—”
A shaky breath slips through my lips as I try my best to hold back the tears. Maybe this is why Kevin didn’t want me anywhere near his precious canvases.
“Hey.” A soft, deep word. “Come on.” Mac takes the shard from my hand and drops it to the floor with a careless flick of his wrist before taking my hand in his. He pulls me up and wraps me in his arms.
I melt into the strength and warmth and safety of him, trembling as I apologize to his shirt. “It was so beautiful, and I destroyed it,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Mac lets out a slow, deep chuckle. “It’s fine, Trina. Really. If you had any idea how many things I’ve broken, you wouldn’t be apologizing. It’s one of the realities of being a potter. Lots of things break. Lots of things come off the wheel or out of the kiln less than perfect. It’s just the way it is.”
I lean my head back to look at his face, because I want to know if he’s telling the truth. All I see in his eyes is warmth. No anger. No sadness. Nothing that would indicate he’s upset with me in any way.
When I let out a breath, Mac’s arms tighten around me. Then, he takes one of those beautiful, talented hands and wipes the tears from my face with his thumb. “Don’t cry.”
My fingers are curled into his shirt as if I’m clinging to him for dear life. His hand is warm, comforting, and I let out a shallow sigh. “I’m sorry, Mac. That was so clumsy of me.”
“Stop apologizing. I don’t care about the vase. It was lopsided and the neck was too thin for the vase to be useful for anything but collecting dust.” His eyes shift back to me and he gives me a casual shrug. “It was a practice piece for an exhibit Dorothy and Margaret coerced me into doing in January, so no one was going to see that vase anyway.” He smiles. “And even if it had been a paid piece, I still wouldn’t give a shit.”
He’s not looking at me like I’m silly, or frivolous, or some air-headed woman. He’s not judging my every move like my ex-husband used to do.
Mac is looking at me like no one else exists. His gaze darkens as it drops to my lips.
God, I love that look. I’m back here after less than twenty-four hours, leaving my kids with my mother so I can have some time alone with this insanely sexy man. That’s…wrong, right? I should be more responsible.
