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I barely remember that day. I was too frazzled making sure Plastech’s offices were set up properly.
“Adorable. You are very pretty, dear,” Gigi hums, but my mind stays lost in his story.
“My wonderful potters, I’ll be back shortly,” Lolita announces, causing me to snap together. “You have thirty minutes to explore your projects before I return.”
Jerry slaps his palm on his lap. “Oh, we better get back to it.”
“Nice chatting with you.” Matthew nods and returns to the clay in front of us. He casually dropped a memory that’s causing me to have heart palpitations, and now he’s sitting here entirely unbothered.
“Convincing story,” I croak.
“Because it’s true,” he says plainly.
“You, um, have an exceptional memory. But are you sure it wasn’t a blue dress? I could’ve sworn—”
“It was definitely green.” His tone is uncompromising. The backs of my arms pebble. Okay. It was green.Definitely green.
“Um, where were we?” I need a distraction from the jumble of emotions bouncing around in my chest.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
“Right. First, we’re going to pick up the clay.” I lift the clump from the wheel. Matthew cups the backs of my hands with his. The touch is electric. I’m still not used to feeling his skin on mine. “And slam it on the wheel to make sure it sticks.”
We drop the clay. A loud smack rings in my ears.
“Good job.” Matthew grins. The praise flares heat into the tips of my ears. “What’s next?”
I hit the foot pedal beneath the table. “We bring our wheel to life and use some of the water”—I nod to the pail beside our pottery wheel—“to begin sculpting.”
“Got it.” He dips his hand in the water, moistening each of his long, calloused fingers.
The whole intelligent artisan look has officially made it onto my list of hottest things I’ve ever seen. It’s as if he’s a craftsman in one of my romantasy stories, working natural material into a rare gem to save the day.
Is he the type of man who fixes things around the house? All on his own? What else could those veiny hands fix?
My thighs clench together in my seat.
I’ve never once been turned on in public, and now it’s happening daily. A side effect of my anxiety meds is that it takes a little while to get the spark going. But Matthew’s been lighting up that need inside me nonstop.
“What would you like to make?” he prompts, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Most of the other couples are making bowls like the one Lolita shattered. Gigi and Jerry are inhaling and moaning as their clay morphs into something phallic.
I only hope that I can have that kind of passion with someone one day. Unabashed desire and love for each other.
“Vases are nice. Maybe we can make something to hold the dahlias you grow at home,” I suggest.
“Noticed my dahlias?” A boyish grin dimples one of his cheeks. His hooded eyes crease, and the stubble on his chin gathers.
Matthew’s rough knuckles are caked in clay. I want to trace the lines in his fingers.
To pretend better, of course.
Instead, I dampen my own hands and step on the pedal again.
“They’re my favorite.”
“A vase sounds good. There’s a camera on the other side of this room; I’m going to move closer, okay?” I nod. Matthew scoots his chair to my right until he’s inches from me. He follows my lead as the soft clay glides smoothly around my fingers. “How’s that?” he whispers from beside me.
