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“So, um…” My throat constricts. I need to focus on the instructions. “Very good. We just have to press our fingers into the center to shape our vase.”
The smell of vetiver and the graze of his knee cause a taut feeling to deepen in my stomach. He nods and presses into the center, while I hold the exterior of the clay. The moment his pointer and middle finger apply the slightest pressure, my core floods.
If there wasn’t a kiln on site, I’m certain I’d be able to use the heat between my legs to harden our vase.
His precise movements hypnotize me. Delicate but deliberate strokes. Clay catches in the hair along his arm. My insides are vibrating.
How would it feel for those same strong fingers to glide—
“This is fun.” Matthew interrupts my thoughts.
“Mhm.”
“Why don’t you give this part a try?” He takes one of my hands and guides my fingers into the hollow center of our vase.
Up and down. In and out.
Plutonium must be coating my cheeks because the radioactive heat coming off my face is deadly.
“You’re a natural,” I croak.
Really?
A natural?
What am I trying to imply? That he’s running rampant, fingering clay vases left and right?
I’m a drooling mess.
“Are you kidding me? You’re absolutely incredible at this.” Matthew squeezes my hand. A current of static jolts up my arm, and I yank back, folding a portion of the vase. It’s not ruined, but one side is oddly shaped.
Oh no.
“I’m so sorry.” I rush for the water, drenching my hands and attempting to fix the damage.
Matthew drops his forearm onto my thigh, shattering my frantic concentration.
“You don’t have to keep doing that.” His large palm covers my hand. The gesture is calming. All the radioactive sensations are quickly subdued. “You don’t have to keep apologizing for simply being. It’s just a vase, darling. We can make another one.”
The statement takes me aback. So does the fact that he just called me darling.Did anyone else hear that?
The creases around Matthew’s eyes appear. It’s as if he’s realizing that he said it too. He’s too ridiculously handsome to go around giving people nicknames. I want to rub my hand over his smooth stubble. To thank him for his patience.
I open my mouth to speak, but in the corner of my eye, a spark catches my attention. Reluctantly, I turn away from Matthew’s blue gaze—and then my heart collapses into my stomach.
Near the southern windows, a bunch of newspapers are smoking beside an electric outlet.
“Fire!” I yell, shooting out of my seat. The sculpting and whispering freeze over as my classmates turn toward me.
Okay. Relax, Molly. Remember your training.
“Everyone, please remain calm. I’m a fire warden.” I hold my hands up and begin motioning to the patio door. “Slowly make your way toward the sliding door on the opposite side of the room.”
People scurry, some running toward the exit, some collapsing the chairs in their way.
Didn’t I say slowly?
The glass door to the patio slides open as the small fire grows, sending up wisps of smoke.
