Chapter 1 – Michelle
Clay slips through my fingers like cool silk as I center it on the wheel, the familiar pressure against my palms grounding me in the present moment. The rhythmic hum of the pottery wheel fills my studio as I press my thumbs into the center of the mound, creating the first depression that will eventually become a mug.
Morning light filters through the frosted windows of my converted garage studio, catching dust motes and clay particles that dance in the air. The space smells of earth and minerals, that distinctive clay scent that clings to my clothes, my hair, probably my soul at this point.
I've been at this since five a.m., determined to finish another batch for the kiln before I need to run errands.
I lift my hands, watching the cylinder form rise between my fingers, wet and perfect. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I blow it away, not daring to touch it with my clay-covered hands.
After trimming the excess clay from the base, I set the mug aside on my drying shelf, where dozens of other pieces in various stages of completion wait their turn.
The Winter Artisan Market is my biggest event of the year, and this year I need it to be exceptional. My dream of expanding the studio depends on it. My brother thinks I should just apply for a small business loan, but I want to do this on my own terms. My way.
I wipe my hands on my apron and step back to survey my kingdom: shelves of bisque-fired pieces awaiting glazing, my electric kiln glowing faintly in the corner, string lights draped across exposed beams casting a warm glow over everything.
My industrial kiln hums steadily, currently firing a batch of mugs and small bowls that should be ready by tomorrow. I check the temperature gauge—right on schedule.
I've named the kiln Bertha, partly because she's big and temperamental, but mostly because talking to her makes me feel less alone during the long hours of creating.
"Looking good, Bertha," I say, patting her metal exterior gently. "Keep up the good work."
I glance at my watch and realize I need to head into town if I want to pick up the special glazes I ordered before noon. I quickly wash my hands, scrubbing under my fingernails to remove the stubborn clay, and change out of my clay-splattered smock. A quick check in the small mirror by the door reveals a smudge of blue glaze on my cheek. I rub it away, pull my hair out of my face, and grab my coat.
The winter air hits me like a wake-up call as I lock the studio door behind me. My breath forms clouds in front of my face as I walk the short distance from my cottage to Main Street.
Whitetail Falls in December is straight out of a Hallmark movie—twinkling white lights wrapped around every lamppost, pine garlands draped across storefronts, and the massive town Christmas tree standing proud in the square. The scent of pine and woodsmoke hangs in the air, mingling with the occasional waft of cinnamon from the coffee shop.
The temperature has dropped since yesterday, and my boots crunch satisfyingly through a thin layer of fresh snow. As I approach the craft store, I decide to make a quick detour for coffee. The glazes can wait five more minutes, and my hands are already missing the warmth of my studio.
The bell above The Enchanted Bean's door jingles merrily as I enter. Heat and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans envelop me, along with the sound of laughter. Logan and Bradley, both firefighters from my brother's station, are at the counter, engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Ellie, the barista.
"—clearly the best Christmas movie of all time," Logan is saying as I approach.
"Die Hard is not a Christmas movie," Ellie responds, rolling her eyes as she steams milk. "It's an action movie that happens to take place at Christmas."
"Michelle!" Bradley notices me first, his face lighting up. "Perfect timing. Settle this for us."
I unwrap my scarf, smiling at their familiar banter. "I just came in for coffee, not to referee the annual Die Hard debate."
"See?" Ellie points her spoon at me. "Michelle knows it's an annual debate because it's not settled. Because it's not a Christmas movie."
Logan throws his hands up. "Hawkins family betrayal. Your brother agrees with me."
"Paul would agree with anyone who keeps him supplied with those peanut butter cookies you bake," I point out, stepping up to the counter. "Can I get a—"
"Vanilla latte, extra hot, with almond milk," Ellie finishes for me, already reaching for a cup.
The door jingles again, sending a brief chill through the warm café. I glance over my shoulder and my breath catches slightly in my throat.
Austin Rivers stands in the doorway, shaking snow from his dark hair. His WFFD sweatshirt is dusty from what I assume was morning training, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His gaze sweeps the room and lands on me, and a side smirk forms on his lips.
There's something about him that draws attention without demanding it, an easy confidence in the way he moves. I've overheard Logan teasing Paul about how Austin's become "Whitetail Falls' most eligible bachelor" since joining the department. It's not hard to see why, though I've never really let myself notice before.
"Hey," he says, moving to stand beside me at the counter.
"Morning," I respond, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look. "Early drill today?"
Austin nods, running a hand through his hair. "Chief had us running hose drills in the snow. Said we needed to practice in 'real conditions.'" He mimics my brother's serious tone so perfectly that I laugh.
