“No the fuck there wasn’t.” Remington snorts as he drops onto the stool on the other side of the wheel. “Just like last time, scoot close, elbows on your knees.”
I don’t move.
Remington arches a brow. “I promise, the wheel don’t bite, Gentry.”
There he goes saying my first name again.Why does it stick out so much in my mind?
I huff and inch closer, the wood scraping against the tile. “I don’t even like pottery.”
Fuck,I’m annoying even myself with my stubbornness. Ichoseto come here, so why am I already being difficult about it?
“How do you know you don’t like it if you won’t give it an earnest effort?”
I clear my throat, but say nothing.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Remington chuckles, then stands and walks behind me. I catch a whiff of him—soap and something else entirely that, for some reason, makes my mouth water. His hands come to my elbows, adjusting them and taking me by surprise. “You’re tense,” he says.
“No, I’m not,” I lie once again. “I’m fine.”
“Then why are you holding your breath?”
My face heats as I let go of the air trapped in my lungs, annoyed that he noticed something like that.
“Just relax.” His voice is low, his mouth a hell of a lot closer to my ear than it should be. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you remember how to center the clay?”
Clenching my teeth, I pinch my lips together and nod.
“Okay, good. Let’s get started.” Remington slides his hands from my elbows down to mine, guiding them.Why is he doing that?“Remember, slow and controlled. Let the wheel do the spinning.”
I can’t breathe. It’s like we’re at the top of a mountain and the air is too thin. The clay is wobbly, clunky, and my pulse kicks up speed. “Goddamnit,” I curse under my breath, frustration bubbling inside of me.
“Relax. Don’t fight the clay,” Remington murmurs, his breath hot as it fans my neck. His hands increase pressure on mine, and after a minute, the clay finally stops wobbling. I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Good. See? You just needed a little help.”
I huff. “I would’ve figured it out on my own.”
Remington releases my hands and takes his seat across from me again. He shrugs and smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “Maybe eventually.”
The clay rises, and with every spin of the wheel, I feel more in control than when I started. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. Or at least it will be once I’m finished.
“How did you get into this anyway?” I ask after a couple of minutes. My eyes stay trained on the clay, but my body is hyperaware of his gaze on me.
“My mom used to go to classes when I was younger,” he explains. “She’d only go, like, once a month, but her face would light up every time she talked to me about it. After my first year on the force, I needed somethin’ that didn’t involve adrenaline or sirens, and I don’t know… I decided to give it a shot. Turns out, it was exactly what I needed to unwind and relax. And the fact that I’m really fuckin’ good at it is a big plus.”
I nod, quiet for a moment as my hands work. The loud, chaotic buzz that was running through my veins before I walked in here tonight is now gone, replaced with a calming warmth. “How long have you been an instructor?”
“Only a couple of years.” He breathes out a small chuckle, and when I lift my gaze, he’s got a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s remembering a fond memory. “When I first started comin’ here, I used to dream about having my own studio. A small place on Main Street, or maybe even a studio I build behind my house. Somethin’ that’s my own.”
For as long as I’ve known Remington, he’s always wanted to be a firefighter. He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and make him proud. Hearing him open up about a dream that has nothing to do with firefighting is interesting. Intriguing. And I get the feeling it’s not a dream he’s shared with many people, if any.
“You said you used to,” I point out. “Is that not somethin’ you want now?”
“I don’t know.” Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he stares down at the clay moving in my hands like he can’t look me in the eye. “It just doesn’t seem very feasible, you know?”
My brows dip. “How so?”
“I’m a firefighter. That’s my career; it’s how I pay my bills and put food on my table. It’s really all I’ve ever known. And I can’t imagine a small-town pottery studio makes all that much money. Sure, this place probably does pretty well for itself, but this is a bigger building that offers more than just pottery lessons.”
“Is this somethin’ you’ve looked into?” I ask, confused about where all my curiosity is coming from.
