“I did,” he says. “I’ve made what feels like a million more, but these are the ones that hold special meanings or remind me of a time I needed pottery as an escape.”
A gorgeous emerald-green vase adorned with pink and teal butterflies catches my eye. “What about this one?” I ask, my hands shaking as I pick it up.
“I made it the night Mum found out she was in remission. That day had been so exhausting in ways I wasn’t prepared for, even after receiving the good news. I just needed to work on something as delicate as the second chance we’d been given, and to release some of that pent-up emotion.”
My chest warms, and I glance up to tell him how beautiful the sentiment is, but the words die on my tongue as the vase slips from my fingers.
It crashes to the ground, and I lunge after it, guilt blooming beneath my ribs like a bruise. The jagged edges lie motionless on the floor beneath me, but it feels like they’re slicing me open all the same.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” I murmur, my hands trembling as I try to pick up the pieces. My numb fingertips make it difficult, and hot tears burn at the back of my throat.
I feel his warmth radiate beside me as he crouches down, his hands covering mine. “Adhira, look at me,” he says, his tone firm and commanding in a way I’ve never heard it before. My heart all but stops.
I meet his gaze through a curtain of tears, my lip quivering. He reaches out, cupping my cheeks in his massive palms,brushing his thumbs beneath my eyes to wipe away the tears I hadn’t realised I let fall. “You’ve done nothing wrong, okay?”
I shake my head. “I should’ve been more careful. The neuropathy hasn’t fully resolved since the last round of chemo, and I should?—”
“Stop.” He presses his forehead to mine, my cheeks still cradled by warm palms. “It served its purpose already, Adhira. Creating that piece gave me the outlet I needed at the time, but my mum is still in remission. So, stop worrying and let me clean this up.”
He shifts away, collecting the broken pieces and depositing them inside a larger vase before setting it back on the shelf. I stand on wobbly limbs, confounded by his ability to always set my mind and heart at ease.
“You know, I’d like to show you something,” he says. Goose bumps erupt at the sensation of his arm against mine as he passes me, as though he hadn’t just had his hands all over me.
“We have to finish setting up the matt—” The words get caught in my throat as I take him in, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest as he gives me a cocky smirk, flicking his gaze down to the freshly made bed at his feet. “Oh.”
“Mm-hm. I got a lot done while you were snooping,” he teases, offering me his hand. “Come on, follow me. I think we could both use a distraction.”
I do as he says, slipping my trainers on as he does the same, holding the door open for me.
“Is what I’m wearing okay for what you have planned?”
He fixes me with an assessing gaze as his eyes roam over my outfit, and I fight the urge to bristle. “That’ll do,” he murmurs, turning and walking off for me to follow.
We make our way downstairs, through the lobby and into the chilly, humid weather. I wrap my arms around my torso, scowling at Elijah as he chuckles at my expense.
“Come on, sweetheart. We’re almost there.”
A few doors down, he opens a glass door, and a chime overhead announces our arrival. I step inside the quiet studio—walls covered in art, shelves of pre-made ceramics ready to be painted, and private rooms for classes surround me.
A short woman with frizzy blonde hair and thick-framed glasses emerges from the back room, her smile growing wide with recognition as her bright eyes land on Elijah. “Visitin’ so late!” she exclaims, unbothered as she throws her arms wide, wrapping him in a hug that he melts into.
If I needed the confirmation that this man is starved for affection andthrivesonphysical touch, this would be it.
“Sorry, Tina. I wanted to show my friend how to throw a pot, if you’re okay with that,” he explains, pulling back just enough to see her face.
She squeezes his forearms, turning her attention to me. Her smile grows wider as she assesses me. “Yer friend, you say?” she asks, waggling her brows.
He clears his throat, his cheeks flaming red, and my lips twitch. “Mm-hm,” he hums.
“And does yer friend have a name?” she asks, just as a man the size of a Viking, with a thick black beard and bald head, exits the same room she came from.
“Tina, ye’ out here causin’ trouble?” he asks with a deep-bellied chuckle.
“Rodney,” Elijah says, dipping his chin. “Adhira, this is Rodney and Tina, the owners of the Broken Teapot. Any chance we could use one of your classrooms?”
Rodney tosses a set of keys through the air, grinning as Elijah lurches forward, catching them with the speed and agility rugbyhas taught him. “We’re settin’ out fer dinner with the kids. Lock up and drop the keys off in the mornin’,” he says, leading his wife out the back as Elijah thanks them profusely.
“I didn’t realise you were so close with the owners,” I say.
