The back wall of the shop held a variety of products we could choose as molds or bases—everything we’d seen on the art wall and then some. There were necklaces, plates, pieces of knotty wood, and a dozen other options, each with an example of a finished piece above. On the table to the right of that were the mix-ins: dried flowers, seashells, pine fronds, charms, beads, book pages, spices, and even googly eyes.
“So, that’s us,” Misha said, looking over her shop with pride. “Your sweet boyfriend”—she beamed at Grant—“reserved the entire shop, so you’ll have it all to yourselves.”
I opened my mouth to correct her assumption, but she barreled on.
“I’m just a ring away”—she reached for a bell on the nearest table and gave it a musical wiggle—“if you need any help, but I promise not to peek in unless I’m summoned.” She winked at us like we had plans to do things far more intimate than make resin art in her shop, tall street-facing windows notwithstanding. “The most important thing is to enjoy the process. If you do that, the final product will bring you joy.” She handed us both an apron, gave her smile an extra little oomph, then turned and left.
Grant looped the head of the apron around his neck and tied it in the back, his eyes on me, sparkling with amusement, like he knew it killed me not to set Misha straight about our relationship.
I ignored him and put on my own apron, feeling suddenly very domestic, like I was about to put a casserole in the oven. Was it obvious I rarely cooked or baked? My hair snagged on the neck of the apron, and I ran a hand under it to flip it free.
I winced.
If I’d been imagining entrancing Grant with a hair-commercial-worthy toss of my red hair, I’d been sadly mistaken. A chunk seemed to have caught in the adjustable metal ring. I fiddled with it, but it had no intention of cooperating. Like a toddler with a marker, my hair needed to be kept contained or it tried to sabotage me.
“Lemme help,” Grant said, coming over.
“I’ve got it,” I said, tugging it in a different direction and shifting away from him.
“Do you, though?” he asked with amusement as he came up behind me.
“Eventually,” I argued, but I dropped my arms because my shoulders were burning.
Grant gently moved aside the majority of my hair, his fingers grazing my neck and leaving behind a prickle of contact in their wake, like someone had brushed a livewire across my skin.
I shut my eyes and braced myself for the inevitable tugs and pinches as he worked the hair free, but they never came. Gentleness was a foreign concept to Grant when it came to communication, but his hands…my gosh.
His fingertips skipped and grazed my skin with nary a tug on my hair.
“No wonder you keep your hair up,” he said.
I suppressed the urge to look back over my shoulder. “Yeah. It doesn’t play nicely.”
“Maybe not, but it looks amazing.”
I kept my eyes squarely on the big, flowery letterKon the shelf ahead of me.Kforknock it right off, Vivian.
Music came on over the speakers, the volume fluctuating until Misha settled on something present but not ear-shattering. It was upbeat, and it helped defray the tension.
“There.” Grant softly arranged my hair, and I clenched my eyes shut like my sight rather than my entire nervous system was the problem. “Shall we pick our poison?”
I turned to face him, and he jerked his head toward the table of molds.
We browsed them together, and I tried to envision what I might want to make—or what I was least likely to screw up. I was built for x- and y-axes, tables, and spreadsheets. Everything had its proper and precise place in my world. The messiness and free-flowing chaos of art wasn’t in my toolbox.
“Oh,” Grant said. “One thing I forgot to mention.”
I shot him a wary glance. “What’s that?”
“You’ll be making something for me, and I’ll be making something for you.”
My finger stopped tracing the gold of a necklace pendant. “What?”
“I’ll choose my object, but you’ll have full creative control. And vice versa.”
I stared at him. “So…you want to spend your money to have me make something you probably won’t like instead of making something youknowyou’ll like?”
“I’ll like whatever you make me, Vivian.”
