“Nothing,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “I really wish I knew what was going on in that head of yours sometimes. You know that?”
I forced my focus back to the coasters and picked up my blue resin mixture, but my heart was pattering. “Why?” I asked like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world for him to want to know my thoughts. I was just glad he didn’t.
He turned around and leaned his back against the table, staring at me, like he was waiting to be entertained, his art project forgotten. “Why?”
“You can’t possibly bethatinterested.”
“Really?” He crossed his arms. “Do enlighten me.”
I refused to meet his gaze, pouring gold-flecked navy resin into the first coaster mold. “If you were that curious, you wouldn’t have stopped our daily question-for-a-question sessions, would you?”
There was a pause, then he turned back to the table. “I had reasons for that.”
I shot a sidelong glance at him. Grant and his cryptic responses were enough to drive a person insane.
He picked up a popsicle stick and started swirling the resin in the tray mold. He’d gone with a clear resin for most of it and a cloudy one with a sheen for the rest. He sprinkled in gold flakes unevenly, then swirled them with the stick.
There was no rhyme or reason to the motions, but it was mesmerizing and, frankly, beautiful. It made me want to get back to his coasters.
I swirled and placed mix-ins to the gentle beat of the music, forcing myself to ignore the overwhelming desire for order and centeredness. I tried to let my hands disconnect from that side of my brain and do whateverfeltright. It was strange. It was scary.
And it was kind of amazing.
I got so in the zone that it wasn’t until I’d finished that I realized Grant was watching me.
I blinked. “Are you done?”
He nodded. “Five minutes ago.”
“Oh.” Had he been watching me that long? I wiped my hands on my apron. “I’m done too.”
“Can I see?” He nodded at the coasters.
I shot him a funny look. “Like you haven’t been watching the whole process.”
He stepped up to the table. “If the end result is anywhere as good as the process, I’m gonna love them.” He tilted his head as he looked at them, a sudden glimmer of amusement lighting his eyes. He pointed at the small gold compass I’d placed inside one of the coasters. “Is that your subtle way of pointing me home?”
“No, but now that you say that…”
“What made you choose it, then?” He watched me with interest.
I shrugged. “It was that or the googly eyes.”
“Come on,” he prodded. “There had to be some reason.”
“You’ve got a powerful internal compass.” It was an unquestionable compliment, and I felt the need to temper it. “But instead of pointing north, it points toward aggressive questioning.”
His lip lifted at the edge, but the way he looked at me was one part amusement, three parts something that made my heart race and buck like a wild mustang.
“My turn,” I said, moving toward the tray.
Grant shoved his hands in his pockets in a relaxed posture, regarding his work with satisfaction.
My breath hitched softly. What I’d seen before had already been beautiful, but he’d added some touches since then. Two slim, brushed gold handles were fixed onto the short ends of the tray—sleek, clean lines that reminded me of the handles on my desk drawers at Matchify.
But it was the tray itself that held my attention. Amid the gold-flecked resin and shimmery swirls were a few streaks of amber, vibrant and random. I couldn’t stop looking at them.
