“Noa was with us, Fitz. We helped carry her gifts in and put them on her kitchen table. She gave us hugs goodbye.”
His relieved exhale blew the heavy weight of jealousy off his chest.
Able raised his brows, beyond amused.
Elliott had embarrassed himself more than enough already; one more question couldn’t make things worse. Their whole friend group was going to know about this regardless of what he did next. “When she got here, she accidentally drove down to my place and she smelled like you. Why?”
“You’re a lost cause, bro.”
“Whatever, dude. Just fucking tell me. Is she your potential mate too?” His teeth slotted together as he avoided eye contact with his close friend.
“I was on call at the gatehouse when she pulled up. She realized we’d met on the phone and hopped out for a hug. She—”
“She got out of the car?! Why didn’t she get out of the car to hug me?”
Adam’s laughter scared some small creature into the river with a splash.
Elliott was being foolish, he knew it—absolutely asinine behavior. She’d probably have hugged him too, if he hadn’t acted like a fucking weirdo and backed away after smelling her. “Able...”
“Fitz.”
“Is she your potential mate?”
Adam’s lips wrinkled and wriggled before he calmed himself enough to reply, “No.”
“True mate?”
Able was a jovial guy, but thatmotherfucker,Elliott had never seen him laugh so much in his life. “Not true mates either. So, she’s yourpotentialmate, huh?”
Elliott offered a curt nod.
Adam sighed. “All right. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“The fuck do you mean, ‘nothing?’”
Rolling his neck, Elliott replied, “I’m not in the mood for a relationship. Don’t want to rock the boat.”
“I’d say the boat has flipped, Fitz. You just fucking attacked me.”
“That was my bear.”
Leveling him with a look that spoke volumes, Able said, “You’ve got to do something. Bang her. Do it with the express intent ofnotmating, and you’ll be fine. If you’re not going to pursue her, at least get her out of your system.”
“No way.”
“Maybe I’ll go for it then, if you're not into it. She’s a little thin for me, but tall enough to be sturdy...”
Elliott’s bearlunged, forcing a half shift. Rapidly descending canines cut into his lower lip as his nails elongated into claws. “Go, you fucker.”
Laughing still, Adam shifted back and lumbered away, his fuzzy butt swaying and his abandoned boots and socks littering the grass.
Elliott scooped up the discarded clothes to give back later and shuffled back to his property. Leaving the shoes on his front porch, he trudged to the studio.
The lights flickered as they powered up, and he hit play on the studio iPod—good for when his phone wasn’t around. The bag of clay crinkled beneath his shaking hands as he peeled it open and ripped off a hefty chunk. No creative spark drove Elliott to work; no end-goal sat in the forefront of his mind. He had no vision, only a lot of unchecked frustration and an evening to kill.
He wedged his clay for longer than necessary, until there were undeniably no bubbles left. When some of his feelings had been worked out—or suppressed—he snagged a dish of water, grabbed another, full of slip, and sat down at his wheel to work. Possibly on purpose, his first attempt at centering was a failure. So he peeled up the clay, re-wedged it, and chucked it down again, hard enough that it damn near flattened into a patty. The third time was a charm, and Elliott got down to business.
