“Nothing. Look at this!” Presenting her painted test platter like a diploma, Elliott waited for her to approach.
Fern accepted it, half expecting him to shake her hand, and studied her work. It wasn’t bad. The vibrant florals were perfectly imperfect, just as she’d imagined. She could have gone bolder with her hibiscus pistils. It was difficult with underglaze, since she had to paint the lightest colors first and darker on top. If only she’d had a freaking class on this stuff, even just once.
“You’re a great artist. Youdidthat with natural talent, sugar.” Elliott traced the raised lines of glassy underglaze, tapping a fingertip against a black-eyed Susan.
It was like he’d overheard her self-critical thoughts or her conversation with her mother. She knew bears had good hearing, but she didn’t think it wasthatgood. He just knew what to say.
Was he right, or was he just being nice because of their potential bond?
Elliott set up across the table, arranging a spread of cut-out clay petals to press into shape, score, and stick together. It wasn’t easy to stop herself from focusing on his arms or his hands, but she managed in spurts, painting her way through a small batch of purplish phlox.
“Fuck,” he cursed quietly, a few minutes in.
“Hmm?”
“Forgot to tie up my hair.” He held up his clay-coated fingers.
“I’ve got you.” Laying down her brush, she circled the table.
He held his hand aloft, and she pulled the stretched-out hair tie from his wrist, avoiding as much clay as possible.
Unable to stop herself, she combed her fingers through his tresses, once, twice, again. Elliott sighed softly, leaving tan fingerprints on the table as he pushed back, his head coming to rest on her tits.
Her lips dropped to the top of his head, then she worried she went too far and pushed him forward to take care of his bun.
“When do you want this haircut?” Fern asked, gathering and twistinghis strands.
“We have time.”
“Tonight?” She secured his elastic and circled the table, retaking her seat.
Elliott’s sandals slapped the concrete floor as he tapped a shallow rhythm. “Or Saturday, Sunday, Monday...”
“Nervous? I won’t cut any more than you want.”
With his thumb working its way up a clay petal, he drawled, “Not at all, but I don’t plan to let you out of my sight until you head up to work on Tuesday.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “We have time.”
Well, fuck. Her pulse settled into place between her thighs, and she squirmed on her stool. Theyweren’tjust friends. They. Were. Not. But she needed to double check. “Don’t you want any time alone? I’ve noticed you’re kind of a hermit.”
“No. I’ve learned that the time you’re at work is plenty.”
She didn’t knowwhatto say to that, but a smile pulled at her lips, and she studied the checklist Elliott made for her, lying head to toe beside his. Each list detailed counts and types of crafts to produce for Ren’s wedding. They worked well together, that much was clear.
Another hour, maybe two, passed in a mix of shared glances, quiet smiles, chatter, and companionable silence. She’d made it through ten phlox, he completed two more flower lids for the diffusers, then they cleaned up to go eat.
“I didn’t even tell you about dinner,” Elliott said roughly as he closed up the studio for the night.
“What about it?” she asked, stepping into the glowy sunlight cascading across his gravel drive.
“I’m happy to cook something else—anything you want—but I made a sundried tomato pesto pasta salad earlier, if you’re into that.”
Pausing, she turned to face him, blinking through wide eyes. “That’s a mouthful. Sounds great.”
“I’m partial to it. There’s fresh bread too.”
Of course there was. This man was thewholepackage: an artist with a thriving career, a home studio, and an adorable rustic cottage. He ate pussybetter than she’deverexperienced, and he loved to cook? She exhaled a wistful sigh as the breeze kicked up a small dust devil of cut grass. Twirling with it, she spun beneath the sunset and basked in the potential relationship she had brewing with Elliott.
“I could live here forever,” she murmured.
