Page 55 of The Casanova Complex

Yeah, I do, and why can’t you believe that I could be part of that one percent, however low the odds are, Pops?

Why is it so hard to believe in me?

I want to say all of it, but I don’t. I never do. Not anymore.

It’s not worth arguing with him anymore or trying to get him to see what I’ve worked my entire life for if he hasn’t already. He never will.

When I don’t respond, he adds, “Finance is safe, kid. People will always need someone to handle their money, and you’ve got a job waiting for you. All you have to do is take it.”

I’m trying to think of what to say, what I could possibly fucking say that would get him to understand, but it’s the same song and dance.

Every single time.

Thankfully, I don’t have to because the front door to the pottery studio opens, and people begin to spill out, signaling that the class is over and it’s time for me to go in for my study date with Merritt.

Saved by… the wheel.

Isn’t that what they use in pottery?

“I’ve got to run, Pops. I’m late for a study session. Call you later.”

I tap End on the screen before he can respond and blow out a shaky, uneven breath that I’d been holding in my lungs and causing them to burn.

This is why I don’t answer.

I take a few more deep pulls of air to try and get my head under control before climbing out of my truck and opening the door to the studio.

The inside is quiet and bigger than it looks from the outside. As the front door slowly shuts behind me, I glance around the room at the shelves lining the wall filled with different-sized mugs and oddly shaped vases made of gray clay. Some seem to be still wet, like they were just placed there from tonight’s class. While some of the pieces are still out on tables, others are covered with pieces of plastic, and it makes me wonder why.

The air around me smells like… damp grass and something chalky. Not in a bad way, just different, and I find myself intrigued.

I don’t know the first thing about pottery, but walking in here, I’m curious now.

Especially since this is Merritt’s thing.

I wanna know all about Merritt’s “things.”

In the center of the room, there are two rows of pottery wheels with small wooden stools in front and a couple of short shelves filled with cups and vases that have paintbrushes sticking out of them alongside bowls of sponges, wire cutters, and other shit I can’t even begin to guess what they are.

The sound of a heavy door shutting echoes through the empty studio, and when my gaze travels toward the back of the building, I see Merritt walking out.

Fuck me. My heart kicks wildly in my chest, and I swallow as my eyes trace her.

How does she keep getting more beautiful every time I see her?

She’s got her hair up tonight, her long, dark locks gathered into an effortlessly messy bun at the top of her head, and a few wispy pieces have escaped and frame her face.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen her with her hair up, I realize.

Which probably means I’ve been paying far too much attention to her, but yeah, I don’t give a fuck.

The stained apron that’s tied around her neck is covered in streaks of dried clay. My mouth twitches when I see the patch sewn into the front that says “FUCK AI.”

Only when she’s halfway to me does she lift her dark, amber eyes and realize that I’m here. Surprise flits across her face.

“Bennett.”

The corner of my lip turns up. “Mer Bear.”