Page 40 of Love.V2
The tool slipped as I jerked, ruining the flowing line of the peacock feather I was freehanding. “What? How…how did you…?” I stammered, pulling my hands away from my work to stare at her.
She rested her hand on her cheek, unconcerned about the clay smudging her skin. “He buys you so much coffee. And treats. And sometimes when he looks at you, it’s like he’s trying to set you on fire with his eyes. Not like in a laser-y way, but like in a sexy way.”
“Do you think anyone else has noticed?” Jinx didn’t have a policy against interoffice dating, but Victoria would have a field day if it came out that Dylan and I were together.
“No one else does, trust me. They’re not paying attention. So, it is him? You were withDylanfor twelve years?”
“Yes.” I resigned myself to this conversation. If she could be candid with me, I would be with her, too. Besides, it might be nice to get a neutral third-party opinion. Vanna had exploded when I told her I was seeing him again, and I was still conflicted about it. Ecstatic that he was here and attentive and wanted to try again, but terrified we’d end up the same way we were before.
“And you two never got engaged or anything?”
“We talked about it, but the timing was never right.” The words came out smoothly, with the practiced skill of a line repeated countless times.
“Hmm.” I didn’t look up from my mug, but I got the feeling Meery was narrowing her eyes, scowling. Maybe she was more perceptive than I’d given her credit for, too. I needed to re-think how I stereotyped people. “You left Nashville, and now he’s here. He followed you, didn’t he?” she asked with the same enthusiasm someone else might say,“He gave you a million dollars, didn’t he?”
I felt my mouth curve into a smile before I could stop it.“He did.”
“And how do you feel about that? It’s not a stalking situation, is it? Because I will fuck him up.”
My smile advanced into a full-out laugh. Even though Meery was five-foot-nothing, I had no doubt she’d throw down if she thought she needed to. “No, not like that. I feel…good about it. We’re working on some things, and we haven’t really told anyone yet, so could you keep it quiet?”
“Obviously, I’m the literal embodiment of low-key.” She grinned, and then the smile slid off her face. She wrapped her hand around my wrist again. “You deserve to take a chance on yourself, too, Tess. I hope it works out, if this is something you want.”
“I think it might be,” I croaked around the lump in my throat. Maybe she hadn’t been my first choice, but something told me inviting Meery to this pottery class was one of the best decisions I’d made all year.
Chapter 11
Tess
Dylan appropriately ooh-ed and ahh-ed when I presented him with my mug. It may have seemed silly, but the second the instructor had placed it on the rack to go into the kiln, I’d desperately wanted it to fire correctly. I needed tangible, physical proof that I had done something difficult. I could change, shift, like the glaze on a mug.
“Do I get to keep it?” Dylan asked, tracing the lines of the feathers where they criss-crossed the surface of the ceramic.
“It’s a girly mug,” I warned him, as if he couldn’t see the neon peacock feathers for himself. “I mostly blame Meery for that. She’s glaze-happy.”
I would have been more restrained with the color palette, but I had to admit, the Lisa Frank/paint rave thing it had going on was fun. Plus, it made me think about giggling with Meery and talking about her first meeting with the social team. The mug wasn’t perfect, but I was proud of it.
“It reminds me of your watercolors,” Dylan murmured, tracing over the splotched handle, an echo of longing in his voice.
“Then you should keep it.” Our eyes met across the table. “I signed up for a studio class membership, so there will be plenty more wherethat came from. Besides, it takes a man truly secure in his masculinity to rock a pink and purple peacock mug.”
There was a part of me that wanted to keep it. But an equally powerful part remembered a time when all my mugs had lived in a cabinet beside his. Maybe I’d see it again.
“Thank you.” His face lit up, like I’d given him a precious gift. He carefully tucked it back into the tissue paper I’d wrapped it in when I’d picked it up earlier today.
“What about you? How did you do on your assignment this week?”
“Very well, actually.”
“Do tell.” We’d been texting sporadically, and by a weird unspoken agreement, had avoided discussing almost anything about our list.
I got the feeling Dylan didn’t want to invade my phone too quickly, and most of our conversations were succinct and to the point. But yesterday, he’d texted to let me know the coffee shop was out of lavender syrup, which led to an intense Q&A about my coffee preferences, if they’d changed, my stance on non-dairy milks, and if I thought American coffee culture was contributing to overconsumption and pollution.
I’d spent the whole morning glancing at my phone, giddy and waiting for his responses, my stomach a riot of butterflies.
We were just talking about coffee, but his questions had a way of making me curious about him, too. What washisstance on alternative milks and, like me, did he not care what anyone else drank, as long as I had good ‘ole cow’s milk in my cup? Hadhispreferences changed? Not just with coffee, but with anything? Did he still hate cottage cheese, or now that everyone was hyperfixating on protein, had he come around?
I wanted to know it all and more and couldn’t be happier for the opportunity to ask.
