Chapter 1

Riley

When I moved to college, I thought everything would change. I guess it has in a way, but it didn't light me up the way I hoped it would. I'm still a shy and reserved little girl, and it didn't spark any sort of unknown academic interest. It feels like I'm wasting my time here, but my mom was always so insistent that I get my education, so I'll stick this out.

My schedule is full of prerequisites, classes I'll have to take regardless of which degree path I choose. My advisor says that I'll feel less bored with school once I declare my major, but I'm honestly not optimistic. The one course I thought I'd enjoy – Psychology 101 – didn't even hold my attention. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm not meant for academia.

I've been to all of my classes except the ceramics lab I signed up for on a whim. I've never been a particularly artistic person, but I guess I was feeling creative at orientation when we made our schedules for the semester. I seriously doubt this will be where my passions lie, but I'm trying to keep an open mind.

When I walk into the studio, I'm surprised to see there are so few students in the class. I'm assuming that more people will filter in, but the class is set to start in five minutes. From what I gather, most people get to classes early on their first week. What do I know, though? This is my first semester, after all. I drop my bag next to one of the open wheels and sit down to wait for class to start.

With two minutes before the lesson is about to begin, a man that I can only assume is our instructor comes into the room. My breath catches in my throat when I see him. He's tall and broad, his body strong from working with clay. A shock of jet black hair sits atop his head, and when his brown eyes land on me, fireworks go off in my head.

This man is gorgeous. He must be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, but he has a boyish look about him. There's so much life hidden beneath his black T-shirt and dark wash jeans. For the first time since I got to university, I find myself undeniably interested in what's going on.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he says, his voice sounding more bored than I expected it to. It's almost like his heart isn't in it, which I find odd. All of my other professors seem so passionate about what they're teaching, even if it's an entry-level English class, but this man seems like he'd rather be doing anything else. "It looks like everyone's here, so I'm going to start this a minute early if that's alright with you."

None of the students respond, but a few pull out notebooks and pencils. I wonder if I should be doing the same. One look at the professor tells me it's probably not necessary. He doesn't have anything in front of him, not even a syllabus.

"I'm Professor Morris," he says as he settles onto a stool at the front of the room. "I've been a ceramicist for going on ten years now. I could bore you with my credentials, but I'm not sure that's necessary. I'm just going to give you a quick rundown of how the studio works, then I'll let you try throwing something on the wheel. I'm sure that's the reason you all signed up, anyway."

I try my best to pay attention to the content of what he's saying, but it's difficult. I'm so distracted by the gentle baritone of his voice and the way his fingers twitch when he talks. The lecture seems to be about rules, and every point he makes boils down to respecting one another's space and asking for help if we don't know how to use a machine or tool.

"Alright," he says, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to a cart I didn't notice when I walked in. He pulls back the plastic covering it to reveal little mounds of clay. "Come on up and grab a ball. All of these have already been wedged so you can get straight to throwing."

I end up at the back of the line, which is fine by me. It gives me more time to look at my handsome professor.

Maybe if I were more confident in myself and my looks, I'd try to flirt with him. I'm thin, lacking the curves most other women have, and I've always hated my mousey-brown hair. Now that I've chopped it down to chin length, I'm starting to like it more. Still, I don't think I'm a bombshell by any means, and I'm definitely not someone that this hunk of a man would risk his job over.

When I get to the front, he picks up the last mound of clay and places it gently in my hands. I might be imagining it, but I think he brushes our fingers together. I'm stuck in place, struck by the way he's looking at me. I don't know him well enough to read his expression, but it feels loaded, like there's something he wants to say.

"Let me know if you need any help getting started," Professor Morris says gently, sounding much more interested than he did when he was addressing the entire class.

"Thanks," I murmur, realizing I need to get back to my station.

I place the clay onto my wheel before sitting back down. Experimentally, I press the foot pedal, and the machine doesn't move. After surveying the side, I find a switch, and when I flip it, the pedal works.

It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of it, but once I do, I find myself greatly enjoying the process. There's something distinctly satisfying about making something with my hands. I'm not sure if I'm any good at it, but slowly, a decent-looking bowl starts to take shape. I'm so into the process that I don't notice Professor Morris roaming the room.

"This looks good," he says, pulling me out of my trance. I take my foot off the pedal and glance up at him. "Have you ever thrown before?"

"No, actually," I say, finding it hard to make eye contact. I'm so attracted to him that I'm overwhelmed by his mere presence. "This is my first time working with clay."

"You could have fooled me," he says, giving me a smile. It's like he's a completely different person from the man who started the class. I wonder what changed between then and now. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you create this semester. We have about twenty minutes left, so get your finishing touches on there. I'll talk everyone through taking their projects off of the wheel soon."

With that, he walks away, checking in with the student next to me. I stare at him for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to my bowl.

With the remaining time, I do my best to even out the sides. By the time Professor Morris grabs our attention, I'm pretty proud of what I've made. He walks us through the process of cutting our creations away from the wheel, and while a few other students struggle, I'm able to remove my bowl first try.

He instructs us to carve our initials into the bottom and place them on the drying rack. He stands next to the shelf, arranging them carefully. That bored look is back on his face, but when he gets to my work, a smile tugs at the edge of his mouth.

As I'm leaving the studio, I'm filled with excitement. I feel like I've found my purpose, and I can't wait to get back on the wheel. Sure, it might have something to do with my professor, but I also think I have a genuine love for the art.