Chapter 2

Nick

Instructing has always felt like a means to an end for me. When I first took the job, it was a way for me to make a steady paycheck while I was doing something I loved – a rarity for most artists. I was sure that somewhere along the way, I'd be able to find time for my own projects.

Instead, I spend all my energy at work. Everyone told me that the first year of teaching was the most difficult and time-consuming, but every year since has been almost the same.

I've made getting into my home studio a priority, but it's hard to find the inspiration to make anything. Teaching drains me in ways I didn't know I could be drained. It's like engaging in what was once a therapeutic activity has become a chore. Every day has become more tedious than the last, but something changed during the last lesson I led.

I think it has everything to do with Riley.

Her body is a work of art, lean and gorgeous with soft, womanly angles. The way her short brown hair frames her face makes her look like a sculpture. And, despite claiming she's never worked with clay before, she's a natural. I desperately want to get to know her better. She's given me the inspiration I need to become the best ceramics instructor at this university.

For the first time since I started teaching, I find myself actually looking forward to class. For Riley's next class, I show up early, before most of the students. The other professors in the department give me strange looks, but no one says anything. Maybe they're all glad to see that I'm finally taking this job seriously.

When my students start to filter in, Riley is among the first to arrive. We lock eyes as she sits at the same wheel she chose a few days ago, and I feel a thrill run down my spine. A student has never had this effect on me before. I know it's wrong and that I could lose my job if I pursued her – but then again, it's not like I particularly like this position.

Eventually, everyone arrives and I start my lesson. Since we're still waiting for their first experimental projects to dry, I talk them through all of the steps their pieces are going to go through. Truthfully, it's nothing more than a boring lecture, but Riley seems to hold onto every word.

I wrap up the talk quickly, not wanting to lose the attention of my other students. I give them their first actual assignment – designing their own piece to throw. I don't tell them that this is only meant to be practice and that they'll only be graded on participation. They'll find that out after they finish and I assign them their final project.

"Okay, it looks like we still have some time left together," I say, glancing at my watch when I've talked myself out. "Get your sketchbooks out and start brainstorming ideas. I'll come around to give critiques and pointers. We'll do final approvals at the end of next week."

I stand back and watch as they dig into their bags and get started on designs. After a few minutes, one of them raises her hand, and I walk over to give her advice. By the time I've finished coaching her through her questions, most of the students have basic sketches done, so I decide to walk around, saving Riley for last.

When I stop beside her, she looks away from her work and smiles up at me. I get distracted by how beautiful she is. Her teeth are perfect, white and straight. Her vibrance rivals that of the sun. I have to remind myself that I'm teaching right now and that this visit has a purpose.

"How are things coming along?" I ask, reluctantly pulling my eyes away from her face to see what she's come up with on the page so far.

"Good, I think," she murmurs, tilting her page toward me. I take in the sketch, a simple vase with handles on each side. "I'm not really an artist, so I know this probably isn't very pretty."

"No, it's perfect," I assure her. "This is a good start. You'll need to add a little more detail, but it looks like you totally got the assignment."

"Really?" she asks, sounding surprised at the praise.

"Yes, really," I say, reaching down to trace my fingers over the handles. "These cover the attachment requirement."

"How would I go about getting more detail, then?" she says. "I guess I'm kind of drawing a blank here."

"Well, if you wanted, you could make the handles more intricate," I suggest, letting my hand brush against hers as I mark with my finger where I'd extend the piece. "Or, you could carve into the vase itself. It's up to you."

"I wish I'd gotten into this earlier," she sighs after a moment. "I have so many ideas for what I'd like to do, but I don't think I'll have enough time to explore them all."

"If you're interested," I say, knowing this suggestion is highly inappropriate before I even get the full thing out of my mouth, "I could give you private lessons in my studio at home. There wouldn't be any parameters, so you could experiment and get a feel for what you like to do."

"That would be amazing, actually," she says, sounding overeager. It's adorable.

"Perfect," I say, drumming my fingers softly against the page before finally withdrawing my hand, making sure to drag my fingers against her skin as I do. "Come see me after class. We'll set up a time. Maybe this weekend?"

"This weekend sounds great," she says, giving me that brilliant smile again.

I return her expression before making my way back up to the front of the studio. None of the students call me over for the rest of our time together, and when I dismiss them, Riley makes her way up to me. We agree on Saturday morning, and I jot down my address on a slip of paper. Against my better judgment, I give her my phone number, too. If she thinks there's anything odd about it, she doesn't say so. In fact, she seems giddy to get her hands on it.

When Riley leaves the studio, I'm imbued with inspiration. For the first time in months, I'm moved to throw something. Before I leave, I grab some clay and sit down. The piece I finish with is nothing special, just a simple vase, but I can use it to teach techniques going forward.

After I put the vase on the rack to dry, I wash my hands and leave the studio. Before I get to my car, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a message from a number I don't have saved, and when I open it up, I see that Riley's letting me know how excited she is for this weekend. I'm not usually a texter, but something about her makes me do things that I don't normally do.

Stopping next to my vehicle, I shoot her a reply letting her know I can't wait to see her. Then I drive home, picking up dinner on the way. I've neglected my house for too long, and it's in dire need of a deep cleaning.