47. Juliana

FORTY-SEVEN

JULIANA

"Hayden, I'm serious. You really don't have to paint that one. It belongs in the trash."

"What? Nonsense. This is your best mug yet."

I grimace, watching him swivel it on the stand, showcasing every one of its unintentional ridges and bumps. Clad in an apron that matches my own, Hayden sits on a stool, hunched over while cinching his eyebrows tightly in concentration, brushing dollops of paint across my lopsided creation. With his magnificent art studio as a backdrop, it's like Leonardo da Vinci traded his primed canvas for a slab of driftwood.

Slapping a chunk of clay in my pottery wheel, I ease the mound to the very center, praying it sticks this time. "That's what you said about the last one—and the one before that."

"Exactly. You're improving."

I shoot him a look. "Ohhh, am I now?"

"You are!" His front teeth sink into his lip, stopping its tremble.

Despite Hayden's poor attempt at sparing my nonexistent ego, unfortunately, I have eyes, and they can see the long row of prototypes lined up on the table beside him just fine. Somehow, their progression worsens over time, each mug sporting larger indents and more cracks than the previous.

Which is the complete opposite case of Hayden's artistic mastery, which coats my mugs in scenes of wildflowers, orange-and-red ombre sunsets, kaleidoscopes of abstract shapes, and enchanted forests like something out of Wizard of Oz or Alice in Wonderland. All right there, next to his own line of pottery. Vases, dishes, mugs, candleholders. Beautiful and perfectly symmetrical.

Even though he picked up pottery just last week.

I don't know what possessed him to put such care into mine, or to carve out a space for me in his studio, right by the window facing the Hudson with a view ten-times that of my apartment's, no matter what he claims. I'm a lost cause, whether he hires a teacher for me or not, but I'm okay with that. The quality time is what I'm after.

"Uh, huh. Sureeee."

"Trust me, Jules. That mug will top all the rest. You'll see. It'll be absolutely perfect."

My lips part. Wait a minute. Is he poking fun at me? I meet his eyes, finding them full of mischief. He totally is!

Huffing a breath, I scoot closer to my wheel, feeling the weight of his stare. Oh, great. Now I have an audience? Fine.

Using my palms, I shape the cool mound into a ball, securing it in the center. Slow and steady, I press the pedal, working the clay into a cylinder as the wheel spins in circles, humming quietly. With deliberate control, I increase the speed, sweat nicking my brow, before I sink my thumbs through the top and carve out a vague outline of a mug.

Sweeping my tongue across my lip, I secure my hands around the whirling cone, lifting them higher and higher, elongating the mug with my movements without disturbing its symmetry.

Oh my god. I'm doing it—I'm really doing it!

Hayden's stare burns a hole in my backside as I trace back down, leaving faint rings in the clay I often see while Mei works her magic. Heart clamoring in my chest, I make a second pass, smoothing out the edges and—

My foot slips on the pedal, roaring the wheel to life.

Shit!

I gasp, releasing the pressure completely, but it's too late. I watch, in both horror and slow motion, as my first sign of brilliance breaks loose and launches across the circular platform, smacking straight into the outer barrier with a thud. It whirls around and around, each rotation growing slower, until the machine stops, leaving only silence and the sight of a half-smashed mug stuck to the wall.

Mouth agape, all I can do is stare... and stare...

"A bit like how you treat the gas pedal."

WHAT?!?!?!

I bolt from my chair as his laughs clatter in my ears. They're triumphant and endless—until I lurch over the table, oozing wet clay between my fingers. The sound of his chair skidding backward rattles through the studio, searing satisfaction through my senses.

"Oh, no— Juliana, no. Don't you dare—"

Recklessly, I whirl on my heel, craning my arm all the way back before hurling the ball through the air at full force. Unsure of its trajectory, I'm partially worried it'll collide into one of Hayden's masterpieces, until the goopy mess hits him square in the chest. Though a bit too high for his apron to take all of it. In fact, it only manages half.

Frozen in shock, Hayden's wide eyes meet mine as the other half slips beneath his apron, surely smearing down his front side like cottage cheese, until both clumps smack against the floor.

My hand shoots to my lips, concealing their reaction and smudging a bit of clay on them.

"Juliana..." he warns.

A small sound escapes me, hysteria gripping my insides.

"This is my favorite shirt."

Indeed. Short-sleeve and silky. Gosh, what a great color on him.

Regaining my composure, I prop a fist on my hip. "Maybe you should've thought of that before talking smack," I say with a sassy head bobble. "Quite the exaggeration, by the way. I'm an excellent driver."

Dead. Silence.

Oh, you have GOT to be joking me.

"... right?" I growl.

A hush descends upon the studio, dragging on for a heartbeat... then another... His lips twitch, the same time as my eye does.

"HAYDEN!"

I whip around, clutching another fistful of goop. Except, when I twist back, locked and loaded, I find him dashing out the door, his laughter resounding through the hallway.

Two wobbly mugs, one freshly crisp T-shirt, and twenty minutes with no messy mishaps later, I slap another mound in the center of the tray. Hunched over my station, I ease a foot on the pedal, working the clay with intention. Higher and higher, its walls climb, forming the outlines of a mug—one I can envision so clearly in my mind but can never bring to fruition.

Come on, come on...

"Darn it," I hiss below my breath, as a section caves inward, the consequence of weak walls.

Huffing a sigh, I smoosh the clay back into a ball and start over. Even slower this time, I bring the machine up to speed, shaping the mud into a curved dome, before sinking my thumbs through its top. Gradually, that crater spreads, hollowing into a symmetrical cylinder, until—

"Shoot!"

My nail breaks through the clay, splitting right through the wall. Using my shoulder, I sweep a rogue bang away from my face, preparing for another round. Like clockwork, I gather the failed attempt into a mound and set it spinning between my cupped hands, exhaling loudly when my foot doesn't cooperate.

"Need help?" a deep voice murmurs in my ear, over the hum of the potter's wheel. I gasp as Hayden's breath tickles my ear and warmth envelops my backside, spreading to the tips of my toes. I didn't hear his stool roll over here. "Hmm? Or are you too stubborn?"

My jaw drops, tempted by a snarky comment, but I bat it down. "Okay, fine. Maybe I could use a little help..."

"As long as you don't splatter me."

I'm about to giggle, until he reaches around me on both sides, crowding my space even more, before his hands cup the outsides of mine, his strong arms tracing up my own. A tingling sensation blooms out from my center, causing my teeth to sink into my lower lip.

"More speed," he whispers in my ear.

My toes curl as I press firmer on the pedal, spinning the tray faster. His fingers interlock between mine, guiding my hands upwards, adding pressure with a rocking motion, almost as if I'm scooping the clay to its peak. In seconds, a cylinder forms before my eyes, faster and smoother than all my previous attempts.

"Slow down... that's it... just like that."

Curse my dirty mind. Not now!

Trying to ease some tension, I squirm in my chair, but can hardly budge between his hold. Heat floods my face, as his rests above my shoulder, his cheek grazing mine. Brushing his thumbs over mine, he nudges them into the clay.

"Now push two fingers in."

My eyes bulge. Is this for real?!

No, no. I'm just being a perve. This is pottery, I remind myself as I obey—but when I do, he hums in my ear, low and brimming with praise. Swallowing hard, I push the sound from my headspace, focusing on how his thumbs guide mine along the edges, carving a trough out in the mud, while my foot work to his rhythm.

"You're such a quick learner, Jules."

Blood rushes between my thighs.

I'm doomed. My mind's in the gutter.

Soft lips brush my other ear, surging a whole new wave of confusing arousal. "Look at you, needing to wrap both fists around it."

All the air whooshes from my lungs as my foot slips off the pedal, letting the wheel die out on a silent whisper. Did he just...? There's no way I heard that righ—

He snickers.

His name shoots from my lips on a piercing shout as I whirl around and bat him on his apron, earning a string of his laughter. When I catch tears stinging his eyes, I whip back to the table on instinct, making to grab a pile of mud, intending to smear it all over his smug fa—

I freeze halfway on a gasp.

"Oh, oh my..."

Earning Hayden's attention, his chuckle simmers down my spine. "What is it, baby?" he purrs, like he already knows the answer.

"It's BEAUTIFUL!" I bolt to my feet, rolling both our chairs back a foot, as I behold my most symmetrical, smooth, glossy mug yet. "I-I can't believe it!" I exclaim, lowering my voice suddenly, when I hear it bouncing between the walls. "I mean... this mug is actually worthy of a handle."

Looking behind me, I shoot Hayden a beaming smile, finding one already lighting up his face. "Here you go," he says, handing me the metal cut-off wire, which I quickly make use of, slicing the underside of the mug, unsticking it from the wheel. Carefully, like I would my first child, I pick up the mug, presenting it in my palms.

"Wow..." is all I can muster, struck by sheer amazement, realizing the mug is more than just handle-worthy—especially if Hayden paints it. It's borderline gift- worthy. And I know exactly who I'd give it to.

Mei.

"See? I knew you were improving."

"Pfft." Air vibrates my lips. "Oh, please. There's no way I could've managed this without your help."

Hayden rounds the table, his features dripping with pride. "No, that was all you, baby. I just nudged you, here and there."

As I make for the table to set down my prize, my heart clenches so tightly it almost hurts, because I realize something. This is my perfect day, in each and every way, the one I would stop time for, if I could.

So, Hayden and I, we make the most of it.

Throw jazz music on. Order takeout from a place across the street. And stay in the studio until the sun arches its pink-and-purple rays across the sky, reflecting like a mirror of dreams off the Hudson below, all while Hayden paints and taps his toes to the beat of the next song. Every now and then, he saunters over and helps me sculpt another mug, his arms tickling mine as they do right now.

Gently, he guides my hands, building the mound higher and higher, before sweeping back down to smooth out the base. With a few more passes, the mug begins to take on a shape of its own, its walls forming an elegant curvature—and with it, a sort of itch forms inside me.

As the seconds wane on, it doesn't subside, and proves harder to ignore. But what is it? I shuffle in my chair, watching our hands mingle into one, focusing on the presence flooding heat along my backside. So intoxicating and cherished... so right in the vicinity of my own...

A chuckle rumbles behind me, one that feels like home. "There sure is a lot of huffing and puffing going on, for a girl who seems to know what she's doing now—"

"Are you going to ask me to be your girlfriend yet?!"

The wheel stops, and so does my pulse.

Dammit, Juliana, could you be any more subtle?!

Using his knees, Hayden swings my chair to face his, and sure enough, he's wearing the biggest smile ever. It only grows as embarrassment stains my cheeks and I stutter, "I-I, uhh... I meant to say..." My words fall short, stolen by the delight in his eyes.

"Ohh, my sweetest Jules. It's been five days since you moved into your new apartment. What happened to taking things slow?"

Good question.

He grins, reading my mind. "So impatient."

"We'll still slow things down," I manage to say, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. "I just... maybe I want the label sooner than later, after all."

Stealing a little oxygen from my lungs, he scoots closer. "You don't have to convince me, baby. You know I'll do anything to take you off the market—even more than you already are—but..." He glances at his palms, both coated in clay. "Do you want me to wash up first?"

"What do your hands have to do with asking me to be your girlfriend?"

"God, you're adorable." He snorts quietly as he wheels even closer. "Well, you see, I'm supposed to set the mood."

My eyes dart between his when he leans over, entrancing me with his nearness. Heart clattering, his breath tickles my mouth, as mine speaks ever-so softly. "How so?"

It's a silly question, really, and one that goes wholly unanswered as his lips crash into mine, our tongues dancing as one, before those muddy palms cup my face with achingly tender care, streaking the cool clay down my cheeks, along my jaw, and even through my hair. But I don't care, can hardly register their movements, as I sweep my own along his neck, marking his skin with the sole intention of reaching his soul.

By the time our lips part, my heart pounds with longing, overflowing with the essence of him, as he sweeps his thumb across my cheek, my own clay marking his strong features. And before he asks that question—that beautiful, beautiful question, the one I answer with the desire of forever—he beholds me in a way that surely only comes once in a lifetime.

Because the way Hayden looks at me...

It's like he won't get another chance to.

Perhaps, we both share an instinct, or an intrinsic type of calling, or maybe just the simple fact that...

When you know, you know.