“Lucky for you, I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, bracing my palms against his chest.
“Perfect.” He grins. “You can teach me.”
He slides his hand into mine as we walk inside, and my brows tug together when I look around the place.
It’s quiet. Empty. No instructor, no staff. Just soft music playing overhead and dim lighting casting shadows across the studio floor. In the center of the room, only two pottery wheels sit waiting.
I stop short and turn to him, brows raised. “You rented out the whole place?”
Ryan shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Wanted our first date to be special.”
I shake my head, already smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But charming,” he adds, flashing me a wink.
“Jury’s still out.”
His chest shakes with a chuckle as he closes the door, and we walk into the empty studio.
I break the eye contact and walk over to the wheel and sit down on the stool, preparing the clay and glance over my shoulder.
A slow smile curls onto his lips as he shifts closer. His eyes never leave mine—or the way my hands move as he takes a seat on his stool beside me.
“What made you want to do pottery?” he asks.
I shrug, focusing on centering the clay. “It became my hobby over the summer. I needed something that could keep my mindbusy.” I chuckle as the wheel spins a little too fast and I have to steady it. “Clearly I’m not amazing at it, but?—”
“Don’t do that.” He nudges my shoulder gently. “I’ve seen your pieces in your room, baby. You are amazing.”
I pause, warmth blooming across my cheeks. “Thank you.”
He arches a brow as he watches me. “I think I got the hang of it. Lemme try.”
I move aside as he settles in front of the other wheel, rolls up his sleeves, and dives in like he’s done this before.
He has very clearly not.
Within minutes, his hands are covered in clay, his concentration so serious it makes me laugh. But the thing he’s creating is… well, unidentifiable.
I bite my lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Wow. That’s… really something.”
He glances at his sad, lumpy mess and then flicks a bit of clay at me. The tiny blob lands on my cheek.
My mouth falls open. “You didnotjust do that.”
Ryan flashes an unapologetic grin. “What? It was an accident.”
I scoop up a chunk of clay and smear it across his forearm. “Oops.”
His brows shoot up. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”
“Maybe,” I reply, my lips twitching into a smirk.
Before I can react, Ryan’s hands are on my waist and I’m suddenly lifted off the stool, a squeal ripping from my throat as he hoists me into the air.
“Ryan!” I laugh, kicking my feet. “Put me down!”
He chuckles. “Say I’m the greatest artist of our generation,” he demands.
