Chapter 10 #2
Even though I’ve known Remington since he and Hollis were kids, this is really the first time we’re talking one-on-one like this.
He came around a hell of a lot growing up, but I’ve always been mindful about giving my kids their space to be their own people and have their own time with their friends.
And not only that, but after a long, hard day on the ranch under the Texas sun, the last thing I wanted to do was sit around and chit-chat with my teenage son’s friends.
Even now, as an adult in his thirties, I still see Remington quite regularly.
He’ll pop by the ranch to have lunch with Hollis while he’s working, or he’ll come to the family dinners I typically host every Wednesday night if he’s free.
But aside from group conversations or the occasional “hey, how’s it going” from him when he’s at the ranch, there’s never been a whole lot of communication between us.
“Pretty good,” he says, a small smile curving his mouth. “From what I can tell, Lukas is a great kid. I found out that his grandfather was a farmer.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, I guess Lukas used to love spending time on the farm with him. Helping out and being around the animals.” Remington snorts. “Actually, I told him I might be able to pull some strings and bring him to the ranch.”
I chuckle. “Is that so?”
He nods. “He seemed to love that idea. Think that’s somethin’ we can make happen?”
“Well, I don’t see why not.” I shrug. “Bring him by sometime next week.”
“Really?” His brows lift, his smile growing.
“Absolutely. I’ll put the kid to work and show him a thing or two.”
“I think he’d really love that. Thanks, Gentry.”
“It’s not a problem.”
The conversation fizzles out after that, while I focus on getting this clay to look more like a bowl than a blob.
My frustration grows as I run into the same issue I had the first time.
No matter how careful I am, this damn bowl—if you can even call it that—refuses to even out.
It’s too damn thin on one side, much like my patience.
“Goddamnit,” I grit out under my breath and pull my hands back.
“Don’t,” Remington mutters immediately. His tone is calm, not sharp, somehow making it worse.
Keeping my hands on the clay, I heave a sigh. This should be simple. The videos make it look so damn easy. So why can’t I fucking make it cooperate? This is ridiculous. I’m about ready to call it quits when Remington stands up and eyes the piece like he’s looking for an answer inside of it.
“You’re rushin’ the finish. You skipped the part where you let it settle.”
My gaze narrows. “I did let it s—”
He reaches in, taking me by surprise again, hands steady as they slide over mine. It’s a featherlight touch, not too much pressure but still there. Silence surrounds us as the wheel spins.
“Right there,” he says softly. “This is where it keeps gettin’ away from you.”
I clench my jaw, my heart pounding and my face hot. “I know that,” I grit out through my teeth. “It won’t fuckin’ cooperate.”
My mouth dries as Remington’s thumbs guide the outside wall of the bowl while my hand stays inside of it. Every movement is slow and controlled, intimate in a way that makes it hard to focus.
“Light pressure,” he murmurs. “We’re convincing the clay to behave, not forcing it. Think of it like tryin’ to get an angry bull to do what you want. Too much force or aggression on your part will only backfire.”
I swallow, unable to breathe.
Leaning in closer, Remington’s shoulder nearly brushes mine. “Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough.
A little too much.
Before my eyes, the bowl smooths under our touch, the uneven edge correcting itself with each spin of the wheel. It’s working, and that somehow makes it harder to breathe. My body is hot, the hair on my arms standing as my skin tingles.
“Have you noticed how you tense up right before it goes wrong? It’s like you’re bracin’ for failure instead of trustin’ yourself.
” He adjusts his hands again, fingers sliding just enough to send a shot of heat down my spine.
“There, just like that.” It’s nothing more than a whisper.
“Don’t pull away; you’re doin’ so good.”
I don’t.
Hell, I couldn’t even if I tried.
I’m trying to control my breathing, steady it. The last thing I need is for him to notice how affected I am. My heart thunders in my ears, pulse racing a mile a minute, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
Why is my body reacting like this?
Slowly but surely, the bowl rounds out. It’s smooth and balanced, better than my first one, and underneath the fog covering my mind and the sparks shooting through my insides, there’s pride too.
The wheel slows, but Remington doesn’t move his hands just yet.
“See what happens when you accept a little help and trust in yourself?”
I make the mistake of turning my head to look at him. He’s close. Too close.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
Remington’s gaze lingers, unreadable and far from innocent.
But I don’t look away either. I can’t.
“Oh, I absolutely am,” he rasps before stepping back. His absence against my body is cold, and I’m taken aback by how much I don’t like it. “Look at what you made. You did that.”
My gaze drops, and I take it in, my heart in my throat and my mind spinning. The bowl that was once nothing more than an ornery pile of clay sits upright in the center of the wheel.
And I do too, but barely.