4. Skye
“Iwas thinking we could have a quiet night in tomorrow.” Brody’s voice sounded tinny coming through my phone’s speaker while I got ready to jump into the shower.
“Really?” I couldn’t hide my smile, and he could probably hear it in my voice. “I assumed you’d be heading out of town with Holden this weekend. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“You make me sound like some kind of man whore,” he chuckled.
“I’m the last one to judge,” I said as I turned on the water and tested the temperature. “But I’m not complaining if you’re taking a break from your man whore ways. That just means I get more time with you.”
“What about you? Are you okay with not going out and finding a guy to dazzle for the night?”
“I told you. I’m going to try doing things differently now.” A sigh gusted out of me. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just sick of never connecting with anyone.”
“You connect with people, Skye. Look at us. We’ve been connected for fifteen years.”
I gave an unladylike snort. “I’m not talking about you, Brody. I’m talking about a man.”
His low laugh rumbled over the line. “There’s something I need to break to you, sweetheart.”
I bit my lip and smiled. Something about Brody calling me sweetheart always made me feel warm and cherished. It made me feel safe.
I sometimes wondered if Brody knew how much his friendship meant to me. He’d been my rock after my dad died when I was fifteen. Particularly during those long, horrible months when my mom had been so grief-stricken she could barely function, and I’d felt like I had no one else to turn to. I clung to him then, and he never wavered.
It was me who eventually pulled back after Abby, the girl he was seeing back then, took me aside and told me I was being selfish by taking up so much of his time. It was one of the reasons I’d said yes to Tom when he asked me out—to give Brody some space. Although, funnily enough, Brody had broken up with Abby not long after that, and Tom hadn’t been the person I thought he was. Relationships might be a crapshoot, but at least Brody and I had always been able to rely on our friendship.
“A quiet night in sounds perfect,” I told him. “What are you thinking?”
“Chinese and Die Hard,” he threw out.
“Hmm. Thai and Bad Boys,” I countered.
“Pizza and John Wick.”
I narrowed my eyes at the phone, even though he couldn’t see me. “Which one?”
“Chapter Two.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
After setting a time, we said our goodbyes and hung up. I stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over my upturned face.
Really, I should go out if I was serious about meeting someone and trying this committed relationship thing. But instead of checking out potential boyfriends at a bar, I planned to hang out and watch a movie with my best friend.
We’d been having movie nights since we were teenagers. And they were often when I was happiest. Just Brody and me, curled up on the couch, eating popcorn or drinking wine. Cheering on the good guys in the action movie—or the occasional rom-com—we were watching. If I was going to relate an activity to a comfort food, our movie nights would be the gooiest of mac and cheeses.
Just after I’d lost Mom to cancer five years ago, Brody had insisted on a movie night. I’d cried through the whole thing, not seeing anything happening on the screen. And Brody had sat with his arm around me, not speaking, not struggling to find words of comfort, just holding me as I grieved. It had been exactly what I needed. But that was Brody. He instinctively knew how to soothe my hurts. No matter how bad things got, I could get through them with Brody by my side. I couldn’t imagine him not being in my life.
Humming to myself, I turned off the water and got out of the shower, then got dressed for the day in clothes I didn’t mind getting a little dirty. Before I left the house, I put on a thick down jacket and pulled a beanie over my ears. Winter in Tahoe was no joke. It was icy out there. And it always took my old car a while to heat up.
It took me twenty minutes to drive to the small pottery I rented in Kingsbury. Once inside, I made sure nothing had been disturbed overnight, then put on my apron, ready to get to work.
I turned on my kiln and checked that the pieces I intended to bisque fire today were dry enough. I had a series of plates, dishes, and mugs ready to go that I’d made using a combination of hand building and wheel throwing. After firing them, I would glaze them in a variety of whites, natural earth colors, and varying shades of blue, before firing them a second time. Then they’d be ready to send out to the gift shops and galleries around the lake that stocked my work. Every piece I made was inspired by the breathtaking natural scenery of Lake Tahoe and its surrounds. Incredibly—and I still wasn’t sure how I’d gotten so lucky—I’d built myself a career making pieces that tourists actually paid money for.
I was a gregarious person. But this time alone, just me, the clay, and my paints and glazes, was so meditative that I looked forward to it every day. I’d first taken up pottery after my dad’s death at the suggestion of my art teacher. She’d caught me sobbing in the art room before class one day and told me that pottery might help me process my grief while allowing me to create something beautiful at the same time. She was right. The first time I’d felt the silky clay under my fingers, ready to be molded into something unique, peace had flowed through me.
Brody and pottery, that’s pretty much what got me through those painful months after Dad’s death, and five years later, after Mom’s. And although I still missed both of them every single day, it had gotten easier over the years to smile rather than cry when I thought of them.
But that was enough reminiscing. I had pieces to fire, and others still to make. After checking the temperature of the kiln, I got started.
* * *
I opened the door to Brody’s house, not bothering to knock since he was expecting me. I put the bottle of red I was carrying on the sideboard while I toed out of my boots and took off my puffy jacket.
“Hello! I come bearing alcohol,” I called out.
“I’m in the kitchen.” Brody’s voice came from deeper in the house, and, grabbing the wine, I padded my way down the hall toward Brody’s small but well-equipped kitchen.
As if the man needed anything to make him more of a catch, he loved to cook—he was damn good at it, too—and had furnished his kitchen appropriately. He was going to make some woman very lucky one day.
The sight that greeted me as I rounded the corner sent a rogue butterfly winging its way around my stomach. There was always one I couldn’t quite pin down around Brody, and it took flight as soon as I saw him. He had on a pair of gray sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. He was standing with his back to me, thankfully. Despite my best efforts, whenever he was wearing sweats, my eyes had an unfortunate habit of zooming straight to where I shouldn’t be looking.
Still, it was practically impossible not to check him out. Especially since, over the years, I’d concluded that Brody was probably above average in more than one area.
Not that the view from this side was any less of a draw to my eyes, but at least he wouldn’t catch my perusal.
I gave myself a couple of seconds to appreciate his physique, then dragged my gaze away, banished my rogue butterfly back to where I’d long ago caged the others, and walked toward him.
He threw a smile at me over his shoulder as I put the bottle down on his countertop. “Hey, you’re just in time.”
I eyed the pizza dough he was shaping into a ball. “In time for what?”
“To roll out the dough while I finish the pizza sauce and get started on the salad.”
I heaved a fake sigh. “You invite me to dinner and then put me to work? What a gentleman.”
He chuckled as he turned to face me, crossing his muscular arms and leaning his hip against the countertop. “Don’t pretend you won’t critique my rolling skills if I do it.”
I smirked as I stepped closer, looked up at him, and poked him in his very firm chest. “That’s because you take the term rustic to extremes.”
He wrapped his hand around my finger where it rested against his sternum and shook his head. “Don’t put this on me. You know you’re anally retentive when it comes to making the dough smooth. Pizza dough is not the same as clay.”
We stood there smiling at each other for a beat too long, the moment feeling weirdly intimate. My pulse began to race, so I stepped back, tugging my finger free. “Okay, but the least you can do is pour me a glass of wine.”
As Brody grabbed a couple of glasses for us, I reached for the flour he’d set out on the counter and sprinkled it over the granite. I plonked the ball of dough down on it, and by the time he’d uncorked the bottle and poured us both a drink, I’d flattened it out with my hands and picked up the rolling pin.
We chatted about our respective weeks as he stirred his homemade pizza sauce, then tore up a head of lettuce for the salad he insisted we eat alongside our pizza.
I finished rolling the dough out to a uniform thickness, perfect for the slightly crispy crust we both preferred. Then I brushed a tendril of hair from my cheek and picked up my glass.
“Cheers,” I said, holding it up for Brody to clink his against.
I took a sip of the delicious fruity red and hummed my pleasure, sliding the tip of my tongue over my lower lip to catch a stray drop as I savored the taste.
Brody hadn’t taken a sip yet. Instead, he was staring. The way he was focused on my mouth made my breath falter. He must have noticed, because his eyes met mine, burning with that same strange intensity from the other night.
My ribs compressed around my lungs, and I struggled to draw in oxygen as he cupped my jaw with his free hand. His thumb smoothed over my cheekbone, and he held my gaze, his head tilting toward me. Goosebumps erupted over my body. What was happening right now?
I swallowed hard and gave a slight shake of my head, which seemed to snap him out of it.
He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “You had some flour.” He raised his hand as if he were going to touch me again, but pulled it back, his fingers curling into a fist.
The air rushed out of my lungs when he turned back to the salad. My heart was thumping, and my skin felt tight and overly sensitive.
For a second there, I’d thought he was going to kiss me. And a part of me, an alarmingly large part, had almost leaned into it. And that wasn’t good. Because I’d buried any attraction I felt for Brody deep down a long time ago.
I didn’t need it resurrecting itself.
Not now.
Not ever.