Chapter 8 #2
Lance Stirling entered to a round of cheers and applause.
His auburn hair was arranged into spikes, and a tiny golden hoop glinted from his freckled nose.
The pinstripe baseball jersey he wore was so oversized, it fell almost to the knees of his frayed jean shorts.
After the waiting class quieted, the seemingly twenty-year-old flashed us a dazzling smile.
“Thanks for coming, guys. Are you ready to learn some awesome skills?” Stirling bounced on the balls of his feet as a collective chuckle rumbled through the crowd. The young artist picked up a mound of clay from his instructional station. Turning it over in his hands, he drifted along the stage.
“Art is messy. Tactile. Romantic.” He winked at a gaggle of girls in the corner. “It should be felt, not just seen. After I’m done teaching, I’ll take a moment to come around and speak with each of you. Please find a station.”
The pottery wheels filled quickly, but Val made a beeline to Stirling instead.
My pulse lurched with the urge to race Val there, but I forced myself to stay put, watching the exchange on the edge of my seat.
Should I have approached him first? Was Val convincing Stirling he would be a better fit than Blythe?
Stirling shook his head before pointing to the pottery wheels, and then at the exit. Val looked as though he were trying to swallow whatever insult he wanted to spit at him. After a long moment, Val nodded before walking stiffly to the empty station beside me. I didn’t bother to conceal my glee.
A low stream of curses accompanied the unbuttoning and removal of his luxurious suit coat. After yanking on an apron, he forced his sleeves up over his muscular forearms.
How in the world can someone so awful make forearms look attractive? I could make out the beginnings of a tattoo below the crook of his elbow. The swirled black ink disappeared under his cuffed sleeve.
I was determined to stop looking.
Stirling’s lesson turned out to be very informative. Having dabbled in pottery in high school, I smiled at my small lump of clay beginning to take form.
Val’s, on the other hand, was not. The crumbling clay looked as though the wet bucket beside his knee hadn’t even been touched, and he pushed the spinning pedal in jumpy spurts. Where my vase was smooth and glossy, Val’s was bumpy, stunted, and leaning to one side.
“How are you doing that?” Val muttered under his breath.
Keeping my eyes glued to Stirling, I leaned over and whispered, “You know, I’d love to help you, but I’m lying.” With an innocent shrug, I went back to my wheel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn his lips twitched.
A beaming Stirling finished the lesson and began to approach guests one by one. I couldn’t bite back my snarky giggles at Val’s expense any longer. Val’s face had turned an interesting shade of red. No matter how hard he tried, his vase kept flopping over like a fish out of water.
I finally gave in.
“Okay, this is so pathetic to watch. If Stirling sees your crappy vase, he’ll probably run from us both.” I scooted my chair closer.
Showing Val how to position his hands was like teaching a dog to read. Frustrated, I pressed my hands over his, forcing them into position.
Unexpected heat filtered through my fingers. His hands felt nothing like I would have imagined. Ice, or stone, maybe. But not this. Something lurched in my stomach, right behind my navel. Nausea? No, something more… fluttery.
Val tensed beneath my touch, his pottery wheel slowing to a stop. I snatched my hands back as I cleared my throat.
“Uh, also your clay is too dry.” Reaching into his station’s wet bucket, I sprinkled his clay with water right as Val stomped hard on the wheel’s pedal, sending reddish-brown sludge flying. Droplets peppered his face and crisp shirt above his apron.
I froze.
With murder in his expression, Val scrambled for a towel from his workspace. Lowering his face close to his station, he swiped furiously at the bits of clay, but he only managed to smear them.
He looked up at me and asked, “Is it gone?”
The tiger-like stripes on his scowl broke me, and I exploded with laughter. He watched curiously as I doubled over, trying to catch my breath. The stripes on his face shifted as he blew a long breath of defeat and slumped back in his chair.
I had barely turned back to my own wheel when the strangest sound drifted toward me. A soft chuckle began to originate from Val’s station, but in less than a minute, the sound had transformed into something even more foreign—laughter.
The alien sound was full and rich, nothing like his sharp, gruff tone. Val’s laughter was the contagious type, the kind that made you want to join in.
The absurdity of it all overcame me, and soon our neighbors were shooting us dirty looks.
After wiping my streaming eyes, I handed Val my station’s towel. Val rubbed more vigorously and was able to remove the residue.
“How about now?”
“Oh, Russo,” I chuckled as I spun my wheel, “your face is fine. It’s your personality that’s the problem.”
Val snorted. “And yours is any better?”
The amusement in his tone caught me off guard. I watched Val cautiously dip his hand into the murky bucket like an alligator might be holing up inside it, then dripped his fingers over his ugly vase.
Baffled as I was, it didn’t stop me from retorting, “It is, in fact. Thanks for noticing.”
Stirling approached my station with an eager smile and exclaimed, “Whoa! That’s some talent. You should be proud!” He high-fived my clay-crusted hand.
I smiled down at my masterpiece. It was short, round, and frankly adorable with curved lips at the top.
“Thank you!” I said. But before the artist could move on, I stood and caught his attention. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Amantha Adams.” I shook his hand. “I’m here representing Blythe Barlow with the Chicago Legacy Museum of Art.”
The name seemed to spark recognition as he said, “Oh! It’s nice to meet you. My agent thinks you guys would be great for my first exhibition before we move on to galleries.”
I offered a warm smile. “We think so too. I’d love to set up a time for you to come in and tour the museum with us, maybe feel our team out to see what you think?”
“That sounds awesome! I’ll have my agent call Blythe and set it up.”
“Sounds great! We’ll be in touch. Thank you again for a great class!” I said.
Stirling shot me a thumbs-up before stopping short at the sight of Val’s heap of clay.
“Oooh. That’s rough. Keep trying, my man.” He clapped Val on the shoulder and walked away before Val stood, crumpled his apron, and stormed from the building.
As I watched the door slam shut behind him, confusion muddled my thoughts. I felt triumphant, for sure.
A guy like Russo didn’t deserve my pity.
But if that was the case, why did I feel a slight echo of it in my chest?