Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
VIOLA
The studio door swings shut behind me with a soft, heavy click. The cool earthy smell of wet clay wraps around me.
My stomach does a nervous little flip. Ridiculous.
A grown woman fidgeting like it’s my first day of school.
The space is intimate, with high windows letting in that soft late-morning light that turns everything golden and dusty.
Shelves line the walls, crowded with pieces in every stage — some still rough and gray, others smooth and gleaming with glaze.
The low hum of wheels spinning somewhere in the back mixes with quiet conversation and the occasional splash of water.
It feels… chaotic. Real. Nothing like the cold, perfect rooms I used to drift through.
A woman in a clay-splattered apron spots me and comes forward. “Viola? Right on time. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
She leads me through the studio, pointing out the glazing station, the drying racks, the big industrial kiln in the corner that looks like it could swallow a car.
Her voice is calm, friendly, no pressure, and some of the tightness in my shoulders ease.
She stops at a wheel near the back window where light pours across it in a perfect slant.
“This one’s yours for today. Take your time. No one’s in a rush here.”
I murmur my thanks and sit down on the stool before I can overthink it.
The wheel feels solid under my hands, the clay cool and heavy when I center the first lump.
My fingers sink in. It is familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
This is for me. I start simple. Just a basic bowl, nothing fancy.
The wheel spins under my palm, steady and rhythmic, and for the first few minutes everything else fades.
My sister’s call, the bruise still fading on my arm, the cloud of my father’s debts…
it all slips away. There’s only the clay, the wet slip between my fingers, the quiet focus of shaping something from nothing.
It collapses almost immediately.
The walls cave in, slumping into a sad little puddle on the wheel head. I stare at it surprised for a second, then laugh under my breath. “Okay,” I whisper to myself, already reaching for the lump. “You’ve forgotten. Try again.”
I do. Again and again. Each failure feels lighter than the last, because every time I start over I’m a little more excited, a little more alive.
The clay sticks to my hands, smears across my forearms, and I don’t care.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind is quiet.
No calculating. No guarding. Just the wheel, the clay, and me.
I lose track of time until my shoulders start to ache and my lower back protests.
I sit back, wiping my hands on the damp towel beside me, and the quiet rushes back in.
My sister’s call. Dad’s new debts. The inexcusable way I snapped at Fabiola and hung up.
And then I think of Ricci. The way he’d been this morning when he left, quiet so he wouldn’t wake me.
The way his hands felt on my skin last night.
The way I keep listening for his footsteps even when I know he’s gone.
I miss him.
The realization hits me square in the chest, simple and undeniable.
I miss him. Not in some casual way. I miss the low rumble of his voice, the way his eyes soften when they land on me, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
My fingers twitch toward my phone before I can stop them.
I pull it out, heart beating a little faster, and type a quick message about the brunch Annie invited me to.
Hey… so about the brunch the wives invited me to … Is there anything specific I should or shouldn’t mention? I don’t want to complicate things for you.
I hit send and set the phone face-down on the edge of my station, trying not to stare at it.
A few minutes pass. Then ten. No reply. The silence from the screen feels louder than it should.
I tell myself he’s probably in a meeting, or driving, or handling something that doesn’t involve checking his phone every five seconds.
But the disappointment still settles in my stomach like a stone.
I shove the phone into my pocket and force myself back to the wheel, fingers digging into fresh clay, trying to lose myself in the rhythm again.
It works for a while. I manage to throw three decent pieces. Small, simple bowls with clean lines. Carefully, I lift them onto a tray and carry it toward the back where the kiln attendant is working.
The guy is halfway through explaining how the firing process works when the door swings open. I glance toward the front door.
And he’s standing right there.
Ricci.
He looks around the studio, searching for me. Shock rips through me so fast my hands forget what they’re doing. The tray slips.
Clay bowls crash to the floor in a chaotic clatter, wet pieces shattering and skidding across the tile.
Someone gasps. The attendant lunges forward to help.
I instantly hurry to salvage what I can.
I’m so embarrassed I can’t look anyone in the eye.
My heart is slamming against my ribs, loud and wild.
Ricci moves instantly, striding over and crouching down to help gather the ruined pieces even though there’s not much he can do. His eyes find mine over the mess, dark and apologetic, that intense gaze softening with something that looks almost guilty.
I can’t breathe properly. The late afternoon light is still pouring over him, turning him into a golden god and so fucking beautiful it hurts.
My fingers itch to reach for him. My body remembers every place he touched me, every sound he pulled from me, and the urge to kiss him right here in front of everyone is so strong I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself.
He straightens slowly, clay dust on his expensive suit, and looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
My heart is still racing.
And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that I’ve not completely fallen for this man.