I reluctantly stumbled to Cameron’s side.
His eyes dipped, his jaw clamping down. “Cute overalls.”
“Cute apron,” I answered while Josie started shouting instructions in the background. “The daisies really bring out your eyes.”
He huffed out a chuckle.
I made a face at him, and his gaze dipped down again. Quickly. Wickedly fast. But I caught it. I resisted the urge to tug at the overalls.
“So, you know how this works?” I pointed at the wheel assembled on top of the high bench.
Cameron’s hand entered my field of vision. He flipped a switch on its side, making the plate rotate slowly.
“Is there anything you don’t know how to do?”
He made a show of thinking about his answer and had the audacity to look smug when he said, “No.”
“Perfect!” Josie exclaimed, startling me with the sudden closeness of her voice. She clapped her hands. “You’ve turned on the wheel! Yay!” Then she scurried away again, praising how therapeutic pottery was in what I’d learned was her monitor voice.
“Jesus,” I whispered, patting my chest. “How does she do that?”
Cameron didn’t answer, instead he drawled, “Seems like we’re throwing a bloody bowl, then.”
“Yay,” I murmured, watching him reach out for the block of mud. My gaze snapped at Cameron’s hands, his long rough-looking fingers. He’d taken off his ring. I lowered my voice, “I could figure this out on my own. I’ve read about it and watched more than a few how-to videos. I’ve done my homework.” His hands split the thing in two and started shaping one half into a ball. “I’m serious. You could just watch. Or leave.”
Cameron stretched his arm in my direction, holding the clay ball in his hand. “Fix the ball to the wheel.”
I hesitated.
That pair of forest-green eyes stared right into mine. “Stop overthinking and fix the ball to the wheel for me, yeah?”
He had that sulky look again, so I took the clay from him and let it drop on the plate with a heavy thump. I frowned at it. “Hold on, why aren’t we sitting down?” I looked around. “Everything I watched and read was done sitting down. I’ll get Josie—”
“Throwing while standing is better for your back,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained anything. “Put your palms around it and try to seal the edges to the surface.”
Lips pressed in a tight line, I tried to do as instructed, only managing to make the plate of the wheel turn when I pressed on the ball every time. I spared a glance at Cameron, expecting to find him reveling in my frustration. He was unbothered by my failed attempts. His expression was calm. Patient. It reminded me of how he treated the girls. He tilted his head to the side, still waiting. It hit me then, that he was either letting me figure it out on my own or waiting for me to ask him for help.
An unexpected thought materialized. He’d make such a great dad. Beneath that irate, hard fa?ade, there was patience. Gentle command. Warmth spread down my—Oh God. Why did this thought have such an effect on me? Why was I… picturing things? I didn’t even know if I wanted kids.
“You good?” Cameron asked.
“I…” I swallowed when I heard my voice wobble. What was wrong with me? “I can’t do this. On my own. Could you, perhaps, maybe, hmm, help?”
Cameron’s palms fell immediately on top of mine.
Once more, it was my whole body that felt the touch of his skin against the back of my hands. I lifted my head, meeting his eyes across the tabletop.
“Like this,” he said in a low voice, the heels of his palms pressing on top of my knuckles. “You feel the pressure of my hands? Do like I’m doing. Feel the way the clay gives.”
I looked down, shocked and strangely pleased at the sight of our hands as they fused together over the clay. I swallowed, less reluctant to allow him to take the lead, and more enthralled by the controlled motions before me.
With a silent nod, I started taking mental notes as best as I could, while he continued the motions.
“Let the wheel turn with the movement,” he said, and I felt myself release all remnants of control. I’d let him guide me. My hands. Completely. “You need to press on the sides so it sticks to it.” The plate turned with the motions of our hands, his voice turning into a focused murmur. “Just like that. Yeah. That’s about right.”
Once the ball was fixed, he grasped my wrists and lifted my hands in the air. He hummed deep in his throat, observing our work.