Page 35 of Siren's Heart

"They're alright.” I shrug while smoothing out the last imperfections of my mug before I form the handle. “We're mainly going through the choreography and learning the song mash-up we're performing. Next week, we're going to start practicing all the camera interactions."

"Camera interactions?"

"Hmm." I roll a piece of clay into a long string and then press it into the side of my mug in a protruding heart shape, smoothing out the edges with my fingertip. "Where to look while they're filming us, where the camera people will be walking so we don’t run into them, which cameras to look into and which ones we're supposed to ignore. Stuff like that."

"I never knew that was a thing.” He sounds amazed, looking at me with wide eyes as he leans back in his seat. “But then again, basically all I do at work is ignore cameras, so there's that."

"I wish we could just do that. It would make our performance so much easier." I sigh and roll out another piece of clay to push it into a smaller heart shape on the mug. "I hate it. It's hard enough to focus on our songs and the choreography. I don't need the cameras, too."

"Totally understandable." From the corner of my eye, I see him nod empathetically. "I feel the same. It's hard enough to catch a damn ball, and I still don't know how the hell I'm supposed to realize everything else that's happening on the field and know what to do."

"Which position will you be playing?" I turn my mug. What could I put on the other side?

"Halfback," he whines and lifts his hand to bury his face in his palms, realizing at the last second that they’re full of clay, and he almost rubs them into his eyes.

"I have no idea what that means," I admit, pushing some clay flat and pinching it into a heart shape. Yes, I like that.

"Basically, someone tosses me the ball, and I run as far as can as I understand it." I see him reach for the clump of clay and break off a little piece to add to his mug. "At least that's what Asher told me. He's making it sound all easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, but I bet it's going to end in a bunch of bruises and a bruised ego."

"I'm sure you'll be fine. Or, at least, I'm sure your ego will stay intact." I push the tiny clay heart into the mug and eye it. Yes. Beautiful. "I'll make sure to cheer you on from the sidelines."

"Thank you. I hope they'll let us watch the halftime show so I can do the same."

I look up, smiling at him widely. "Yeah. I'd love that."

Luca

I could watch her work with clay all day. The way her tongue darts out between her lips when she focuses, the way she bites her lip when she's not quite sure how to continue, the way she smiles when she decides she likes what she's creating – I want to take pictures of all these little moments, and keep them in my wallet so I can look at them whenever I feel like it.

She leans back in her seat and slowly turns her pottery wheel, inspecting her creation from all sides. When she’s satisfied with it, she looks up, her eyes snapping to mine when she sees I’m done.

"Oh, you're finished already?" She freezes, her eyes widening, her pupils darting between my eyes nervously. "Sorry for making you wait."

"Only just," I assure her, making her shoulders sink in relief as she exhales a soft, relieved sigh. "But it’s okay, you can take your time."

My eyebrows scrunch together. Why does she act as if waiting for her to finish is such a burden? She warned me about her being meticulous after all, and I love watching her when she’s distracted. Were her former boyfriends that impatient? I can't imagine. Watching her do her thing is so damn mesmerizing.

"It's okay, I think I'm done." She gives her mug one last whirl, and the smile on her face lights up the fucking room. "Yes. I can see it."

"How's it going, lovebirds?" Mary pops her head around the corner right on time, making both of us startle. Wow. Either that woman has perfect timing, or she was eavesdropping. She doesn’t seem like the type to eavesdrop, though. "That looks lovely," she says adoringly, looking at Millie's mug. When she looks at mine, she only raises her eyebrow. I hope it’s in surprise that it turned out good. I’m going out on a limb and guess that she doesn’t get too many men who take pottery as seriously here.

Or she’s judging me because it’s a regular mug without much decoration.

Now that I’m thinking about it, that seems more likely.

That's fine. My ego is fine. My talents lie in other areas. Like pretending that I’ve never seen any mug prettier than the one I’ve created. I just have to convince myself of it first. But what did my mom used to say? When in doubt, call it art.

Abstract art, maybe. But art. I’ll have to research some glaze ideas.

"So we'll let these dry, and then I'll fire them for you so you can glaze them," Mary explains, walking into the room with a tray in her hand.

"Thank you so much, Mary." Millie beams at her, and I can see Mary's expression soften as she pulls a string over her wheel to release the clay from it and put the mug on the tray.

"No worries, hun. Now, have a good evening, you two."

"Can we help you clean up? I'm sure you want to go home soon, too," I offer, but she shakes her head.

"It's fine, love. Telling you where stuff goes would take just as much time as doing it myself. Now wash your hands and get out of here," she scolds us playfully, and I give her a joking salute. Millie and I stand up, and I take a second to stretch my back. Sitting hunched over a pottery wheel isn’t so great for it. Who would have thought?

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