Page 28 of Siren's Heart

"Okay, so maybe something crafty." Asher walks around the couch, scratching his chin as he thinks. I bet if he had one, he’d draw on a whiteboard and do the whole connecting-the-dots thing they like to do in crime movies.

What else can you do with your hands? I saw an advertisement for a bouquet workshop a while back, but I mean, how fucked would it be to make her create her own bouquet? That's not happening. At least not now. Maybe someday that will be a fun thing to do together.

"You could go blow glass," Asher snickers, and I lift my head just to shake it at him. "Get it? Blow–"

"Yes, I get it.” I sigh, exhausted, and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I'm just not humoring you."

"Boring," he pouts and resumes walking. "Did you know they call the oven thing a glory hole? Glory hole, Luca.” He starts chuckling as he continues to pace until he suddenly stops and punches his fist into the air. “Ha! Speaking of ovens. I got it. Pottery!"

"Pottery?" I tilt my head and think the idea over.

"Yeah. Just think about it." His eyes light up, and I hope it's with happiness that he found something we can do, not mischief. "You can make each other cute, heart-shaped bowls and engrave adorable things."

"Why do I have a feeling that you're making fun of me?"

"Oh, because I totally am," he laughs and throws his giant body back onto the sofa, almost making my body bounce off the pillow with his momentum. Reaching behind me, I take one of the pillows and throw it at his face.

"Did I mention that I hate you today?"

"Yes, you did, but no, you don't. I just gave you a wonderful idea for a date. You can’t hate me."

"And I'm not stealing the date idea if it means I'm not going to hear the rest of it." I roll my eyes. "I'd rather think of something else then."

"Fine, fine. I won't bring it up again." I look up, raising my eyebrows at him. He looks sincere. So I hold out my pinkie, knowing that in his childish mind, locking them will actually make him take a promise seriously.

"Promise?"

"Where's the trust?" He sighs dramatically but ultimately links his finger with mine. "Fine. I promise."

"Thank you, Asher. You can go home now."

"Wow, what a dismissal," he chuckles and hits my shoulder playfully. "I get it. Go and agonize over the message you're going to send her. Let me know how it goes."

"Will do. See you tomorrow, Fuckface." He gives me a lazy wave with his middle finger as he walks out of my apartment, pulling the door shut behind him.

So... pottery, I guess. Where's my phone?

After a bit of searching, I find it under one of the couch pillows. It must have slipped out of my pocket when I sat down.

With cold fingertips, I pull up my contacts, scrolling through the list until I find her.

"Millie ;*"

God, even the way she saved her name in my contact list is adorable. I open a chat with her and stare at the empty conversation. Then I change tabs to my browser, and Asher's words echo in my head. 'She's going to appreciate you having a plan.'

I fear he’s right.

After a quick research, I find a pottery studio and text Van, asking him to call them and get us an exclusive spot. Honestly, I'd do it myself, but ever since I landed some bigger roles, I’ve had some wild reactions to calling places. From people trying to give me meals for free to people not believing that it’s actually me who wants an appointment.

Plus, Van knows all the NDA stuff and probably has a mountain-high pile of those hidden somewhere in his office, so I’m sure it makes more sense for him to talk to the owners anyway.

I hope he won’t make me wait too long. Nervousness starts creeping into my body, settling in with the feeling of ants crawling over my body.

Now it's my turn to jump up and pace the living room, until finally, after seventeen minutes and forty seconds, Van messages me the 'okay' from the studio. Thank God. I answer him with a thumbs-up emoji before pulling up the chat with Millie once more.

And then I stare at it. And stare at it even longer, hoping that the words are going to write themselves. Sadly, they don’t.

Fuck. What am I going to write?

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