Page 39 of The Prospect

Shit.

“Way to go, Hazel,” Hart remarks. “You just scared off our instructor.”

I know he’s joking given the way he’s laughing, but still, I can’t help but feel remorseful.

“I…I’m sorry.” A sense of panic kicks in. “I didn’t realize by saying that she’d just…leave! I’ll go get her.” I stand up from my chair, ready to do some damage control. “I’ll get her to show us how?—”

Before I can take a step forward, Hart gently clutches a hold of my wrist and brings me to a stop.

For a minute, I psychoanalyze the intentions of his touch, though I don’t need to. Hart shows not an ounce of resistance when it comes to telling me exactly what his grasp means, and when he does, I just about melt.

“I think I’d much preferyouto teach me instead.”

Forty-five minutes later,I’ve shown Hart at least a dozen times what he needs to do, but still, he doesn’t seem to be grasping it.

His clunky hands are covered in more clay than what's on the pottery lathe, yet his narrowed stare and intentful bite of his bottom lip tell me he’s so concentrated on perfecting his creation, he’s failed to realize just how dry the clay is.

It’s hilarious and adorable at the same time.

“You like?” Hart cockily smirks up at me, forcing me to shy away from his stare. I can’t tell if his question is a referral to himself or the creation beneath his grasp. Either way the answer is yes. One hundred percent yes.

I nod softly. “I do, but…” I dissect his clay, trying my best to come to some conclusion on what the heck it is that he’s been working so hard at. “What uh—” A snicker falls from my lips. “Is it?”

He leans back into his stool before he places a hand on either hip. “What’s so funny?” he mocks, playfully pretending to be offended. “Are you making fun of my masterpiece over there, Hazel?”

Masterpiece.

I’m practically compelled to burst into laughter from just the use of the word, yet brush it off. “No, of course not, Hart. I’m laughing because I genuinely can’t believe just howgoodyou are at this,” I lie, having way too much fun playing along with this whole façade. “Your masterpiece is beautiful, Hart,” I compliment. “What is it?” I try yet again to hold out on the giggles, but I prove to be unsuccessful as I sputter out, “A rock?”

This time Hart chews on the inside of his cheek, smiling wide as he shakes his head and lifts it into the air. “You say a rock, but hey, maybe it’s a stone? Or a lump of coal? What do they call it in the art world…abstract?”

My eyes light up.

He knows what abstract is?

“Don’t look so surprised, Hazel.” Hart abandons his workstation and rolls his way over to mine. “I mean, I knew whatGhostwas, didn’t I?”

I gulp as he settles himself only a few inches away from me—a sense of comfort creeping in.

“That you did,” I whisper, trying my best to maintain conversation, but using my vase before me as a way to distract myself from looking at him directly. It’s so easy to lose my train of thought when I look into his eyes. “But did you know thatGhostjust so happens to be one of my favorites of all time?”

“It is?” Hart tilts his head in interest. “Really?”

Reluctantly, I nod. “It was one of the main reasons why I actually took that pottery class in my first term at uni. I thought that scene between Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze was so romantic that maybe…” I lose confidence in what I was just about to say and disband the sentence altogether.

“Maybe what?” Hart’s quick to jump in, urging me to keep going. “C’mon, don’t leave me in suspense. Maybe what, Hazel?”

I sigh.“That maybe what happened in the movie would, uh—happen to me?” I can feel the red as it rushes to my cheeks. “It was stupid. I was naive to think that would happen…”

“You’re not naive, nor are you stupid, Hazel. In fact…” Hart scoots in close, working his way behind me as the remainder ofhis sentence gets hummed into my ear. “I actually think it’s kind of sweet.”

I grow breathless in the best way possible as Hart’s hands slowly trickle their way down my wrists and intertwine within my own. “You do?”

He nods his head. “I do.” His voice is light despite the sheer weight of his touch. “Now…” He brushes some hair behind my ear. “Do me the honor of recreating the scene with me, Hazel? Unless of course, you no longer think it’s romantic…”

I nervously peer over my shoulder, my throat dry, my heart racing, yet my lips tight as I suppress an aching smile.

“It will never not be romantic.”

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