Page 37 of Daddy Next Door

"I've lived here three years and didn't even know this place existed."

"They opened six months ago. I've been wanting to try it." He came around to open my door—an old-fashioned gesture that would have irritated me from anyone else but from him felt like care rather than condescension.

We walked toward the entrance, and I caught the scent of damp earth and minerals before we even stepped inside. The studio was bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed beams overhead strung with twinkling lights. Wheels lined one wall, while shelves of pre-made pieces waited on the other side to be painted. Large worktables filled the center space, each with four stools around it. About half the tables were occupied with couples and small groups, their laughter and conversation creating a pleasant background hum.

Ethan's hand rested lightly on the small of my back as we entered. The touch was subtle but electric, a point of heat that anchored me to him as we moved into the unfamiliar space.

A woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun looked up from behind the counter and smiled broadly. "Ethan! Right on time." She wiped clay-covered hands on her apron and came around to greet us.

I glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. He'd been here before?

"Marissa, this is Lily," he said, his voice warm. "Lily, this is Marissa, the owner and resident clay wizard."

Marissa laughed. "Hardly a wizard. Just twenty years of practice." She extended a clean finger to shake my hand.

"Well, come on back. I've got your table ready," Marissa said, leading us toward the rear of the studio where a small table for two sat slightly apart from the others. Two aprons hung on the backs of the stools, and a pitcher of water with two glasses waited beside clean tools.

"You can start with the wheel if you want," she explained, "or choose a piece to paint from the bisque shelves. All the glazes are non-toxic, and everything's food-safe once it's fired. I'll check in on you shortly to see if you need help."

As soon as she walked away, I gravitated toward the shelves of paintable pieces, running my fingers along mugs, plates, and whimsical figurines. A fox with an impish expression. A butter dish shaped like a cloud. Bowls with delicate scalloped edges.

"See anything you like?" Ethan asked, standing close enough that I could feel his warmth but not so close that it felt intrusive.

"I'm drawn to this." I picked up a large mug with a spiral handle that curved like a galaxy. "I've been thinking about a night sky design. Deep blues and purples with touches of white for stars."

"That sounds beautiful," he said, his voice genuine. "You have a good eye for color."

"Thank you," I said, suddenly shy. "So, have you got any pottery experience?"

"None whatsoever." He grinned. "But I thought I'd try the wheel. How hard can it be?"

The answer, as it turned out, was very hard.

We returned to our table, where I carefully arranged colors for my mug while Ethan tied on his apron and sat at the wheel nearby. Marissa brought him a ball of clay and gave brief instructions before moving on to help another customer.

I watched, amused, as Ethan placed the clay on the wheel and pressed the pedal. The wheel spun too fast, the clay wobbled precariously, and his first attempt collapsed into a sad, uneven disk.

"Very impressive," I said, unable to keep the laughter from my voice.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to see you do better."

"No way. I'm happy with my mug." I dipped a brush in deep blue glaze and began applying the base coat, but I couldn't help glancing over as he started again with fresh clay.

His second attempt rose promisingly into a cylinder before listing dramatically to one side and collapsing. Clay splattered onto his apron and forearms. A fleck landed on his cheek, and I had to resist the urge to reach over and wipe it away.

"The trick," Marissa said, appearing beside him with perfect timing, "is to center the clay first." She demonstrated with her own piece, hands steady as she guided the clay into a perfectly centered mound. "Keep your hands wet, and don't fight the clay. Work with it."

Ethan nodded, face set in concentration. He cleaned the wheel, took a fresh ball of clay, and tried again. This time, he moved more slowly, wetting his hands frequently as Marissa had shown. The clay wobbled, threatened to go off-center, then gradually stabilized under his persistent hands.

"There you go," Marissa encouraged. "Now open the center, gentle pressure with your thumbs."

I abandoned all pretense of working on my mug to watch Ethan. His brow furrowed in concentration as he pressed carefully into the center of the clay. Water and clay slipped through his fingers, but gradually a small depression formed, then widened under his guidance.

"Now pull up the walls," Marissa instructed. "Inside and outside hands working together."

He tried, but the clay was unforgiving. The walls of his emerging bowl were uneven, thick on one side and paper-thin on the other. He grimaced as one section began to wobble dangerously.

"Steady," Marissa said. "Don't overthink it."

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