Page 38 of How to Date a Prince

I’ve thrown six more or less identical plates, and I’ve moved on to a pair of large serving bowls. I’m on bowl number two, sometime after midnight, when a head peeks around the partly open door, scaring the hell out of me.

“Fuck.” I jump, knocking the side of my bowl, and it collapses into a spinning mess on the wheel.

“Hey.” Thomas holds up his arms in surrender. “It’s only me.”

I stare. Then scowl. “Avoidance doesn’t work one bit if you show up in my bothy.”

I sit up, lifting my foot from the pedal as the ruined bowl slowly stops rotating. “At the very least, you should… knock or something. And shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I ask pointedly. “Not startling the competition like you’re some kind of ghost. It’s late.”

“Boo.” Thomas leans in the doorway. He holds a guitar case. His gaze is… well, I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I can tell he’s missing nothing. Taking in the sight of me in my clay-splattered apron, my hands and forearms also generously covered in clay and related slurry. I reach for a towel to try to wipe them off. I don’t make a sign of moving from my stool. “I thought we might try to talk again.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Why?”

After all, this is my shed by all rights, and I’m defending my territory.

Thomas props his guitar case against the edge of the stone entry. “Because it’s a good idea if you’re worried about getting filmed together. We can come up with a strategy, if you like.”

I look from the guitar to him, down to my ruined pot. At least the guitar case tells me what he was up to. My frown returns, complete with furrowed brow. “A strategy?”

“Yes.”

I shake my head to clear it. “I had a strategy.” Then I sigh. “Maybe I overreacted a little. Like you said.”

“Maybe.” Thomas continues to gaze at me from where he remains in the entryway, the door open for the summer’s night breeze.

“Are you out crooning to the sleeping birds?” I ask, fully lifting my head at last.

Thomas grins. “Yeah. With them dead asleep, they can’t complain about me ruining their vibe. Or their pots.”

“Fair.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll take over at dawn, and order will be restored in the world once again,” he says easily. After another long moment of lingering in the doorway, he nods at me. “Mind if I come in?”

“Is this like inviting a vampire over the threshold? I mean, come in if you want.” I eye him.

“I promise I’m not a vampire.” He lifts an eyebrow at me. “And, by the way, you have a great singing voice. Does your adoring public know?”

“Certainly not. And I don’t have an adoring public.”

Thomas’ grin gets bigger. “That’s what you think.”

“You made me ruin my pot.”

“Sorry.” He looks entirely unrepentant. “What’re you doing?”

“What does it look like?” I reply archly.

“Sewing, I think.”

I shake my head. “I can’t help you if you’re that confused.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asks, leaning against the door.

“Oh, I don’t sleep. Not well, anyway.” I consider my ruined pot and remove it efficiently from the wheel as a lump of collapsed clay.

“I really am sorry about your pot. I didn’t think you’d jump.”

“Yeah, well. I thought I was alone.”

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