Page 39 of How to Date a Prince

Thomas is quiet long enough that when I look up again, he’s pulled up a stool opposite me like it’s time for a confessional with Colin. “You’ve got to sleep sometime.”

“Eventually. Guess I’ll keep throwing pots till I get sleepy.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Tired is not the same as sleepy,” I tell him, matter-of-fact. “Trust me. But don’t think I’m going to give up my project secrets simply because I’m tired.”

“Never.” His eyes dance. “Mind if I watch?”

“Are you some kind of late-night pottery voyeur?”

“Yes. Pretend I’m not here. Also, I liked the singing. I like seeing you happy.”

“Happy and I aren’t often on speaking terms.” But right now, I’m quietly ecstatic as I look at Thomas. His gaze is soft. And I can’t help but smile to have him here all to myself, like my wanting manifested him.

“Huh,” I say finally.

“Listen.”

I glance up at Thomas. My hair falls into my eyes, and I push it back with my wrist. I get a bit of clay on my face.

“I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to… well, admire.” He reaches out to lightly wipe the clay from my cheek.

I gasp at his touch, searching his eyes as I press my mouth into a line. Once I break his gaze, I reach for another piece of prepared clay. I put my foot back on the pedal but don’t press yet as I smack my clay onto the wheel. Ignoring him for a minute, I focus on the task of starting to center my clay.

Hold your ground, I tell myself. Just hold on. I grit my teeth. It’s impossible wanting Thomas. He’ll side with Wilson or overthrow the kingdom, natural first moves when hanging out in a shed together late at night.

“You’ll tell the entire country I’m gay on your new app?—”

Thomas’s dark eyebrows shoot up. He instantly frowns. “What do you take me for? Definitely not.”

“Fine. Then what are you doing out so late?” I relent at last.

“Practicing far away from the house where no one will hear me,” Thomas tells me.

“How’d it go?”

“Pretty good, yeah. I scared only one deer.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “You need better fans.”

“She ran far, I’m afraid. Probably doesn’t bode well.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I run my hands over the lump of clay that turns in my hands. And I start to work, raising and lowering the form until it rises once more, eventually taking shape into a large, low bowl.

Thomas gives a low whistle when at last I finish.

“It’s not perfect, quite.” I frown down at the form, pressing the pedal to spin once more. I work on smoothing out the side to my satisfaction when I finally stop again. “There. Better.”

“That’s fucking impressive, by the way.”

“It’s practice. You could do this too.”

He shakes his head. “Practice. And talent.”

The music plays on as we look at each other. Talent again. My lips twitch as I invoke my inner Taylor.

“Tell me.” I remove the piece from the wheel with a slice of the wire to remove the base. “Have you been spying on all of the competition?”

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