Page 61 of How Sweet It Is

Our food comes, and I dig in. Their gluten-free buns aren’t the best I’ve had but not the worst either. I’m just impressed that Levi has been so cognizant of my celiac disease. It melts my heart. Even my family would forget and pick up dinner somewhere, only to figure out I couldn’t eat any of it. The memory of so many meals like that stings my eyelids.

As I eat, I think back on how Levi acted after I slipped and accidentally said my real name. He seemed to not think much of it, but what if he noticed? What if he now knows my real name?If Levi knows, will I get kicked out of the program? Or would he keep my secret?

I try not to stress about it, but it’s alarming to me that I could do something so stupid. That I could make such a massive mistake. I was talking about the past and my family, and I should have known better.

I glance across the table at Levi. He’s licking ketchup off his thumb and telling me some ridiculous story about how he once tried to make a three-layer cake using only a toaster oven and prayer.

I manage a smile, but my stomach clenches in guilt.

“You okay?” he asks, suddenly serious. His eyes meet mine, and I realize he’s picked up on me beating myself up over my mistake.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

His head tilts just slightly. “You got quiet after I mentioned the next stop. Is it the messiness you’re worried about or the mystery?”

“Both,” I lie, glad that’s what he’s thinking. I take a sip of my root beer. “You’re deliberately vague.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“And what if I don’t like surprises?”

He leans in, smirking. “Then I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

Trust. That word hangs between us like a challenge, one I have no business accepting. But something in me wants to. Desperately. In more ways than a non-date. I mentally shake my head, because I can’t. Not right now.

He stands and tosses a few bills onto the table. “Come on, Spreadsheet. Let’s go get messy.”

My pulse stutters. He’s back to saying my nickname in that sexy way of his. And I have to admit, I like it.

We step out of the bar and into the warm island night. Levi hands me the helmet again, that cocky grin back in place.

I put the helmet on, trying to focus on the hum of anticipation instead of the guilt threatening to crawl up my spine. I slide onto the bike behind him, and as he starts the engine, I wrap my arms tight around his waist… for safety.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The ride is short but electric. The night air whips past us, salty and warm. I press closer than I need to, my arm rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt. He smells like soap and sugar, like heat and passion and everything I’ve tried so hard to avoid.

The bike rumbles beneath us, and for a second, I let my eyes close and imagine this is what freedom feels like. Freedom from my lies. Freedom from Victor DeLuca. The freedom to be myself with Levi.

He parks in front of a brick building with big windows, softly lit from inside. The sign says Coastal Clayworks.

“You’re taking me to a pottery class?” I ask, unstrapping my helmet.

He grins as he gets off the bike. “You said you wanted to loosen up. I’m just providing the wheel.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Please tell me you don’t expect me to make a vase on my first try.”

“No expectations. Just hands-on learning.”

Inside, the studio is warm and smells of earth and creativity. There are rows of pottery wheels, shelves of drying pieces, and at the front desk, a woman with large glasses who smiles when we walk in. “Levi. You brought a friend,” she says with a knowing smile.

“Not a date, Sylvia,” Levi says, glancing at me.

“Right,” she says, clearly unconvinced.

“This is Amelia, my accountant. We’re here to get our hands dirty.”

She hands us aprons. Mine’s too big and smells like dirt. Levi helps me tie it, his hands brushing my waist. I stiffen then force myself to relax.

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