Page 45 of The Dating Ban
Looks like Monday yoga isn’t ending anytime soon. And that’s all for me. Because I want it.
The intercom buzzes, crackling slightly.
I pause mid-sip of my tea, then set the mug down and shuffle over, pressing the button. “Hello?”
“Delivery for Ivy Gillman,” a gruff voice replies.
Right. That must be the clay.
I press the button again. “Be down in a sec.”
Slipping on my trainers, I grab my keys and make my way out, locking the door behind me. The entrance is next to the coffee shop, an unremarkable doorway opening up to a narrow staircase leading up to my place. As I step outside, the delivery guy is waiting on the pavement with a plain cardboard box balanced against his leg.
I sign the handheld scanner, barely paying attention, then reach to take the box… and immediately regret every decision that led me here. The moment the weight shifts into my arms, my back nearly gives out.
“Fuck!” I stumble slightly, shifting my grip, but it’s like someone’s filled the bloody thing with cement. It’s not particularly big, but it’s dense, like I’m holding a collapsed star.
The delivery guy watches, completely unfazed. “You alright, love?”
I grit my teeth, hoisting the package up with more effort than I’d like to admit. “Yep. All good.”
He gives a half-hearted thumbs-up before heading off down the street, while I try not to drop the box—or myself—right there on the pavement.
By the time I make it upstairs, my arms are burning, and I’ve acquired a deep and personal hatred for whatever is inside this thing. I manage to wrestle it onto my dining table with a loud thud, then stand there, catching my breath.
Right. What the hell did I order?
Grabbing some scissors, I slice through the tape and pull open the flaps. Inside, neatly wrapped in plastic, is clay.
A lot of clay.
I stare at it, confused. This doesn’t look like 2.5 kg.
Frowning, I push back the cardboard flaps and get a better look. There’s no neat stack of smaller packages, no tidy little bundles. Instead, there’s just one massive slab of dirt-brown clay, sealed inside a thick, see-through plastic bag. The label on the front reads:
12.5 kg.
I blink.
That can’t be right. I ordered 2.5 kg, not… this.
I double-check the box, as if smaller packages might be hiding inside, but no. It’s just one huge, solid block. I press a hand against it, feeling the cool, dense slab beneath the plastic.
What the hell am I supposed to do with 12.5 kilograms of clay?
This isn’t some cute little craft kit; this is industrial levels of material. I’d planned to make a few trinkets, maybe a dish or a little sculpture, but this? This is commitment. This is pottery bootcamp.
I grab my phone and check my order confirmation. Yup, I’m the idiot who can’t read and missed the one before the 2.5 kg.
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. What the hell am I supposed to do with this much of it?
12
Massive G and Wonky I
Theo
Lucy smacks the waterwith both hands, sending a wave over the side of the bath and straight into my lap. Warm, soapy water seeps through my jeans. Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted.
