Page 145 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
She freezes. "I didn’t realize it was such a big deal to you that I captured your likeness."
"It is though." I stalk toward her, and she takes a step back. "It’s a very, very big deal that you spent your time molding a piece of lifeless clay into my features."
"Fine," she says stiffly, "I’ll throw it away."
"You will not," I growl.
"No?" She scowls. "You’re confusing me now."
"Good," I come to a stop in front of her, "because you’ve confused me from the moment I set eyes on you."
She draws in a breath then surveys my features. "Why are you here, Damian?"
"Why do you think?"
She walks past me, heads for the bust, "I… I don’t know." She drops her backpack on the ground next to her, shrugs out of her coat and flings it aside. "Either way, I am done here."
"Are you now?"
She nods. "You made it very clear to me in the hospital that you didn’t want anything to do with me."
"Did you see the video that I recorded?" I glare at her.
"What if I did?" Ignoring the bust, she walks over to the potter’s wheel that I had set up for her, in my apartment, where she still is. She flips the switch so it begins to turn, then grabs a lump of clay and places it in the center of the wheel.
"You have nothing to say about it?" I frown
"It was a beautiful song, if that’s what you want to know. The lyrics made me cry. It brought out all of your pent-up grief over Riley in a way that is deeply moving," she replies, her tone sincere. "I think it’s your best work so far."
"Thanks to you," I reply. "You showed me how to dig deep inside and channel my emotions into words. If it hadn’t been for you, I couldn’t have written that."
Her shoulders freeze. She leans forward, dips her fingers into the bowl of water and cups it around the clay. The thrum of the wheel fills the space; the slurp of her flesh against the clay reaches me. I prowl over to her, watch over her shoulder as she bends in concentration, her gaze focused on the beauty taking shape under her fingertips. She scoops up some water, dribbles it on the clay again.
I reach past her, dip my fingers in the bowl of water, then splash it in her face.
"Hey," she protests, "don’t do that."
I cup more water in my palm, hold it over her hair. It drips down her face, splatters on her shirt, molding the fabric to the curve of her breasts.
"What the—" She glances down at herself, then flicks her hand and clay splatters across the front of my jacket.
"Stop that," I admonish her; just as the clay instantly droops in the center of the wheel.
"Look what you did now!" she cries.
"Hmm." I glance down at the wheel, then back at her, "Maybe I should rectify it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Scoot forward."
"What?"
"Do it," I order.
She scowls, then moves closer to the worktable.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it aside, then swing my leg over the seat.
