Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
My stomach flips at his words. He’s talking about well over six months from now. He’s talking like we’ll still be together. What would Christmas with Trace be like? Would we build snowmen together and make snow angels and have snowball fights? Could we snuggle in front of the fire and watch holiday movies?
Tears prick my eyes at the thought of spending those moments with him. After my mom died, Christmas and other holidays lost their meaning. My dad didn’t care about celebrating them and it wasn’t like I had any friends. Instead, each day passed just like the one before it. There were no celebrations, no birthdays, no way of marking the passing of time with special moments. “It’d be fun to do that.”
A few beats of silence pass between us and I wonder if he’s thinking about holidays too. Somehow, I imagine that his have been just as sad and lonely as mine. But I don’t want either of us thinking about our pasts right now. I want to focus on the present and the beautiful thing we’re discovering between us. “How did you get into welding?”
“I left home when I was sixteen. Lived on the streets for a while before Roman found me. He hired me on one of his construction crews. I got to know a few of the guys that did welding. Got into it from there. Eventually, I started creating pieces and they sold well. Enough that I didn’t have to be part of a construction crew anymore.” He blows out a breath, looking surprised that he’s talked so much about himself. “What about you? Where do you come from?”
I can’t answer that question. There’s a lot I can’t tell him about my past. Not if I want to keep him safe. The thought fills me with sadness because I want to let Trace in. I want him to know everything about me. Instead, I shrug. “Here and there.”
Disappointment flickers across his face, but he nods. “How about clay? You said you’re an artist. How did you get to working with that medium?”
I think of how I can answer those questions without revealing too much. But before I can respond, Peyton arrives with our dinner of fish and chips. The food is perfectly crispy and greasy, and Trace lets me steal fries from his plate after I finish mine.
As long as I’m careful, I can give him some pieces of my story. “I’ve always liked art, and I’ve tried a lot of different things. Watercolor painting and drawing with charcoal and even some woodworking. Nearly sliced off a finger.” I hold out my hand to show him the faint scar along my pinkie. “After that, my dad said no more woodworking. It was probably for the best. I wasn’t very good at it.”
He chuckles and thankfully doesn’t touch on the topic of my father. “So, after that you started with clay?”
I nod and push away my now empty plate. “I’m making complex things now—entire villages and little scenes. I’d like to make a dollhouse. Make all the furniture. I think that would be fun. Maybe in time I could do something, like turn it into a career. But I don’t know what. Actually, it sounds kind of dumb when I say it out loud.” I chew on my lower lip. My dad would have laughed at my dreams. He would have told me I’m stupid.
But Trace brightens at my words. He glances at the clock on his phone then pushes to his feet. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
We walk down Main Street together and when Trace links his fingers through mine, I think I could float away. I glance at our hands. Then I look up and he’s looking at me again and we both smile at the same time. A bubbly, giggly feeling fills me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I like it.
He leads me into a little shop with a sign over it that reads Seize the Clay. A woman with red ringlets peeks out behind shelves of clay creations. There’s a collection of gnomes on one shelf, and another shelf features puppies chasing each other through long, tall grass. There’s so much to see and my fingers itch to reach out and touch them all. “Welcome to—oh, hey, Trace. Who’s your friend?”
He introduces me to Summer, the owner of the shop, then adds, “She makes things with clay too.”
My cheeks heat. “N-not like you. Your stuff is really cool.”
Her eyes light up and she links her arm through mine before taking me around the shop to discuss her various creations. She asks me lots of questions about what I do and even shows me the classroom where she teaches other people how to get started in clay.