Beckett snapped his fingers together. “Well, damn it. There goes my idea for the afternoon.”

I tried to think of something funny to say but came up short. Talking to Beckett could be so easy.

Until it wasn’t.

And I was left thinking about slathering him with wet clay and rubbing him all over.

“Can I paint this one?” Beckett asked, saving me from my pit of awkward. He held up the butterfly that was perched on a leaf.

“Odd choice for a guy, don’t you think?” I asked, relieved that the strange moment of tension was gone.

“Don’t impose your gender stereotypes on me, Corin,” Beckett scolded good-naturedly. “Guys can like butterflies too,” he said, standing up straight and putting his shoulders back.

“I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise,” I said, waving him toward the empty table. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some paint.”

I walked toward the storeroom as Adam was coming out of the office. He startled when he saw me. “Feeling better?” I asked him. Looking jumpy, he ran his hand through his hair. What was up with him?

“Oh, yeah, I’m cool. All better now. Getting back to it.” He looked behind me to where Beckett was sitting at the table. “What’s with the dude?”

“Oh, he’s just a friend.” No big deal. Nothing to see here, folks.

“Uh-huh. Since when do you have those?” Adam asked.

Ouch.

“I have you, knucklehead.”

“Adam, did you see my hair tie—oh hey, Corin,” Krista chimed, coming out of the office.

Wait. What was she doing in there?

“Yeah, I was bringing it out to you. Here…”—Adam shoved the elastic in Krista’s hands—“Now get back out there. I think the group is leaving,” he told her gruffly.

Krista scampered off and I glared at him.

“You really need to work on being nicer to people. She’s going to quit if you keep treating her like that.”

“Whatever. She’ll be fine,” Adam muttered.

“If she quits, you have to find her replacement,” I threatened. I grabbed a couple of pots of paint and stomped off, annoyed with Adam’s surly attitude even if I should be used to it by now. I returned to Beckett and dropped the paint on his table.

“No blue? What self-respecting butterfly doesn’t have blue…” he trailed off as he looked up at me. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“If you want blue, I’ll get you some,” I offered.

He pulled out the chair beside him. “Don’t worry about it. But why don’t you paint something too?”

I shook my head. “I don’t sample the merchandise.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve never painted something in your own store?” Beckett asked in disbelief.

“Uh, no, I guess not.” I didn’t do a lot in the way of painting and sculpting anymore. Unless it was for a workshop. I couldn’t remember the last time I made something because I wanted to.

“Well, grab something and sit down. Let’s de-stress together.” His offer was appealing in its simplicity.

I grabbed another butterfly off the shelf. This one appeared to be in mid-flight. Its wings lifted up as though gliding on a gust of wind.

“The butterflies will always protect you, Corin. They’ll keep you safe.”

The memory of my mother’s voice rang in my ears. I hadn’t been able to find comfort in her words in a long time.

And that often seemed like the greater loss.

But seeing the delicate butterfly in Beckett’s hand had me remembering when my butterflies made me happy.

I sat down beside Beckett, who was already dipping his brush into the pot of yellow paint and smearing it on the plaster.

“It’s fun hanging out with you, Corin,” Beckett said, and I laughed.

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”

Beckett frowned. “Well, then you’re not hanging out with the right people.”

“And you’re the right people?” I asked, teasing but suddenly serious.

“Yeah, I think I am. In fact, give me your phone.” He held his hand out and I gave him my phone without thinking twice.

No hesitation.

He so easily stepped right over any resistance I may have had.

He tapped away and a few seconds later his phone rang and then stopped.

“Now I have your number and you have mine,” he said when I obviously looked confused.

“Why?” I asked stupidly.

“So you can hang out with the right people again,” he commented, picking up his paintbrush and continuing with his project.

“We see each other at group, you know,” I threw out there.

I sounded unsure but I really wanted to hang out with him again.

I didn’t want to admit out loud how much.

But I did want to.

“Yeah, but I’d like a reason to come here again.” Beckett looked around before his eyes returned to mine. Dancing and happy.

“I like this place,” Beckett said sincerely. He meant it. I could tell.

The noisy preschool group had finished and were filtering out the door. The quiet that was left behind was nice.

My shop was the closest thing I had to a home. Home wasn’t the place I grew up. It wasn’t the apartment where I laid my head at night.

It was in the studio where I had lived through my grief and tried to come out on the other side.

It was in the tables and the chairs and the paint.

It was in the smiles of customers and the knowledge that for once I had done something that was just for me.

And I knew that somehow, someway, this stranger, this man I was only barely beginning to know, saw that.

He liked my studio.

That meant more than him saying that he liked me.

I stopped painting, feeling the tiny frantic wings of my butterflies in my stomach and they didn’t feel painful or frantic.

I looked over at Beckett, whose head was still bent over his figurine, taking his time to get the colors just right.

He liked the studio.

He liked it.

And he wanted to call me.

He wanted to hang out…with me.

He thought I was fun.

I smiled, feeling strangely full.

“I’m glad.”

Chapter 9

Beckett

“Hey, I brought you the information about the pottery workshop if you want to sign up,” Corin said, handing me a pamphlet.

I was filling up my mug with tea and waiting for the rest of the members of the Mended Hearts support group to show up. I was dragging today after having very little sleep the night before.

I took the pamphlet from Corin and smiled at her.

I was glad to see her.

I thought about calling her on my lunch break today but figured that would be a little much considering I’d see her that evening in group.

“I almost called you today,” she said, as if reading my mind.

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“I bought myself a box of that green tea stuff you had on Friday.”

“And?” I prompted.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s so much better than coffee and that you’re crazy for thinking otherwise.” She brushed her long brown hair over her shoulder and I couldn’t stop staring at her. When I had first met her, I thought she was pretty in an understated way. Now I realized that pretty didn’t really describe Corin Thompson.

She was beautiful.

I found myself staring a little too long at her mouth and noticeably cleared my throat, looking away.

“Well, you should have called.”

“I will next time. No sense in wasting an opportunity to tell you how wrong you are,” Corin remarked.

I laughed. “Don’t get used to it. It won’t happen often.” I took a drink of tea. “Thanks for the pamphlet,” I said, holding it up.