Yep. It was nausea again.

“I didn’t realize you were that hard up for friends that you feel you have to resort to paying for them, Beck,” I responded dryly, proud of myself for covering up my embarrassment with a superbly witty comeback.

“You called me Beck,” he said with a soft smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it just sort of slipped out—”

“No, it’s what all my friends and family call me. I like hearing you call me that. That just means that we’ve made it official, you know. You can’t get rid of me now. We’ve graduated to cutesy nicknames. Isn’t that right, Corrie? Or should I call you the Corinator? Or maybe Cor-Cor?”

“How about we stick with Corin? Unless you don’t mind losing a kneecap or two,” I retorted.

I checked the clock on the wall and realized it was time to start the workshop. I looked around the mostly empty room and sighed.

“I guess we should get started. Go and sit by a wheel.” I dropped my voice into a whisper, “Though I’d recommend keeping a healthy distance from the Webbers. They tend to get a little…messy.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow. “Uh. Okay.”

I started the workshop by handing out lumps of clay and filling up bowls of water for everyone. The Webbers, having been my faithful customers for several years, already knew what they were doing and turned on their pottery wheels.

Beckett picked up the lump of clay and slapped it down on the wheel, patting it with his hand.

“I’m supposed to make something out of this? Seriously?” he asked incredulously. I sat down beside him and turned on the wheel.

“Get your hands wet first,” I instructed, dunking my own in the bowl of water I had placed on the table.

“Okay, wet hands. Check.” He held up his dripping fingers proudly.

I rolled my eyes and pointed at the clay spinning in circles. “Now cup your hands around the clay and squeeze. Just a bit. Not too hard or it will flatten.”

Beckett did as I told him but obviously exerted too much pressure. The ball collapsed and flew off to the side of the wheel.

“Crap. Sorry,” he apologized.

“Here, let me show you,” I offered, pulling my chair in closer. I dipped my hands in the water again and curled them around the clay, squeezing gently, manipulating it until it became a cone. I pressed my thumb into the top, creating a slight divot.

“How did you do that?” Beckett asked, watching me the whole time.

“It’s not that difficult. It just takes some practice. If you want to make a bowl, which is probably easiest for a beginner, you will need to anchor your arm like this and press down. Use a little pressure from the side. You want to keep the clay wet so it’s easy to mold.”

There was a high-pitched moan from the other side of the room, and we both looked over to where Mr. and Mrs. Webber were rubbing each other with wet clay. Mrs. Webber put her head back and moaned again as Mr. Webber ran dirty, clay-covered fingers over the base of her neck.

“What the hell?” Beckett laughed in disbelief.

“They come every week. And every week I have to remind them this isn’t a porn show.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Webber, please keep the clay on the wheel,” I called out, feeling like I was instructing kids rather than a couple in their sixties.

Neither of them looked at me but they thankfully returned to their project.

“And you said there wouldn’t be any dirty Ghost stuff. You lied, Corin!” Beckett scolded.

“Do you want to know how to make a bowl or what?” I asked.

“Can I cover you with clay when I’m done?” he asked, his eyes strangely heated. Was Beckett flirting with me?

I swallowed thickly and kept my eyes trained on the spinning wheel.

My chest felt tight and my breathing became a little labored. But I knew it had nothing to do with a heart problem or a possible illness.

It had everything to do with the man who sat beside me.

“Okay, come on. I need you to pay attention,” I said after clearing my throat a couple of times.

I went through the steps slowly and when I was finished, I had a perfectly formed bowl. I turned off the wheel and carefully picked it up from the base.

“I’ll never be able to do that. No way,” Beckett proclaimed after I set my piece aside. I grabbed him another lump of clay and dropped it on his wheel.

“Well, that’s very defeatist of you, Mr. Positivity. Where’s that so-perky-it-makes-me-want-to-throw-up personality I’ve come to expect from you?” I teased, slipping back into our banter effortlessly.

“Are you mocking me, Cor-Cor?” he demanded affably.

I flicked a piece of wet clay at him. “Don’t call me that. It sounds like something you’d call your dog.”

Beckett grinned and wiped the clay from his arm. “Didn’t you just tell the Webbers to keep the clay on the wheel? Are you having a hard time following your own rules?”

I flicked more clay at him. Who was this spontaneous, gleeful woman? I kind of liked her.

Beckett shook his head and there was something about his expression that made my heart flip over on itself. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation. It was actually pretty terrifying.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he threatened, sinking his fingers into the wet clay and holding them out in front of my face.

I backed away and held my hands up in surrender. “I give up! I give up!”

He wiggled his fingers and inched closer, and I found that I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my cheeks.

I grabbed a handful of wet, mucky clay and pressed it to the side of his face. He let out a laugh that I felt in the pit of my stomach. It stomped on the butterflies. Pulverizing them into nonexistence.

“No!” I squealed, smacking Beckett’s hands away as he tried to retaliate. He reached for me and I evaded.

His eyes sparkled and I let mine sparkle back.

Then he stopped, his hands dropping into his lap. He bent over and I could hear him start to wheeze.

“Beck?”

He held up a finger to indicate I should give him a minute but I wasn’t about to listen.

I gripped him by the shoulders, trying to get him to look at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked, hearing the panic in my voice. A panic I couldn’t suppress.

His face was contorted into something that looked a lot like pain. He lifted his hand and clutched the front of his shirt, balling it up in his hand.

I was frozen, not sure what to do. My palms started to sweat and my hands began to shake.

Then I wasn’t seeing Beckett. I was looking at someone else.

Somewhere else.

“I’m sorry, Cor. So sorry. I don’t want to leave you all alone…”

All alone…

“Beck?” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

Mr. and Mrs. Webber were looking in our direction. “Is everything okay?” Mr. Webber asked, getting to his feet.

Finally Beckett looked up, his face unnaturally pale.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, holding up his hand. “Seriously, just a little heartburn or something,” he told Mr. Webber, who nodded and returned to groping his wife with the clay.

“Heartburn?” I asked, weak and overcome.

“Don’t leave me, Dad. Please!” I cried and I cried and I knew he couldn’t hear me. He was past listening.

He was already gone.

“I’m sure that’s all it was. I just had a doctor’s appointment, Corin. I’m fine,” he said, trying to placate me.

But I wasn’t having it. I felt an answering pain in the middle of my chest and I was pretty sure I was going to pass out.

“That didn’t look like heartburn,” I whispered.

Beckett smoothed out his shirt and briefly touched his incision scar. The telling gesture did nothing to reassure me.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” I asked, feeling the ever-present panic rearing its horrible head.

Beckett reached out and grabbed my hand. “Stop it. Right now, Corin,” he demanded harshly.

“You should go to the doctor. You should get checked out. What if there’s something wrong—”