The indention deepened and transformed the clay into a lopsided bowl. Pulling outward, she reduced the object into a plate, then brought her fingers up, creating a ridged vase and fluting the rim outward until the sides collapsed.

She slowed the wheel to return the shape to a lump then cupped her hands around it, kicking up speed while the clay climbed into a thick cylinder with a bulbous top.

It reminded her of the day she and her best friend Tanya had created outrageously large penises. They had tried to pass off their handiwork as an anatomy project, but Mother had dubbed the day their Phallic Period. She said no female artist worth her salt could resist the temptation to create the perfect male organ.

The same temptation gripped Gracie again. She extended the height and refined the shape. Leaning back, she assessed the result from arm’s length. Not bad. Bigger, better than any real one she’d ever seen. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

Absorbed in the moment, she only noticed the exterior door standing open when a draft began drying out the clay. She turned rather guiltily to face her grandmother. But Dylan stood with one foot crossed over the other, a broad shoulder propped against the doorframe.

A smirk on his otherwise gorgeous mouth made Gracie’s cheeks flame, much more embarrassed than she’d been when her mother had caught her red-handed at the same activity. In one motion, she flattened her design.

“Ouch,” he said with a wince. “I hope that wasn’t symbolic of some deep-seated need to emasculate.”

Chapter Seven

Gracie dreamed big, Dylan would give her that. He admired women with great expectations. But if she’d actually known a man of such epic proportions, he’d have to admit to the classic case of penis envy.

“If only it were that easy.” A flare of defiance replaced her embarrassment. “Ever notice how many men think having a dick gives them a license to act like one?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead of forming a protective shield over his jean-clad crotch. “A Bradford,” Grandfather always said, “never allowed himself to show fear.”

“You have anyone specific in mind?” Dylan asked.

She ticked off a list on her muddy fingers. “Sexual predators who prey on innocence, doctors who think that earning a medical degree turns them into gods, and my former fiancé.” The forced smile became a grimace. “Oops, the last one was redundant.”

Former fiancé? Interesting. Dylan tucked that information away for future reference. “I’ll try to remember not to get on your bad side.”

“Smart man.” Gracie reformed the squashed clay into a ball. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

After he’d brought Mrs. Lattimer home, he’d been drawn into the night as thoughts about his father and Clayton tumbled through his head. He’d headed toward the shore, but beyond the well-lit perimeter of the inn, the dark, unfamiliar coastline appeared sinister and threatening. The glistening tail of a skinny sliver of moon turned the water into a cold, remote, and endless force.

He’d moved toward the light in the carriage house like a masochist gravitating toward pain. Half expecting to find Gracie entertaining Clayton, Dylan had been relieved to look through the window and discover her alone.

Now, as she scraped the blob off the wheel, disappointment tugged at him. “Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the show.”

She peeked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m done for tonight.”

“You’re very good with your hands.” Her calm, efficient movements as she stroked, massaged, and manipulated the clay were more erotic than the suggestive subject matter.

While she’d been absorbed in the creative process, he had studied her face. Expressions ranging from melancholy to delight chased across her features as her hands morphed the clay from one utilitarian shape into another. Not until she began forming the fantasy-sized cock did the work really grab her attention. Total concentration had required her to hold the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth.

“My technique’s not bad, but the finished product doesn’t have any real... passion.” She held out her hands as if trying to grasp an invisible object just outside her reach.

“That last piece looked passionate as hell.”

Instead of laughing as he’d hoped she would, her lips compressed into a disapproving line while she moved around the work area, cleaning and storing her equipment.

Most other women would’ve shot back a flirtatious response, but he’d already noticed that Gracie wasn’t like other women. She held her own in any conversation, but there wasn’t a drop of coyness about her. She wouldn’t put up with any foolishness. Was that her natural response or a defense erected after the breakup with the boyfriend?

He peeked into the cold, empty kiln. “This is a pretty elaborate set-up for someone without talent.”

“My mother was the artist, not me.”

“Are those her pieces displayed in the house?” Fabulous examples of freeform and traditional pottery decorated every room of the B&B.

“For the most part.” Pride radiated from her eyes as Gracie rinsed out her bucket and sponge.

“They’re excellent.”

“See? That’s what I mean about passion. She breathed emotion into the clay as she shaped it.”

“How long since she died?”

“Nine years.”

Obviously, the recent death of his own mother made him sensitive to Gracie’s pain. Nothing else he could think of explained his urge to take her into his arms and comfort her. The stiffness of her spine informed him that she’d reject any but the most impersonal expression of sympathy. He crossed his arms and refrained. “That must have been tough for you.”

“Tougher for her. She was only forty-two and still had a lot of living she wanted to do.” Gracie soaped up her hands and arms like a surgeon, rinsing and re-rinsing until the muddy residue washed away. Reaching for a towel, she turned toward him. Her denim shirt held very few clean or dry spots. Streaks of dry clay decorated her cheek.

He took the towel from her, dampened one corner, and then tilted her chin up. “You missed a spot.”

“I usually do.” She stood still while he ministered to her as if she were a chocolate-smeared child.

Her gaze met his across the scant inches that separated them. Another impulse to hug her came upon him so strongly that he had to lean back to keep from pulling her against him. He’d never seen eyes so clear and easy to read, so completely lacking in artifice. They were deep and warm, honest and... vulnerable?

The tension pulled taut between them until Gracie blinked and broke the moment. Before she could turn away, he replaced the towel on her cheek with his thumb, pretending to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot. She had the softest skin he’d ever touched.

“This stuff dries like glue.” If he continued to scrape, he’d erase a freckle. But he hadn’t reached his fill of touching her. His hand traced down to the curve between her shoulder and neck. Her pulse beat visibly in the hollow of her throat, and a silver chain disappeared inside her shirt. He imagined the end nestling somewhere between her breasts. The urge to follow it to its hiding place became overwhelming.

As his finger began to trail the links, she swallowed, gave him a reproving look, and stepped away. A strong sense of loss echoed through him when she removed herself from his touch.

“Ti-time to close up shop.” Her aloof statement almost caused him to doubt the heat that had arced between them. Almost… if her voice hadn’t broken on that first word. She switched off the light. “You ready?”

“Getting there.” The night air felt blessedly cool as he stepped outside.

“‘Night, then.” She dismissed him without a backward glance. Too quickly and completely to suit him.