Page 14 of Icebound

“Yeah, but I want to,” I whisper in her ear, pulling her closer. “You can tell me all about the brains you saved that day.”

“Or we could talk about anything other than that,” she says in that same tone I use when Coach demands we do bag skates after losing a game.

My lips drop into a frown. I thought she’d be happier about the date. With a glare at Isaac, she pulls out of my grasp and strides through the crowd to the tow truck driver.

“It’s a date then,” Isaac calls after her, and then sidles up next to me. “Sorry about Nina. She gets like that sometimes, which you’ll learn. She can be a lot to handle.”

I shove my hands deep into my pockets, so I’m not tempted to use them on this asshole. “She can handle me anytime she wants.”

“No, of course. Didn’t mean it like that, man. My bad.” He blows out a breath. “Has she uh, told you about us?”

I roll up my cuffs. “You know, you haven’t come up much, and I don’t care about her past. Just her future.”

If anyone judged me for my dating record, I’d never find someone.

He slaps my shoulder, chiefing me, and I glare at the prick. “Just be careful with her. It didn’t work out between us, and we’re both better off for that, but she’s been through a lot. I still care about her even if we were terrible together, so I’m happy she has you.”

Nina’s waving her hands like a flight attendant hyped up on too much airplane coffee. Whatever argument she’s having, she’s winning.

Isaac sighs at her flailing arms. “I don’t want to see her get hurt. She’s a good girl.”

A corner of my mouth tugs up as I watch her.

And here I was hoping the cute doctor would be a little bad.

4

NINA

“You need a steadier hand to center the clay, Philomena.” Pierre peers over my shoulder, letting his long gray hair fall into my face.

I lift my foot off the pottery wheel pedal. “I know, I’m trying, but my fingers are a little shaky today.”

“Hmm, indeed,” he muses, clapping his hands speckled with dried paint to capture the students’ attention. “Let's pause our creative toils for a moment. Today, we delve into the nuanced world of hand-building techniques, but first, I'm eager to hear about your progress with The Peaceful Mind Project.”

Our vivacious ceramics professor is in his seventies, but despite his white hair and wrinkled face, he’s one of the most youthful people I’ve met. He demands we call him Pierre—never Professor.

Pierre scans the cluttered art studio. It’s a mess of canvases, kilns, and half-finished paintings, but it’s one of my favorite places to visit on campus when I need to tune the world out.

“Consider this a pivotal moment in your artistic journey,” he announces. “You have precisely three months to secure a donation for the charity auction, which marks the culmination of our semester. Remember, pottery, painting, and art in all forms can be exceptionally therapeutic.”

Noah leans across the jars of paintbrushes to whisper in my ear. With his wild blond curls, gray Henley, and black-rimmed glasses, he’s Picasso’s wet dream.

We’ve been desk partners since we walked into Sculptural Ceramics at the beginning of the semester. “So, basically, Pierre wants us to do his dirty work and find the auction items for the charity event that he organized? Nice.”

I wipe my clay-spattered hands on my apron. “At least it’s for a good cause. I’ve been researching The Peaceful Mind Project, and they provide funding for art studios around the world. I mean, throwing a pot calms me down, so it’s helpful…”

“True.” Noah raises his hand. “Hey, Pierre. Can’t we just donate one of the art pieces we’ve made in class instead of finding an auction item?”

Pierre lifts his nose, prim and proper. “Unfortunately, no one would bid on your piece, Noah.”

A few people in class chuckle.

“I’d bid on his piece,” I interject in his defense. “I find his spherical sculptures to be full of delicate nuances, with each subtlety carrying a certain ethereal grace.”

I pulled that comment out of my ass.

Pierre flicks a finger in the air. “Ah, an astute observation, Philomena.”