Page 14 of Marrying the Guide
With each press and squeeze, I imagined the firmness of Howell’s chest, the bulge of his biceps, the gentle taper of his waist. My fingers danced around the clay, coaxing it into the strong lines of a masculine form—each touch a silent ode to the man who had unexpectedly stirred something deep within me.
“That’s beautiful, Onno,” Clara said.
Wow. I stared at what my hands had created while my thoughts had been elsewhere. Somehow, I had managed to shape the clay into a perfect vase. The base was wide, but it transformed into a smaller section, followed by another wider circle and a thinner one on top. How the ever-loving fuck had I pulled that off?
“Time’s up, everyone!” Clara announced, pulling us back from our private bubble of amusement. “Let’s start cleaning up.”
We rinsed our hands under the tap, the water turning murky. Howell’s vase—or what could generously be called a vase—sat on the bench, looking like it had survived an apocalypse.
“Yours has character.” I gestured with a wet hand, flicking droplets in its direction as if baptism by water could consecrate its oddity.
“And yours has muscles.” Howell nudged me with his elbow. “You sure you weren’t sculpting your dream man?”
“I did exactly what Clara told me to and imagined running my hands over your muscles,” I said without thinking, and the whole room exploded into laughter. Howell took the ensuing ribbing in good humor, though his cheeks were red.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, everything fell away—the chatter of people, the clatter of tools, the outside world. Oh, I was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
As we walked back to the truck, I took his hand and laced our fingers together. “Thank you. That was so much fun.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. My stomach fluttered at that old-fashioned gesture. “I had the best time. And your vase looked freaking amazing.”
“Trust me, I’m as surprised as everyone else.”
“It tells you that you need to keep trying new things. You may not be good at all of them, but you could discover some hidden talents.”
Wasn’t he the sweetest for saying that? “Maybe, but I doubt I’ll ever be good at kayaking.”
“I could take you in a two-person kayak…”
“You mean you’d do all the work, and all I’d have to do is sit and look pretty?” I fanned myself dramatically. “I’m sure I can do that.”
He grinned. “Something like that. Unless you don’t like the water.”
“I love it. I’m a good swimmer. We all learn as kids in the Netherlands. Since we have so many rivers, lakes, creeks, you name it, being able to swim is considered crucial, so everyone learns in school.”
“That’s amazing. Every year, people drown because they end up in the water and can’t swim.”
“Exactly. I used to swim all the time, but…” Even thinking of Gerard made my chest contract. “My ex didn’t like it, so I stopped.”
Howell squeezed my hand and opened the passenger door of his truck for me. He gave me a little boost to get in and closed the door. He looked pensive as he buckled up and started the engine. “If you enjoy different things than your partner, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do them anymore. Lori-Ann, my ex-wife, loved going to flea markets and yard sales, which are my absolute nightmare, but I still wanted her to go. So she went with her friends while I went fishing with the boys, which she hated. There should be room for the things you love, shouldn’t there?”
He was so right. Unfortunately, it had taken me way too long to realize how much I’d given up for Gerard. Bit by bit, I had disappeared to make him happy, and in the end, it still hadn’t been enough. In hindsight, it was all so easy to see, but when I’d been in the middle of it, his arguments that if I truly loved him, I wouldn’t do things he didn’t like had sounded normal and persuasive.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” Howell said softly.
“Just bad memories, is all. Not your fault.”
“Are you hungry? I’d planned for us to get dinner, but Clara served a lot of really yummy hors d’oeuvres, so I’m not sure how hungry you are.”
“I could eat a little, but not a whole meal.”
“How about some ice cream? There’s an ice cream shop here with the best Italian ice cream.”
Ice cream? Now there was a man after my own heart. “Yes, please.”
Hand in hand, we walked to the ice cream parlor, its vintage sign promising cool delights. Stepping inside was like wandering into a childhood dream, lured by the scent of sugar and waffle cones and the rows of vibrant flavors nestled in their frosty beds.
“Rocky Road for me,” Howell said with the confidence of a man who knew his pleasures. His choice sparked no surprise. He was the embodiment of rugged terrain and sweet surprises.