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Quietly walking toward the middle of the room, I try not to disturb anyone. They all seem to be doing a great job molding and forming their shapes by cupping the clay and cleaning their wheel surface with a sponge as they go. The class is men and women of all ages, some couples, some friends, and others on their own. An older woman smiles up at me as I walk past. Pieces of grey hair escape her bun, and I can tell by her skill and technique she’s done this hundreds of times.

“Okay, class, now that we’ve got the cylinder down, we’re going to move on to shaping a mug and adding a handle.” A man’s voice rings out and I freeze where I’m at, not daring to look up.

Wait a damn second.

Sure enough when I glance up I spot none other than Zavier.

My neighbor Zavier.

Fucking Zavier who seems to pop up everywhere.

My eyes narrow when he looks my way, not seeming surprised in the least to see me, like I am him. His long sleeve shirt is covered with a green apron that’s tied at the waist and his hands are caked with dried clay. A perfectly thrown cylinder rests in front of him and I’m blown away when the owner, an old man who looks to be in his sixties, walks over to Zavier and pats him on the back.

That’s it.

I speed walk over to my victim and give him the death stare. Fisting his apron in my hand, I drag him away from the students and over to the kiln in the back corner of the room. He grins the entire way like he enjoys me yanking him along like a dog on a leash.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss the accusation.

His smile widens, flashing perfect white teeth. “I work here.”

“Since when?”

Zavier popping upeverywhereis nothing short of suspicious.

He pouts his bottom lip, thinking. Picking at a piece of lint on his shirt, he answers, “Today.”

I throw my hands in the air. “The other day you were at the fucking bowling alley.”

He shrugs, unbothered. Reaching between us, he picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it between his fingers. I should bat him away, but for some strange reason I don’t.

“I work a lot of odd jobs,” he finally answers. “Pays the bills.”

“You…” I sigh, planting my hands on my hips. “There’s something strange about you.”

His smile somehow gets even bigger than it was before. “Oh, darling, I’m so glad you noticed.”

Darling?

“Anyway”—he removes the apron in one lithe motion and hangs it on a rack beside us—“since we’re both here, how about dinner? Hmm? Get the date started early?”

I narrow my eyes.

“No. Ava might’ve coerced me into a date with you, but it’s not supposed to happen until tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on,” he cajoles, undeterred. Cool fingers skim my arm, sending shivers down my spine. Not bad shivers—not the ones I get when I know something strange is up. This feels good. Too good. “It’s dinner time. You need to eat.”

I stare at him, trying and failing to come up with a decent enough excuse. My shoulders sag in defeat. “Fine. But only because I’m hungry.”

“Excellent. Shall we?” He leads me toward the exit with a hand on my waist. For a moment I allow it to happen, enjoying the warmth of his arm and strength of his side against mine.

How did we go from me dragging him across the room to this? It’s like he puts me under some sort of fog every time I see him. It only lifts when I’m no longer in his vicinity.

When we step outside the shop, I finally come out of my fuzziness and pull out of his grasp.

“Wait. I’m not ready!” I shout in exasperation. “I still need to do my job! I have to ask the owner if he saw anything that could help my case. It’s the last stop and then I’ll go home and get ready, okay?” Knowing Zavier won’t take no for an answer I plead with my eyes. “Well, I have to stop back by the precinct first and pass off my notes to the detective that’s taking over the case.” His smirk grows and I resist the urge to stomp my foot. “Besides, aren’t you working?”

Zavier crosses his arms and watches me in silence, brow lifted in silent accusation.