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Chapter 1
Wren
I blink back tears as I look around Maci’s room as she packs. Memories surround us. There’s a whole shelf full of her academic awards, which sits above another shelf stacked with all the sculptures I’ve made for her birthday presents over the years. From my first attempts with air-dry clay, to the disastrous carved wooded horse, to my much better ceramic pieces, she’s loyally got them all proudly displayed. Her full-length mirror is almost completely covered with pictures of us throughout the years, all the way back to when we became lifelong best friends in kindergarten. I settle my teary gaze on her bookshelf, crammed with business books and biographies of rich and powerful people that she’ll certainly surpass one day, and sniffle.
“It’s going to be fine,” she says, a hitch in her voice. “Don’t you dare get me started crying.”
I nod vigorously. “You’re right. This is a brand-new start for both of us, and it’s going to be great.”
“I’ll sure miss you, though.” Now, it’s her turn to sniffle. I hold up my hand before she can wish I was going with her.
“You know college wasn’t ever going to be for me.”
“I know. You’re going to be a famous artist one day.” She grins wide. “I still can’t believe you’re going to be working for him.”
If anything can get me out of my grim mood over her leaving, it’s thinking about my new internship. The fact one of the best sculptors in the world lived near our town for so long but has gone unseen makes him mysterious enough, but his work truly is fantastic as well. Ethereal, and yet realistic, they always make me feel a pang deep within my heart, like yearning and wholeness at the same time. I thought I’d get a glimpse of him when he was commissioned to do the statue for our city park’s centennial, but he never showed up to the unveiling.
Last month, I’d applied for the internship online and then promptly forgotten about it, thinking I’d just work in the local donut shop and do craft shows while traveling around, trying to get my little sculptures into galleries or gift shops. Then, bam! I’d gotten an email telling me that I not only had the position, but that it paid, too. Not only will my time be well spent with a great mentor, but I won’t have to waste valuable creative time at the donut shop.
Maci’s mom calls from the hallway that it’s almost time to leave, and we both sniffle again. I hand her the going away present I got her that I’d wrapped with a tiny clay sculpture of a clock tied to the wrapping with ribbon.
“It’s to remind us to spend our time wisely,” I say as she unwraps the journal I’d gotten her to write down her thoughts.
She hugs both the clock and the book to her chest. “This is exactly what I need to help me focus, thank you.”
“Of course,” I say, with a smile. “I have a matching one. We can set goals together and check in with each other about them. Maybe you have a study goal, and I have an art goal, you know?”
“It’s perfect,” she wiggles excitedly as she packs the gifts away. “Neither of us need distractions at all. You have to keep working on your art so that I can buy it and show it off when I become a successful CEO.”
I smile at her encouragement as I help with what’s left of Maci’s luggage and then stand on the curb, waving until her parents’ car turns the corner. Emotion clogs my throat as I head to my own car. She’s right, I need to get my head in the game. It’s not like I won’t be talking to Maci on the phone in a few hours, anyway. We’re in this together. I don’t want to let her down.
I make my way over across town to my new job. My new mentor’s studio is located about thirty minutes out of town on a secluded, wooded property. After driving down the unkempt gravel lane, I park next to an older model pick-up truck and sit in my car for a couple minutes to hype myself up. The planner I have tucked in my bag, the one that matches Maci’s, has space in the back for notes, so I write a little bit, just for the practice.
Nervous, but can’t wait to finally get started working for a real artist. And such an amazing one! I know I’ll learn so much from him.
I stop writing before it turns into straight-up fangirling and climb out of my car, then head down a little dirt path, past a big, old farmhouse and through the wild, bright garden in the back. At the corner of the property, tucked against a stone wall, is a cottage that’s overgrown with ivy and surrounded by wildflowers. Freddy, the assistant who hired me, told me this is where I was supposed to go. At last, the studio where so much beauty has been made.
My anxiety rises as I ring the cottage’s doorbell. I have no idea how I qualified for this job and am suddenly uncertain if I’ll be good enough. All my life I’ve been told that art isn’t something people do for their careers, that it’s a waste of time, that I’ll never make them. The thoughts stoke a fire in me, making me want to prove the naysayers wrong.
After several minutes with no answer, I finally lean on the doorbell until a gruff voice shouts that they’re coming. I bounce on my toes, impatient to jump into this new chapter. The door swings open, and the gruff voice tells me to get my ass inside.
But I can’t. I can’t move or speak.
Pierce Maxwell, the world’s greatest sculptor—in my humble opinion—whose work I’ve admired for ages, is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
He towers over me. His tight t-shirt clings to a chest rippling with muscle. His hands are coated with clay dust, and they open and close as he impatiently waits for me to come to my senses. His dark, wavy hair falls in luxurious waves around his ears, rustling against his chiseled cheekbones in the soft breeze. Dark, serious eyes glare at me while his lips turn down in a frown. Even his frown is devastating.
My heart flutters as I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, and all I can wonder is how I’ll manage to learn anything from him when his very presence will doom me with distraction.
Chapter 2
Pierce
I stand back and look at my latest sculpture with contempt. I’ve been working on this damn piece for months, tearing it down, starting it again, tearing it down, starting it again. It’s not ready. It’s not right.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with it, and that’s half the problem. If I sent it out into the world, people would praise it. But knowing that isn’t comforting—it pisses me off. Does anyone really look at art anymore? Do they have any real feelings about what they see? Or do they just hear the name of a well-known artist and decide it must be good because someone of authority said it was?
