Chapter 1: The Date Night Disaster

Sophie Ellis had paid sixty-five dollars to make pottery with a man she had known for exactly four days, seven messages, and one blurry profile photo involving sunglasses.

In her defense, Brent had seemed promising.

He used full sentences. He had not opened with anything alarming. He had described himself as “emotionally available,” which Sophie knew was either a green flag or a warning label, depending on the man. Still, he had suggested the pottery date night himself after she mentioned she was tired of coffee dates that felt like job interviews.

“Something unique,” he had written.

Unique. That was the word that got her.

Sophie had imagined it immediately. Soft studio lights. Wine in plastic cups. Their hands brushing over wet clay. Him laughing when her bowl turned lopsided. Her laughing because, for once, a first date might feel like a scene from the better half of a romance movie instead of a polite negotiation over appetizers.

So she had said yes.

Then she had done what any calm, normal woman would do before a first date. She tried on five outfits, rejected all of them, curled her hair twice, watched a video about beginner pottery so she would not look completely helpless, and arrived twelve minutes early because she had confused excitement with punctuality.

The studio sat between a used bookstore and a bakery that made the whole sidewalk smell like butter. A hand-painted sign above the door read Mercer Clay Studio in dark green letters. Through the front window, Sophie could see warm pendant lights, shelves full of glazed mugs, and couples already gathering around pottery wheels.

It looked charming.

It looked romantic.

It looked like the sort of place where a woman could become the version of herself who met a good man in public instead of scrolling through profiles in pajama pants while eating shredded cheese from the bag.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.

Sophie smiled before she even looked. Maybe Brent was outside. Maybe he was texting to say he had brought wine, or that he was the nervous one for once, or that he was already there and could not wait to meet her.

Instead, the message read:

Hey, so sorry. Work thing came up. Rain check?

She stared at it.

There was no rain.

There was barely a cloud.

Sophie looked up at the clear evening sky, then back down at the message, as if the weather might rearrange itself out of pity.

A work thing.

At 6:48 on a Friday night.

For a man whose profile said he was “between opportunities.”

She typed three different responses.

No worries!

Deleted.

Sure, another time.

Deleted.

Did the work thing also come up before or after I paid for this class?

Deleted, with regret.

Finally, she locked her phone without answering.

For a moment, she stood outside the studio with one hand on the door handle and the other pressed around the strap of her purse. She could go home. That would be the reasonable thing to do. She could remove the earrings she had chosen specifically because they seemed “artsy but not desperate,” put on sweatpants, and pretend the whole thing had been a minor administrative error in her life.

But she had already paid.

She was already dressed.

And more than anything, she was tired of men deciding whether her night happened or not.

So Sophie opened the door.

The bell above it gave a bright little ring, much too cheerful for the emotional condition she was in.

Inside, the studio was even lovelier than it had looked from the sidewalk. The walls were cream brick and dark wood shelves, lined with handmade bowls, vases, plates, and mugs in soft colors. Sage green. Deep blue. Warm white. Clay dust lived lightly on every surface, but somehow it made the room feel honest instead of messy.

A long table near the entrance held cups of wine, water, napkins, and a small sign that said:

Welcome to Date Night at the Wheel.

Sophie nearly turned around.

Date night.

Not beginner pottery. Not casual open studio. Not “sad woman makes a cup alone while pretending this is empowering.”

Date night.

Couples stood everywhere. Couples laughing. Couples touching each other’s backs. Couples choosing aprons together like this was a tiny domestic preview of a shared future. One woman was already taking a picture of her boyfriend holding up two thumbs covered in clay.

Sophie wondered if it was possible to die quietly in a public place without making anyone uncomfortable.

A woman at the check-in table looked up with a bright smile.

“Hi! Name?”

Sophie considered saying Brent’s name, then disappearing into the kiln.

“Sophie Ellis.”

The woman scanned the list. “Great. Party of two?”

There it was.

The tiny sentence that pressed on the bruise.

Sophie lifted her chin with all the dignity a woman could summon while being abandoned by a man named Brent.

“Just me, actually.”

The woman’s smile faltered for half a second, then recovered with kindness, which somehow made it worse.

“Oh. Of course. No problem at all.”

No problem at all was the phrase people used when there was absolutely a problem, but they were too polite to name it.

The woman handed her an apron. “You can grab a drink and we’ll get started in a few minutes.”

“Perfect,” Sophie said, because apparently she was now performing the role of Woman Having a Perfectly Normal Solo Pottery Date.

She took the apron and stepped toward the drink table. There were red and white wines poured into small plastic cups. She chose white because it seemed less likely to announce itself if she spilled it on her blouse, which, given the direction of the evening, felt possible.

Around her, couples murmured and laughed.

“This is so cute.”

“We should make matching mugs.”

“You’re going to be terrible at this.”

“No, you’re going to be terrible at this.”

Sophie sipped her wine and looked at the pottery wheels arranged in pairs around the room. Each station had two stools, two towels, two little buckets of water, and two neat lumps of clay waiting like hopeful gray hearts.

She checked her phone again.

Nothing.

Not even a follow-up from Brent. Not even a fake apology with more punctuation.

She dropped the phone into her purse.

A man walked out from the back room carrying a tray of tools. The room seemed to settle around him, though he did nothing dramatic to earn it. He was tall, broad-shouldered in a quiet way, with dark hair pushed back carelessly and sleeves rolled to his forearms. His T-shirt was black, his apron was faded, and his hands were dusted with clay as if the earth itself had chosen him for steady work.

He set the tray on the front table and looked around the room.

Not smiling exactly. Not stern either.

Just present.

Sophie noticed him noticing things. A couple too close to the edge of one wheel. A towel missing from another station. The check-in woman pointing subtly toward Sophie with the kind of expression people used when asking someone else to handle a delicate situation.

Wonderful.

Now she was a delicate situation.

The man’s gaze found her.

Sophie immediately looked down at her wine, because eye contact with handsome strangers had not been part of her recovery plan.

“Everyone,” he said, voice low but carrying easily, “we’ll get started in a minute. Aprons on. Rings off. Phones away unless you’re taking pictures of the disaster afterward.”

A few people laughed.

Sophie did too, before she could stop herself.

His eyes flicked back to her briefly. Something almost like amusement crossed his face.

Almost.

The check-in woman approached him and spoke quietly. Sophie could not hear the words, but she did see the man glance toward the list, then toward the empty stool beside one of the wheels.

The empty paired stool.

Her empty paired stool.

Sophie took another sip of wine, larger this time.

The man walked over.

Up close, he was even more unfair. Not polished. Not dating-app handsome. Real handsome. The kind made of tired eyes, capable hands, and a face that looked like it did not waste expressions.

“Sophie?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, too quickly.

“I’m Grant Mercer. I own the studio.”

Of course he did. Of course the man who looked like he had been carved from patience and practical competence owned the charming studio where she had just been publicly abandoned.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

His gaze moved gently over her face, not intrusive, not pitying. Just observant.

“My assistant said your other person couldn’t make it.”

His assistant. Her other person. How mercifully vague.

“That is one way to describe Brent,” Sophie said.

A corner of Grant’s mouth shifted. “Brent?”

“Briefly.”

This time, he did smile.

It was small, but it changed him. Warmed him. Made Sophie wish she had not noticed.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked.

She looked past him at the room full of couples. Every wheel seemed designed to mock her. Every stool had a partner, except hers. The reasonable answer was no. The emotionally protective answer was no. The answer that would allow her to preserve what remained of her pride was absolutely not.

But her pride had already been standing outside with a cancellation text and curled hair.

“I paid for it,” she said.

“That you did.”

“And I’m not going home because a man with no calendar management skills ruined my evening.”

Grant nodded once, as if this was a principle he respected. “Fair.”

“I should warn you, though,” she added. “I watched one video, so I’m either very prepared or dangerously overconfident.”

“Most beginners are both.”

“That feels accurate.”

Behind him, another couple laughed loudly as the man pretended to throw his apron over his girlfriend’s head. Sophie looked away, her chest tightening despite herself.

Grant noticed. He did not make a speech about it. He did not reassure her too much. He simply stepped slightly to the side, opening a path toward the nearest wheel.

“There’s still a seat,” he said.

Sophie glanced at the empty stool waiting beside the untouched clay.

“One seat,” she said.

“One wheel,” Grant answered. “That’s enough.”

Something about the way he said it made her throat soften.

Not because it was flirtatious. It wasn’t.

It was worse than flirtatious.

It was kind.

Sophie set her wine down, tied the apron around her waist, and followed him through the soft noise of happy couples and spinning wheels.

Grant stopped beside the empty station and rested one hand on the back of the stool.

“Sit here,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you get started.”