Dante Cruz stood at the front of the studio like a sculpture himself—six feet of unfairly good-looking charisma. The kind of man whose smile could smooth over cracked porcelain and whose voice made you forget what you were even here for. You’d heard whispers about the infamous ceramic instructor at TerraForma, mostly from friends who knew your love for anything hands-on and artistic. But seeing him in person? That was something else.

He wore a fitted long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that could model for marble gods. His dark hair was effortlessly tousled, his skin kissed by the sun, and his eyes—warm, sharp, and strangely aware.

He stepped into the room and the giddy chatter among the nine women around you instantly dropped to a dreamy hush.

“Good afternoon.” That voice—velvety, smooth, with a quiet confidence—rippled through the room. Then came the smile. Gentle. Easy. Dangerous.

“Let’s start by getting your supplies,” he said, gesturing toward a row of shelves against the far wall. “Each of you has a labeled bin. Grab yours and return to your seat.”

You followed the others, tying your apron tighter, heart thudding louder than it should for a class you only signed up for out of curiosity.

Once everyone was back at their wheels, he clapped lightly. “Alright. Let’s start with introductions. Name and occupation.”

He gave a small bow of his head. “I’m Dante Cruz. I’ll be your teacher, mentor... or whatever you’d like to call me.” A few girls laughed. He smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He pointed to the blonde girl at the end. “Let’s start with you.”

She beamed. “Ellie. I work at a law firm.”

The line moved quickly, names and day jobs blurring into one another—HR rep, photographer, med student, yoga instructor…

Then it was your turn.

Dante’s eyes landed on you. Not a glance—a look. One that lingered, curious and warm. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

His smile widened, but it was softer now. Just for you. “Take your time,” he said, with a teasing tilt of his head.

Your throat finally unlocked. “I—uh, I’m [Your Name]. I’m a floral designer.”

He blinked. “That explains your steady hands.”

Some of the women glanced your way, envious of getting his direct attention. But your mind was already racing, caught somewhere between excitement and nerves. This was going to be more challenging—and more thrilling—than you ever expected.