Playing With Fire: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 2) by Susan May Warren

artist-in-residence at a camp. We did everything from watercolor painting to oils to weaving to papier-mâché—she taught every age and believed that art was the outward expression of the soul. Someday, I’d like to be a teacher too. Maybe work at a camp, try and pass along the idea of God as the source of our creativity. Maybe inspire, like my mom did.”
    He wanted to comment that maybe she already was.
    She walked over to a sink, began to put away the brushes drying there. “I went to an all-girls private high school, and I was a bit...well, different from everyone else. I didn’t make friends easily, and I think the art teacher took pity on me. She asked me to work with her in the pottery studio, and something about the quiet, the gentle shaping of a bowl or a plate or a vase gave me focus. My favorite part, however, is the painting. I don’t plan out my designs...I just let them happen and wait for God to surprise me. No expectations, just a trust that His grace will show up, make something beautiful.”
    No expectations. Just trust.
    He’d like to live that way, just once.
    She finished putting the brushes away, came back to him, put her hand on the bowl he still held. “When I throw a pot, every nuance of it is formed by my hands, the lip, the little grooves, the shape. Even the purpose of it—my design. But you have to be gentle with a pot—too much pressure will cave it in. It takes a deft hand, a deliberate hand.”
    She took it out of his grip, examining it. “I love the fact that we are clay pots—fragile, yes, but designed perfectly by God to be filled with His good, His heavenly purposes. I like knowing His hands are on my life, shaping me. And that every moment is guided by His love for me.”
    She took the bowl over to her table, pulled out a long sheet of paper from a roll affixed to the edges. Began to wrap it.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Giving you this bowl.”
    “What—no, Liza—”
    “Yes, Conner.” She taped it up, then wrapped it in Bubble Wrap, put it in a box. Tied it with twine, and handed it to him. “For you.”
    “Seriously—”
    “Yep. And now, when you see this bowl, you can remember that God is in your life. His compassions not only never fail, but He can do more than you can possibly dream.”
    She smiled at him, and he wanted to simply reach out, taste all that joy radiating from her. Weave his hands into her silky hair, touch her beautiful face.
    Taste what it might be like to kiss her.
    Oh, his selfishness could knock him right over. Because then what? He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t —make her any promises.
    But everything hurt with the thought of saying good-bye.
    So he stood there stupidly, holding his box.
    But maybe—and before his courage could wane, he said, “Could I call you?”
    She just blinked at him, and he thought for a second what a silly—
    “I’d love that.”
    Really? But he tempered his voice, mostly for himself. “I mean, I can’t promise anything—I don’t get good cell reception when I’m out in the field—”
    She stepped closer to him, touched his hand, curling hers around his, meeting his eyes. “Hey. No promises, I know. But call anytime. I mean that.”
    Good thing there was a box between them full of breakable pottery, because he wanted to drop it and pull her to himself. Instead, he managed a shuddering breath. “Okay.”
    “But...” She let go and worked her apron over her head. “Can you tell me—why won’t you make a promise?”
    She was braiding her hair, her fingers deft. He watched, caught her in movements.
    “Because they never work out. And it only leads to hurt feelings and eventually failure.”
    She turned to him, frowning. “Really?”
    “I promised my grandfather I would find my brother’s murderer. But my grandfather has cancer again and—”
    And shoot, he hadn’t meant to unload all that right here, right now.
    Although he didn’t mind so much when she turned to him. “Oh, Conner.”
    She came up