Page 46 of Fast Currents
“I guess if I’m reaping the rewards, I can’t complain too much.”
“Gee, generous of you,” I said, my tone dry as dust.
He clasped his hands behind his head, the quirk of his mouth playful as he wiggled against the mattress. “Have you connected the dots yet?”
“Is that an invitation?” I asked. He bobbed his head energetically. My lips twitched. “Is this freckle puzzle something super mature and sophisticated?”
“C’mon, Lucifer. Play with me.” He said it with such little-boy glee that I couldn’t help grinning back.
“If this is another thinly veiled marriage proposal, you’re going to owe me an hour in my workshop as penance.”
He reached for me, smacking a quick kiss across my mouth. My lips curled at the edges, and he dropped a second kiss across my smile.
“Honey, all you need to get me into your studio is to ask. I’ve been dying to watch you.”
I arched a brow. “It’s hot, sweaty work.”
He gestured to his chest. “I’m no stranger to either one. Baby, taking it easy didn’t build this body.” He flexed, making his pecs dance. He looked so silly, brows and chest pumping in rhythm, that I dissolved against him, giggling.
“Apparently, modesty didn’t either,” I got out when I could talk again.
He grinned, unrepentant. “Modesty and me are only passing acquaintances. It takes bravery to go up against you.”
“Hmm…” I tapped my lips to hide my smile, eyes flickering from freckle to mole to freckle. “Does your encoded message say ‘hotshot’?”
He pursed his lips. “Try again.”
Chapter 19 – Clay
We stayed up way too late, Lucy teasing me with guess after guess about what my moles spelled. Dragging her into her studio so I could watch her work felt selfish after I kept her up late the night before, but I’d been honest – I wanted to see her in her element. Her creative drive was one of the things that drew me to her. When someone handed me a pad and pencil, I drew nothing but blanks. She seemed to have endless ideas for our art class students. I longed to see what it looked like when she was creating for herself.
My hands were damp as I watched Lucy heat the end of her blowpipe and gather the molten glass, rolling it slowly until it formed a small white-orange glowing blob. She’d assured me that blowing a glass ornament was one of the easiest beginner projects and that I’d be fine, but I was still nervous.
Shattered glass littered the edges of the floor, making me achingly aware that what we were about to work with was hotter than lava, but would become as delicate as candy floss.Devastating if mishandled, but oh-so-breakable under the right conditions.
Jen would’ve laughed at the idea of me playing with molten glass. She was calm. Cautious. Lucy was fire and motion. Different—so different—but the way Lucy challenged me left me feeling alive again. And after losing Jen, I knew how rare that was. How precious.
I watched Lucy from beneath lowered lashes. Her hands were sure and strong on her pipe. She seemed utterly confident, at ease in the heat and immune to the dry, warm air that made beads of sweat drip down my back.
She walked me through the basic process and her tools. “We’ll take things easy. I’ve got the glass collected. I’m going to let you roll it in front of the furnace while I set up the blowing tools. When the glass is the right consistency, and I’m ready, I’ll call you over to blow your ornament. You won’t have to blow hard.” Her eyes flickered with humor. “Just a slow, steady breath into the tube. Think you can handle that?”
I nodded, not caring that she was teasing me. We were in her domain. I didn’t want to fuck anything up.
Lucy set the pipe with the glob of glass on its end on the rest, facing the furnace. “Time to start rolling, Hotshot.”
Under her watchful eye, I twisted the pipe, slow and steady against the flat surface. I could see how this could be meditative and calming once you knew what you were doing, but I was hyperaware that I was working around molten glass. One wrong move, and I might disfigure myself or Lucy. A fresh wash of flop sweat stung my eyes, and I swiped it away with my forearm.
“Keep rolling,” Lucy coached. She grabbed a thin tube and plugged it into the rod's end as I twirled. “Now stop.” She moved to a work surface perched over a bin of broken glass. “Okay, come here and blow. Keep it slow and gentle. No big puffs.”
I scrambled to do as she bid, easing my air into the tube, watching as a bulb took shape at the pipe's end. She used metal tools to shape the globe as it grew to a diameter suitable for an ornament.
“Good, good. Easy does it.”
Her praise made it difficult to remember that I wasn’t supposed to puff out with pride.
A few minutes later, she transferred the ornament to another rod with a gentle tap and added a tiny loop of molten glass for the hook. Every move was deft and sure. Like she’d done it a thousand times before. I wiped damp palms against my jeans, blowing out a long breath that left my lungs empty and my heart full.
The ornament we’d created was delicate and beautiful. A near-perfect globe of clear glass, speckled with green and swirls of red.
