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He trusted Bronte to teach London and keep everything safe, but he still kept an eye on them. Bronte was determined to get the extra money for the studio, and he was afraid she might make some bad decisions. They worked and Bronte explained how to make the shape. The first time, they hadn’t gotten far and London declared the color was wrong. Bronte tried to convince her that the glowing color they were looking at wouldn’t remain.

But London wasn’t hearing it.

He removed an earbud. “Bronte knows what she’s talking about. You won’t see the actual color until it starts to cool.”

“I know that. But when I made my paperweight, I used red and I knew I would need something a shade darker, deeper than that. This—” She pointed at the small globe of glass. “is lighter in color. I need more red or a darker red.”

He shook his head. She was Bronte’s problem, not his. She was an artist, so maybe she was right about the color. He couldn’t offer more input because he didn’t know what she was trying to make.

Behind him, he heard a huff and the women went back to reheating and coloring the project. Once she was happy with the color, Bronte had her start blowing. Then there was more arguing about how to make the shape. Bronte was doing everything he’d taught her, but there was obviously some miscommunication. He yanked his earbud out again.

“What are you trying to do?”

Bronte held up a hand. “I’ve got this.”

He crossed his arms and waited as the scene in front of him unfolded.

London closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when she reopened her eyes, she said, “The spire at the top needs to be seven inches. Then there’s the twisted section and the bubbled part at the bottom. We need to go taller, right?”

“Yes, but if you blow too much at once,” Bronte explained, “you’ll end up with a globe.”

London sighed.

“We need to work in sections. It’ll take time, but it’s doable.”

“Okay. Let’s try this again.”

They worked in tandem to start again. Ezra remembered that kind of frustration. Where he could see in his mind what he wanted to make, but the glass wouldn’t cooperate. Not until he learned to work with it and not against it.

An hour later, London’s yell let him know that her frustration had gotten the better of her. He turned to see what the problem was this time.

“It’s not that bad,” Bronte said. “We just need to approach it another way.”

“Itisthat bad. It looks like a pregnant snowman.”

Ezra looked at the end of the rod and chuckled.

London’s head shot up and she stared at him. “Was that a laugh?”

“Yeah. It was an apt description,” he said, pointing to the bloated glass.

“But I’ve only seen you frown and grimace. That’s like a legit smile.” When she said it, her face brightened.

“I’m not that bad. I smile.”

This time, Bronte chuckled. “Let’s not show her the smile you gave me. It’ll definitely scare her off.”

“I doubt it. I don’t scare that easily.” She gave him a wink and then turned to Bronte. “There’s no saving this, is there?”

“Not that I can see. You need to blow slower while I stretch and twist the spire. We’re probably going to have to blow, stretch, blow, stretch, and then do the twisting. Unfortunately, we have to play around to figure out how far to go before twisting because that’ll shorten the spire. You get the picture.”

“Damn.” London glanced up at the clock. “I don’t want to keep you up all night. When can we try this again?”

Bronte looked at him.

Before realizing what he was offering, he looked at London’s bright blue eyes and found himself saying, “Whenever you want as long as it’s after closing.”

She gave him one of those sparkling smiles again. “I don’t want to intrude on your work.”


Tags: Sloane Steele Romance