He came at her with another rod with a tiny blob of glass on it. It immediately stuck to the top point. Then he stretched his arm across and guided her hands to slowly roll her rod while he worked the bottom free.
His focus was mesmerizing, almost as amazing as his ability to multitask. His left hand balanced the new rod while his right separated the topper from the old one.
London held her breath. This was where shit fell apart last time. But suddenly her rod was free and almost bobbled out of her grip. Her gaze shot over to the topper. Still in one piece.
Ezra took it to the furnace and heated the bottom. She set her rod on the table.
“Come here,” he said as he set the rod in place.
She stood next to him as he handed her a pair of giant metal tweezers.
“Just stick them in the opening and massage your way around.”
She did as he said, but her focus wavered as he placed his big hand over the top of hers.
“More pressure so we don’t have to heat it again.”
His hand was hot and rough, but she let him guide her so she would know the feel of it, the amount of pressure to apply. Then, she’d be prepared to repeat it on the next one without his help. She tried to quell her hormones. It proved difficult between his hand on hers and talking about pressure and massage.
She took a deep breath. Yeah, this was it. She needed to do it again. It had nothing to do with enjoying the sensation of his hand covering hers.
“That’s good,” she said, talking about the topper as much as the experience. She stepped back.
“Go grab the gloves.”
She’d seen both him and Bronte use these giant oven mitts, but she hadn’t. She slipped her hands in, feeling the heavy, rough material. They were huge on her hands. She cradled them together to create a pocket for the topper to land in when Ezra separated it from the rod.
Again, she held her breath as it gently landed in her hands. She followed Ezra to the annealer and placed it inside.
As he closed the door, he asked, “So what do you think?”
“I think it’s pretty perfect. But if you’re up for it, I’d like to make another.” She squinted and offered a hesitant smile. “Or two. Since things can still go wonky during cooling, I’d like to have a backup or two to work with.”
“Work with?”
Shit. She had to get better at watching her tongue. She waved it off. “You know, pretty it up before passing it off by the Christmas party.”
He shrugged. “It’s your dime.”
They headed back to the workstation. London stretched and flexed and relaxed her muscles. “You can do your own thing. The beginning part takes a while, as you know.”
He nodded and headed toward the storefront. “Yell when you need me.”
London blew out a heavy breath. Progress felt great. Being close to Ezra wasn’t so bad either.
ChapterEight
Ezra went to the front of the store to plan the window display. Anything to get some space between him and London. His head was all mixed up when she was around. It was a constant push-pull. She asked about his dad’s shop—something that always set his teeth on edge. The shop had been successful, but after losing his retirement fund in a scam, his father sold it to retire. Ezra tried not to be bitter over that. He’d always thought he would take over the studio from his dad. He wanted his dad to retire and enjoy his later years. He didn’t even mind having to start all over. The Fisher name was good anywhere he wanted to go. But the company his father had sold to dismantled everything and Fisher Glassworks disappeared.
London had dropped the discussion easily enough. Then, when he helped her finish the tree topper, being close to her pulled at him in the same way her questions pushed him. Her hands were soft when he’d covered them with his own to guide her movements. For someone not used to this kind of work, she had the stamina to see it through, which impressed him. Her smile over her success was cute. He wanted to see more of it.
What he really needed was to stop thinking about the woman who was working in his studio. He’d never hit on a customer, and there was no reason for him to start now.But is she really a customer?The small voice in the back of his mind asked. She wasn’t someone who was buying a piece of glass from him. No, she was looking to learn from him. She needed his help. So it would be even worse to hit on her.
He began rearranging vases and glasses on the shelving units. He should probably know what Bronte’s system for organization was, but it made no sense to him. Even less when he considered the types of pieces that they sold more of during the holidays. He glanced over to the box in the corner that was filled with Christmas decorations. Bronte wanted the window to be eye-catching, but she’d also been procrastinating on actually getting it done. He flipped open the box and set out the items Bronte had gotten: a small Christmas tree, glitter-covered boxes, some tinsel, and a couple of snowmen. In a separate bag, she had some spray-on snow and window paint. He wasn’t really an artist, so he didn’t know what she thought he would do with all of this.
He cleared out the space in the front window, hoping for inspiration. That was when he noticed how bad the snow was coming down. It was piling up quickly, and the street didn’t look like it had been plowed yet. None of which was a good sign for them.
He abandoned the decorations and went to the back to let London know the weather had turned. She was standing in front of the furnace, turning the glass over as she reheated it, shaking her hips and ass in a rhythm that he assumed matched whatever she had in her earbuds. He eased his way around the table to come into her line of sight to avoid startling her. When she turned back to the table, he saw that she was nearly finished with the second topper. She mouthed the words to a song only she could hear, and she still hadn’t noticed him.