of the line. Adding on for the baby, he assumed, working his way to the rear. It was then he spotted the building out in the back.
Her glass shop. Pleased with his new discovery, he stepped off the planking and crossed the dew-dampened lawn. Once he reached it, Gray cupped his hands against the window and peered in. He could see furnaces, benches, tools that whetted his curiosity and imagination. Shelves were loaded with works in progress. Without a qualm he stepped back and reached for the door.
"Are you wanting your fingers broken?"
He turned. Maggie stood in the rear doorway of the cottage, a steaming cup in one hand. She wore a bagging sweater, worn cords, and a scowl. Gray grinned at her.
"Not especially. Is this where you work?"
"It is. How do you treat people who pop uninvited into your studio?"
"I haven't got a studio. How about a tour?"
She didn't bother to muffle the oath, or the sigh. "You're a bold one, aren't you? All right, then, since I don't seem to be doing anything else. The man goes off," she complained as she crossed the grass. "Doesn't even wake me. Leaves me a note is all he does, telling me to eat a decent breakfast and keep my feet up."
"And did you?"
"I might have if I hadn't heard somebody tramping around my property."
"Sorry." But still he grinned at her. "When's the baby due?"
"In the spring." Despite herself she softened. It took only the mention of the baby. "I've weeks yet, and if the man keeps trying to pamper me, I'll have to murder him. Well, come in, then, since you're here."
"I see that gracious hospitality runs in the family."
"It doesn't." Now a smile tugged at her lips. "Brianna got all the niceness. Look," she said as she opened the door. "Don't touch, or I will break those fingers."
"Yes, ma'am. This is great." He started to explore the minute he stepped in, moving to the benches, bending down to check out the furnace. "You studied in Venice, didn't you?"
"I did, yes."
"What started you off? God, I hate when people ask me that. Never mind." He laughed at himself and strolled toward her pipes. His fingers itched to touch. Cautious, he looked back at her, measured. "I'm bigger than you."
She nodded. "I'm meaner." But she relented enough to take up a pontil herself and hand it to him.
He hefted it, twirled it. "Great murder weapon."
"I'll keep that in mind the next time someone interrupts my work."
"So what's the process?" He glanced toward drawings spread out on a bench. "You sketch out ideas?"
"Often." She sipped at her tea, eyeing him. In truth, there was something about the way he moved, light and fluid without any fuss, that made her yearn for her sketchpad. "After a quick lesson?"
"Always. It must get pretty hot in here when the furnaces are fired. You melt the stuff in there, and then what?"
"I make a gather," she began. For the next thirty minutes she took him step by step through the process of hand-blowing a vessel.
The man was full of questions, she thought. Intriguing questions, she admitted, the kind that made you go beyond the technical processes and into the creative purpose behind them. She might have been able to resist that, but his enthusiasm was more difficult. Instead of hurrying him along, she found herself answering those questions, demonstrating, and laughing with him.
"Keep this up and I'll draft you as pontil boy." Amused, she rubbed a hand over her belly. "Well, come in and have some tea."
"You wouldn't have any of Brianna's cookies-biscuits."
Maggie's brow arched. "I do."
A few moments later Gray was settled at Maggie's kitchen table with a plate of gingersnaps. "I swear she could market these," he said with his mouth full. "Make a fortune."
"She'd rather give them to the village children."
"I'm surprised she doesn't have a brood of her own." He waited a beat. "I haven't noticed any man coming around."
"And you're the noticing sort, aren't you, Grayson Thane?"
"Goes with the territory. She's a
Her glass shop. Pleased with his new discovery, he stepped off the planking and crossed the dew-dampened lawn. Once he reached it, Gray cupped his hands against the window and peered in. He could see furnaces, benches, tools that whetted his curiosity and imagination. Shelves were loaded with works in progress. Without a qualm he stepped back and reached for the door.
"Are you wanting your fingers broken?"
He turned. Maggie stood in the rear doorway of the cottage, a steaming cup in one hand. She wore a bagging sweater, worn cords, and a scowl. Gray grinned at her.
"Not especially. Is this where you work?"
"It is. How do you treat people who pop uninvited into your studio?"
"I haven't got a studio. How about a tour?"
She didn't bother to muffle the oath, or the sigh. "You're a bold one, aren't you? All right, then, since I don't seem to be doing anything else. The man goes off," she complained as she crossed the grass. "Doesn't even wake me. Leaves me a note is all he does, telling me to eat a decent breakfast and keep my feet up."
"And did you?"
"I might have if I hadn't heard somebody tramping around my property."
"Sorry." But still he grinned at her. "When's the baby due?"
"In the spring." Despite herself she softened. It took only the mention of the baby. "I've weeks yet, and if the man keeps trying to pamper me, I'll have to murder him. Well, come in, then, since you're here."
"I see that gracious hospitality runs in the family."
"It doesn't." Now a smile tugged at her lips. "Brianna got all the niceness. Look," she said as she opened the door. "Don't touch, or I will break those fingers."
"Yes, ma'am. This is great." He started to explore the minute he stepped in, moving to the benches, bending down to check out the furnace. "You studied in Venice, didn't you?"
"I did, yes."
"What started you off? God, I hate when people ask me that. Never mind." He laughed at himself and strolled toward her pipes. His fingers itched to touch. Cautious, he looked back at her, measured. "I'm bigger than you."
She nodded. "I'm meaner." But she relented enough to take up a pontil herself and hand it to him.
He hefted it, twirled it. "Great murder weapon."
"I'll keep that in mind the next time someone interrupts my work."
"So what's the process?" He glanced toward drawings spread out on a bench. "You sketch out ideas?"
"Often." She sipped at her tea, eyeing him. In truth, there was something about the way he moved, light and fluid without any fuss, that made her yearn for her sketchpad. "After a quick lesson?"
"Always. It must get pretty hot in here when the furnaces are fired. You melt the stuff in there, and then what?"
"I make a gather," she began. For the next thirty minutes she took him step by step through the process of hand-blowing a vessel.
The man was full of questions, she thought. Intriguing questions, she admitted, the kind that made you go beyond the technical processes and into the creative purpose behind them. She might have been able to resist that, but his enthusiasm was more difficult. Instead of hurrying him along, she found herself answering those questions, demonstrating, and laughing with him.
"Keep this up and I'll draft you as pontil boy." Amused, she rubbed a hand over her belly. "Well, come in and have some tea."
"You wouldn't have any of Brianna's cookies-biscuits."
Maggie's brow arched. "I do."
A few moments later Gray was settled at Maggie's kitchen table with a plate of gingersnaps. "I swear she could market these," he said with his mouth full. "Make a fortune."
"She'd rather give them to the village children."
"I'm surprised she doesn't have a brood of her own." He waited a beat. "I haven't noticed any man coming around."
"And you're the noticing sort, aren't you, Grayson Thane?"
"Goes with the territory. She's a
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