Chapter 4
In His Space
The barn smelled like fire, hard work, and dreams.
Jess stood in the space Wayne had cleared for her, taking stock. Her portable torch setup looked almost fragile next to Wayne's anvil and forge. Her tools were arranged on a rolling cart, everything meticulously organized because with glass, chaos meant injury.
The annealing kiln was the problem. The small brick oven had seen better days—she'd bought it used from a retiring glassblower when she was just starting out.
She'd managed to dolly it from her car to the barn entrance, but getting it from the ground onto the metal stand was another matter. She was crouched beside it, calculating angles, when she heard footsteps.
“You're going to throw out your back.”
She jumped. Wayne was already moving toward her. “I've got it—”
“No, you don't.” He positioned himself. “On three. Lift with your legs.”
Together, they hoisted the kiln onto the stand.
“Thank you,” Jess said.
Wayne circled it slowly and crouched to examine the power cord. “This thing's an energy hog,” he muttered.
Jess braced herself for the refusal.
“That circuit can handle it. Probably.” He stood up. “If we trip the breaker, we'll know.”
“I'll pay the difference in your electric bill.”
“We'll figure it out.” He was already walking back to his forge. “Just get it set up.”
The torch hissed to life. She adjusted the flame until it burned with that perfect blue cone, then selected a rod of clear glass. Starting simple today—just getting a feel for the space.
Behind her, Wayne's hammer fell silent.
Jess didn't turn around. She kept her focus on the glass, gathering it, letting it build up on the end of her rod. She was vaguely aware of Wayne moving behind her—crossing to a workbench, the scrape of a drawer.
She pulled the gather from the flame and began to shape it with a wooden paddle, the wet wood hissing against hot glass. A simple sphere, nothing fancy.
“You studied at RISD?”
Jess nearly dropped her blowpipe. Wayne's voice came from behind her left shoulder—close but not dangerously so.
“Yes,” she managed. “BFA in glass.”
“Huh.”
That was it. Just “huh.” She heard him move away.
They worked in parallel for the next hour.
Jess finished the sphere—perfectly round, perfectly boring.
While the glass was still molten, she rolled it across red and orange frit, then back to the flame to fuse the colors.
The delicate work of pulling and shaping softened glass into patterns that suggested maple leaves.
She carried the finished bauble carefully to the annealing kiln.
The barn had grown warm from their combined heat sources. Jess peeled off her flannel and draped it over her stool.
She started a second piece, this time with cobalt blue glass. The blue bloomed through clear like ink in water.
“What are you making?”
This time she was ready. “Experimenting. I need to rebuild my inventory. Three years in Brooklyn, I sold most of my pieces just to keep paying rent.”
“That why you came back?”
“Part of it.” She shaped the blue gather. “I was tired of making rent-payment glass instead of real work.”
Wayne made a noncommittal sound.
“What about you?” she asked. “You went to school for metalwork?”
“Learned from my grandfather. Some classes here and there. Mostly just practice.”
The conversation died, but it felt less hostile than before. When Jess finished the bauble and turned to select her next rod, she caught Wayne watching her.
He didn't look away immediately. His eyes were warm brown with crow's feet at the corners that suggested he smiled more than his current expression indicated.
“It's different than I expected,” he said. “Quieter. I thought there'd be more drama.”
Jess smiled. “The drama comes when things go wrong. When it's going right, it's almost meditative.”
“Yeah.” He glanced at his own work—curved pieces of iron with flowing lines. “I get that.”
He returned to his forge. Jess went back to her work, selecting another rod of glass.
A few minutes later, she noticed Wayne move to the window near his workstation. He closed it, before crossing the room to open the one on the far wall wider—redirecting the airflow so it pulled fumes away from both their work areas instead of creating a cross-draft between them.
He didn't say anything. Didn't look at her. Just made the adjustment and went back to his anvil.
Small gestures, Jess thought, watching him settle back into his rhythm. Maybe that's his love language. Practical care instead of words.
She caught herself mid-thought. Love language? Jesus, Jess. You've known the man for three days.
But when she looked at him again—really looked—she saw him differently. The careful precision in how he moved. The humming when he got a difficult piece done. The way he'd positioned himself to give her the better light.
Wayne Drummond might be grumpy and guarded, but he showed up for people in the quiet moments. In the things he did instead of said.
Dangerous knowledge to have about a man she was already far too attracted to.
She forced her attention back to her glass and pretended the heat in her cheeks was just from the torch.
Wayne's hammer rang out again, steady and sure.
Jess noticed a small wooden rack mounted beside his workbench. Seven metal hearts hung from individual hooks, each formed from intricate scrollwork and spirals.
“Those are beautiful,” she said, moving closer.
The hammering stopped. When Wayne spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “They're for a breast cancer research fundraiser. Annual thing. I make them every year.”
“They're really lovely work.” She studied the delicate curves. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Six years.” He set down his hammer. “My mother died of breast cancer. I started making these after.”
The words were delivered flat, matter-of-fact. But Jess heard everything underneath—the grief, the ritual, the way this barn served as both workshop and memorial.
She looked at Wayne—really looked at him. Saw the tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders had gone rigid.
“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “About your mother.”
He nodded once, not looking at her. “It was a while ago.”
The subject was closed. Jess returned to her workspace, but her mind kept circling back to those pendant hearts. Six years of making them. Six years of this annual memorial.
The afternoon stretched on. While shaping her second bauble, she reached for her graphite paddle on the small, shared tool bench.
Wayne reached for something at the same moment.
Their hands collided—her fingers brushing against his for maybe half a second. The contact was electric.
Wayne jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. “Sorry.”
“No, I—” But he was already retreating to his side of the barn.
Jess grabbed her paddle with shaking hands. Her mind wasn't on the work anymore. It was on that moment of contact, the way her entire body had responded to a simple brush of hands.
When she glanced up, she caught him watching her. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before he looked away.
Oh.
This wasn't just her being attracted to him. That moment had been mutual.
Jess finished the bauble on autopilot and moved it to the kiln. It was late afternoon, time to call it a day.
Wayne was also packing up, taking longer than necessary. Arranging tools that were already arranged.
“Thanks again. For letting me use the space.”
“It's fine.” He crossed to a cabinet and pulled out a key, holding it out. “So you don't have to wait for me. Work whenever you need to.”
Jess stared at the key in his palm. The key to the place he'd been so reluctant to share. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Wayne's voice was gruff. “Just lock up when you leave.”
Jess took the key, their fingers brushing. She closed her hand around it carefully.
“Thank you.” Her voice came out softer than she'd intended. “For trusting me.”
Wayne nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he turned back to banking his forge.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, that works.”
The way he said it suggested he really wanted to make it work.
And God help her, so did she. In more ways than one.