Epilogue
The Elken Grove Winter Arts Fair had transformed the community center into a wonderland of local craftsmanship, but Jess barely noticed the other booths.
She couldn't stop staring at their display.
The collaborative pieces drew the most attention: Wayne's forged iron intertwined with her blown glass—candleholders where metal vines cradled glass flames in shades of amber and crimson, garden stakes with glass flowers blooming from wrought iron stems, and the centerpiece that had taken them six weeks to perfect: a tree sculpture where Wayne's metalwork formed the trunk and branches while her glass pieces became leaves that caught and scattered light like captured sunshine.
“These are extraordinary,” a woman from an Atlanta gallery said, examining the tree closely. “The juxtaposition of strength and delicacy—it's quite moving. Do you have a price list?”
Jess handed her one, trying to keep her expression professional instead of giddy. This was the third gallery owner who'd asked. The third.
Beside their collaborative work sat their individual pieces.
Wayne's practical metalwork—gates, hooks, decorative brackets—and those delicate heart pendants.
This year's batch for the breast cancer fundraiser had already sold out, with a waiting list for next year.
And her glass: tumblers, vases, bowls, and those baubles that had evolved from “pretty decorations” to distinctly her own artistic voice over the past three months of focused work.
“Jess!” Zoey appeared with her camera and notebook. “The regional arts reporter from Charlotte wants an interview. And I'm pretty sure I just saw someone from Southern Living taking photos of your work.”
“You're kidding.”
“Dead serious.” Zoey's grin was triumphant. “I told you this fair would be big. Your booth is the talk of the show.”
Before Jess could respond, Graham Hayes materialized beside his wife, their toddler perched on his shoulders, tiny hands gripping his hair.
“Sorry to interrupt, but there's a pottery booth two aisles over with the most incredible glazework—I know you'll want to see it for the blog.” He was already steering Zoey away, one hand steadying their daughter's leg. “We'll bring her back, I promise!”
Zoey laughed, letting herself be whisked off. “Five minutes! Then you owe me details about—” She gestured vaguely between Jess and Wayne before disappearing into the crowd.
Jess glanced across the display at Wayne, who was deep in conversation with a couple interested in commissioning a custom gate. He caught her eye and smiled—that warm, genuine smile that still made her heart skip.
Three months ago, she'd been standing in a church parking lot trying to decide between safety and risk.
She'd chosen risk. Chosen art over security, small town over big city, messy and complicated over clean and simple.
Best decision of her life.
“There you are.” Her grandmother appeared, Grandpa in tow. They'd been making the rounds, telling anyone who'd listen about their “talented granddaughter.”
“We're so proud of you, dear.” Grandma squeezed her hand, beaming. “Your grandfather won't stop bragging about those collaborative pieces.”
“Guilty,” Grandpa admitted with a slight smile.
Jess smiled back. Her grandparents had been noticeably better about boundaries since she'd moved into the apartment above the Caffeine Drip. They still worried, still offered unsolicited advice, but they'd started asking before acting. Progress.
“The collaborative pieces are brilliant,” Grandpa said. “You two work well together.”
“We do.” Jess looked at Wayne again. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm—afternoons in the barn creating side by side, evenings tangled together in bed, weekends discovering all the ways two people could fit into each other's lives.
It wasn't seamless—Wayne still occasionally retreated when vulnerability loomed, and Jess still sometimes charged ahead without checking if he was ready.
But they talked. They adjusted. And the making-up part? That was never a hardship.
The afternoon flew by in a blur of conversations, commissions, and sales. By the time the crowds began thinning, Jess's feet ached and her face hurt from smiling.
Wayne appeared beside her as she was tallying their sales. “How'd we do?”
“Three gallery offers, five custom commissions for collaborative pieces, and we sold almost everything we brought.” Jess showed him the numbers. “Wayne, this is real. We can actually make a living doing this.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I'm terrified it's a dream and I'm going to wake up back in Brooklyn, broke and desperate.”
He pulled her close, kissing her temple. “Not a dream. This is real. You're real. We're real.”
Before Jess could respond, her grandfather appeared at their booth, hands clasped behind his back in that formal way he had when he was trying to look casual.
“Wayne.” Her grandfather nodded at the metalwork display. “Might I have a word?”
Wayne glanced at Jess, then followed her grandfather to the side of the booth.
Jess watched them from a distance. Grandpa pulled out his phone, showed Wayne something on the screen. Wayne leaned in to study it, his expression thoughtful. They talked quietly—she couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw Wayne nod, saw her grandfather's shoulders relax slightly.
Jess spotted her grandmother heading their way, curiosity written all over her face.
Wayne's eyes found hers across the booth. He gave a subtle head shake—keep her away.
“Grandma!” Jess intercepted quickly. “I need your opinion on something.”
“What's Kenneth doing over there?”
“Just talking shop.” Jess steered her toward a display of vases. “But look at this color shift—I mixed a new copper oxide ratio.”
By the time she'd successfully distracted her grandmother, the men had finished their conversation. Grandpa rejoined them looking more relaxed than usual, catching Jess's eye with the smallest hint of a smile—a co-conspirator's smile.
Wayne appeared at her elbow moments later and showed her the photo Grandpa had sent.
A much younger Grandma looked back at her from the screen, laughing directly into the camera—beautiful, carefree, radiant. Around her neck hung an elaborate pendant: a crescent moon formed from delicate spirals of iron, tiny beads worked into the curves like stars.
“How...?” Jess breathed.
“Your grandfather's wedding gift to her,” Wayne said quietly. “Made by my grandfather sixty years ago. She wore it every day for thirty years, then the clasp failed and it was lost. He wants me to recreate it for their anniversary.”
Jess looked up at Wayne, seeing the quiet pride in his expression. “You're going to make something beautiful.”
“I'll try.” But he was already smiling, the kind of smile that said he was planning it, already seeing the finished piece in his mind.
The winter sun was setting by the time they finished loading the last box into Wayne's truck. Jess's feet ached, her voice was hoarse from talking to buyers all day, and she was pretty sure she'd smiled more in eight hours than she had in her entire three years in Brooklyn.
“That was exhausting,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat.
“That was incredible.” Wayne started the engine, then reached over to squeeze her hand. “Did you see how many business cards you collected?”
“We collected.” Jess squeezed back. “That collaborative centerpiece sold for three times what we expected. That's all you.”
“That's us.” He pulled onto the road leading out of town, toward home. The word settled in Jess's chest with quiet certainty. Home. Not her grandparents' garage apartment, not some theoretical future studio space—Wayne's house, Wayne's barn, Wayne's life that had somehow become theirs.
They drove in comfortable silence, the truck bed full of unsold inventory and packing materials, the sky turning orange and pink over the mountains.
Jess let her head fall back against the headrest, watching the familiar landmarks pass by—the Caffeine Drip already closed for the evening, the fire station with its lights on for the night shift, the turn onto Creek Road that led to Wayne's property.
Their property, she mentally corrected. She'd been spending more nights at Wayne's than at her own apartment for the past month. Her kiln was in his barn. Her coffee mug lived in his kitchen cabinet. Her toothbrush sat in his bathroom holder.
She should probably make that official at some point. Stop pretending she lived on her own when really, she just stored clothes there.
Wayne turned into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. The house sat quiet and solid in the gathering dusk, just like always. But as they drove around to the back where the barn stood—
Jess sat up straight. “Wayne. Stop.”
He hit the brakes. “What's wrong?”
“The barn.” She was already fumbling with her seatbelt. “Look at the barn.”
Two signs hung above the wide double doors, each one crafted from forged iron with letters formed in flowing script.
The left sign read “Wayne Drummond Forge” in his distinctive squiggly handwriting—the same handwriting she'd seen on work orders and grocery lists.
The right sign read “Jess Hartley Glass Works” in her own cursive—the flowing script she'd used to label inventory boxes.
The metalwork was exquisite. He'd captured the exact character of their handwriting, translating pen strokes into iron curves and flourishes. The signs were perfectly balanced, perfectly positioned, declaring in permanent metal that this space belonged to both of them.
Jess's vision blurred.
“When did you—” Her voice cracked. “How did you—”
“Not giving away all my secrets.” Wayne's voice was quiet, almost uncertain. “Wanted to surprise you.”
She was out of the truck before he finished speaking, walking toward the barn, fearing the signs might disappear if she moved too fast. They hung next to the large barn door, each letter carefully forged, the dark iron declaring in permanent metal that this space belonged to both of them.
“Jess Hartley Glass Works,” she read aloud, reaching up to trace the letters. The metal was cool under her fingers, permanent and real.
Wayne came to stand beside her. “Thought it was time to make it official. This is your space too. Always has been, really, but...” He gestured at the signs. “Now everyone knows.”
“You made these.” Jess turned to look at him. He was watching her with that expression she'd come to know so well—vulnerable and hopeful and trying to hide both behind practicality.
“I love them,” she managed. “I love them so much I might actually cry, which is ridiculous because they're just signs—”
“They're not just signs.” Wayne's hands found her waist, pulling her close. “They're a promise. That this is ours. That we're building something real here. That I want your name next to mine for everyone to see.”
“Wayne Drummond, are you getting romantic on me?”
“Maybe.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Is it working?”
Instead of answering, Jess pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him, filling it with all her love, her hope, and her certainty. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Wayne rested his forehead against hers.
“Come on. Let's finish up so I can take you inside and show you the other surprise.”
“There's another surprise?”
“Made dinner. Well, ordered dinner. But I set the table.”
Jess laughed, following him as they finished storing the last pieces. Wayne locked up the barn, and as they headed toward the house, Jess glanced back. The signs hung in the gathering darkness, barely visible but solid and real. Permanent. Official. Theirs.
She'd spent years in Brooklyn chasing a dream that kept slipping away. And all along, what she'd needed was here—in a small mountain town, in a barn smelling of fire and creation, with a man who spoke through metalwork and showed his love by forging their names side by side.
If you loved Wayne, you'll fall hard for Pete Sullivan—a small-town firefighter with a secret passion for saltwater aquariums and a talent for talking stubborn women across makeshift bridges during flash floods. Download Beginner's Luck for FREE.