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“You didn’t give me a name. And Benedict sounded just sleazy enough.”
They walked back to the van and listened as Audrey kept a running commentary with Nikki about cameras. By the time London had the van started and was circling the block to cut down the alley, Nikki already had the painting replaced on the wall and was heading toward a back exit.
As soon as they pulled up, Nikki hopped in with a huge smile. “Excellent acting job, London. Let’s go celebrate!”
“As much as I’d like to, I need to go to the studio to start working on the tree topper.”
“Party pooper.”
“I’m sure Wade can help you celebrate.”
Nikki bounced around in the back seat. “Aren’t you too pumped to play with glass? You need to burn off the energy.”
She understood what Nikki was talking about. Now that they were safely away from the building, the adrenaline rush was done, but her nerves were buzzing. She would just have to find a way to channel that energy through her art. After dropping everyone off at the apartment, she drove to the glassworks studio still riding the high of a successful heist.
ChapterFive
Ezra set the next glass in the annealer. That was the last of the set he’d been commissioned to make. Now he could focus on some things that he wanted to do. He didn’t mind when Bronte took orders for specific pieces. Those often carried the bills when art didn’t. But he’d been itching to create a new piece for days. He’d toyed with ideas in his head and tried to sketch something out, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted it to be.
Sometimes, creating was like that. He just needed to start and let the glass show him what it wanted to be. It sounded way too woo-woo for him whenever he tried to explain it, but breathing life into glass was better than talking about some mysterious muse that might strike. He never put faith in things he couldn’t touch. Blaming lack of productivity on a muse was a cop-out.
He put in his earbuds and turned the music up to drown out everything. He pulled some glass from the furnace and began to work. He fell into the rhythm of heating and shaping. He didn’t add color. Not to this piece. This one would remain clear. He shaped and blew, twisted and pulled. Just as it was starting to take shape, he felt a blast of cold air as Bronte came in the back door.
She shivered and then looked at him wide-eyed.
Fuck. He glanced at the clock on the far wall. How had time slipped away so quickly?
He must’ve looked angry because Bronte threw her hands up and said, “You told me tonight would be good. That you’d be done and I could work with London.”
He huffed in frustration. “I know. It’s fine.”
“Uh, are you gonna stay?”
He pointed to the glass. “I am in the middle of something here. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna intrude on your studio time with the rich one.”
“Good. Because she’ll be here soon.” She pointed at his face. “Maybe don’t look so mean.”
He forced a smile.
“Ew. You look feral. Don’t do that either.”
He chuckled and went back to work. There was no reason why he couldn’t continue working while Bronte and London did their thing. With any luck, they could finish the whole project tonight, and they’d be out of his hair.
He heard Bronte unlock the front door and the barest sounds of female chatter floated through the studio. It immediately felt odd. He so rarely had women in his space. Except for Bronte and she didn’t count. He turned as they came into the back and his jaw dropped. If he’d thought the outfit London came to class in had been inappropriate, this one was downright sinful.
She wore a slinky, slippery black dress that dipped into a deep V in the front. If she shifted too fast, he was sure she’d pop out. Her hair was bigger than it had been last time and her face was made up.
Giving him a tentative smile, she held up a bag. “No need to lecture about how I can’t work like this. I’m just coming from a thing I had to do. I’m going to change.”
Bronte glared at him and pointed London in the direction of the bathroom. Once London was out of sight, she said, “Donotscrew this up.”
“Me? What did I do? She’s the one who walked into the studio barely dressed. And so help me if herthinghad her drinking, she can’t be operating in here.”
“She’s sober. And you’re not the babysitter, remember? I am. We’ll be fine.” She waved a hand at him. “Go back to what you were doing. And don’t ogle her.”
“I wasn’t ogling.” He huffed and turned back to his station. It wasn’t ogling to notice someone was barely dressed, showing that much skin in the middle of November.
Although he put his earbuds back in and turned his music on low—Fleetwood Mac—he couldn’t help but notice when London came back wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and another pair of painted-on jeans. She’d also removed most of the makeup she’d had on, which made sense. Otherwise, she’d have ended up looking like a raccoon after a few minutes in front of the furnace. Bronte had learned that the hard way.
