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He was not.
He’d happily handed over all of that to his little sister so he could focus on glassblowing and creating. He was in the first stage of creating a vase when he heard the noise.
Fuck. He’d thought for sure that working this late would give him peace.
He felt Bronte standing behind him even though she said nothing. Well, damn. If she wanted to play a silence game, he wasn’t going to stop her.
He rolled the glass and reheated it, adding more color each time.
After ten minutes, she broke. “Seriously? You’re not going to say anything?”
He just shot her a look over his shoulder as he rolled the molten glass.
“No, ‘Hi, Bronte. What are you doing here so late?’ Or ‘Is something wrong?’ Or even ‘What the hell do you want?’”
“Fine. What the hell do you want?” he asked without looking up.
She huffed, and her sigh was loud enough for him to hear over the sounds of the flames and the fans. “What exactly did you say to Mr. Wilson?”
“Something along the lines of ‘fuck off.’”
“Dude. He was offering big bucks. For some ornaments. You could’ve finished them in no time.”
He shoved the glass he was working on back into the furnace so he could address the issue he’d been avoiding. “He started making demands about what he expected them to look like, and he wanted to make sure each piece was a unique Fisher original.”
“So what? He agreed to pay two hundred dollars per ornament.”
He rubbed his beard. He knew he’d acted rashly, but it wasn’t without cause. “After the first two phone calls and three emails, I looked him up. Did you check this guy out? He’s a rich douche who thinks he can dictate everything.”
“If he’s a paying customer, he can. That money would’ve paid for new equipment.”
“I know. He’s not the kind of guy I want to do business with. He pays all of his upper management extremely well. I’ll give him that. But he cut the hours and benefits for all of his entry-level people. You know, the people who need the money and security? And then he’s going to throw some lavish party for all of the blowhards and give them my ornaments. They probably don’t even want a glass ornament, Fisher original or not.” He turned back to the furnace and pulled out his glass to restart the project.
She smiled and shook her head.
“You know just as well as I do that within days, most of the hundred and ten ornaments would end up on eBay, selling for a fraction of what he paid. It’s one thing to sell my art to pay the bills, but I can’t be that kind of sellout.” He didn’t even tell her about the woman who had called on the heels of his conversation with Wilson. She’d wanted a custom piece as well but started talking about exact measurements and shit and he’d turned her away.
“I can appreciate where you’re coming from, but we need to talk about increasing revenue.”
“The shop is doing fine.”
“But it could be doing so much better. We should hold classes.”
That’s what he’d been afraid of while he’d been dodging her. “Fuck no.”
“You brought me in to help. Why are you fighting me?”
He turned away from her to roll and blow the glass. “Because you want to bring in a bunch of idiots who think that glassblowing is a cool hobby. Something to dabble in as if I haven’t trained for years.”
“I want to share your art form with people who are used to buying crap made overseas. If they see the work that goes into each piece, they might be more willing to spend more money.”
“Then make a video. Show it in the shop.”
“People are willing to pay for experiences. Then they’ll buy products as additional mementos.”
He looked at her over his shoulder and met her steady gaze. “I’m not a teacher.”
She rolled her eyes in a way only a little sister could. “Yes, you can. You taught me when Dad refused because he said I was too little. And last year, when that company hired you—”
