Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,23
arms around herself. “Maybe I can come back here later though?” She turns back to me with a tilt of her head, those violet eyes reaching places I wished she didn’t have access to. “Use the fireplace and bring a blanket? I’d love to sit here and write. God” —she shakes her head— “I’d write all the books if I had a room like this.”
Despite my best efforts, I smile.
Kinda fucking big actually.
Because for some reason, when she told me what she does for a living, I pictured her here, sitting at the wood dining table off to the right or curled up on the sofa in front of the fire or lounging on the chaise, staring out at the nature beyond the room and writing her stories.
I love the fact that London is an author. It’s so perfect for her.
She used to write stories for our independent study, and I’d watch as she would get so into them. Her face always filled with concentration or secret smiles or deep frowns as she would write. Her face was full of expression and I watched because I was always watching her when she wasn’t looking.
Studying the real London.
Not just the popular princess, but the one I saw beneath.
“We can do that. We can definitely do that.” I need to stop smiling. I need to stop staring into her eyes. But most of all, I need to stop imagining things I should not imagine with her. “I’d like to show you my workshop first. That, and I have to check it. It runs on a separate generator. A much larger, industrial one, and I have some things cooling in my kilns, so if they’re without power, I’m in some trouble.”
“Will you show me how you make glass?” She scrunches up her nose. “That’s not how you say it, I’m sure, but I’d love to watch you do it or even try it out myself.” She throws her hands out defensively. “As long as I won’t ruin anything or be in your way.”
“You’re not in my way and as long as you’re careful, you won’t ruin anything.”
“What is this?” she asks as we enter the long, closed-in breezeway.
“It’s what leads to the barn. I had to enclose it because of weather like this.” I pan my free hand out to the side, indicating the storm beyond the windows.
We reach the door and I smile down at her, wanting to put my mouth back by her ear, to whisper into it and watch her shudder against me. But I hold off. “This is my space.”
I open the door and we enter my large rectangular barn. The floors are cement in this part, and I have a huge flaming fire pit set up with a large glory hole in it. There are several steel tables, wooden stools and posts, buckets of mallets and tools.
It’s my heaven. My haven.
It’s where I come when I need to space out and think and create.
Blowing glass is not easy. It’s a multifaceted work of art that often requires several steps and tools and has left me more burns than I care to think about. I have a few pieces I’m particularly fond of annealing in the long-term kiln. If they lose power and the kilns don’t restart, then those pieces risk cracking or shattering.
“Miles,” London draws in a sharp breath, glancing up at me with wide eyes before she returns to what I have out. She picks up a clear glass globe, filled with pink and blue glittery pieces. “You made this? An ornament?”
“Yes. I make a lot of them this time of year. Many custom but this is one of my best sellers.”
She twirls it around in her hand, her eyes wide as the flakes of color tumble with her movements. She looks up, well beyond this space, far off to the other side of the massive barn where you can see the gallery, filled with pieces for sale as well as catalogs of larger items to order.
It’s dark in here now, most of the light only coming in from the windows as a lot of the overhead lights aren’t on the generator to make up for the amount of power the kilns and fire draw.
“It’s beautiful. Wow.” She sets down the ornament, walking across the room, her hands behind her back almost as if she’s afraid of touching anything. I stand back, watching her take in my space. She comes upon a glass sculpture I have sitting