Page 8 of Startup Fire

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.”