Working With Heat

by Anne Calhoun

  “And when will that be?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said as he washed his hands in the industrial sink. “I’ll need to grind down any sharp edges, too.”

  “You make it look easy,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Anyone can learn to do this. It just takes patience, dexterity and determination.”

  “Anyone could learn to make that,” she said, nodding at the lehr where her vase cooled. “But this?” She reached into her bag, pulled out the box he’d given her and opened it to set the cleat on the marver between them. “Did you make this the same way you made my vase?”

  He cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “That’s cast in a mold. You’re carrying it around?” he said.

  “I wanted to see what it looked like in the sunlight,” she said. She ran her finger along the links, lifting the last two that hung free from the cleat itself. “What are you doing with them?”

  Without a word he led her to the back of the warehouse space. Behind the stacked shipping boxes and pallets stood a row of objects covered in protective sheets. He pulled off the sheet covering the third object in.

  “Oh my goodness,” Milla said.

  Sitting on the floor was a life-size replica of a cleat used to secure the ships to the docks. He’d used sulfur and other chemicals to get the dull gray color of the steel, casting again and again until he was satisfied with the balance between weight and translucence and the interior of the finished piece was free from bubbles and impurities.

  “This is what you’ve been working on all this time?”

  He nodded. Besides his friend experienced in metalworking who’d helped him make the molds and Billy, no one else had seen this work.

  “Can I see the rest of them?”

  He hesitated. The light was all wrong, the pieces were just sitting on the floor, finished but yet not finished, but somehow it was the right time. The right person. He removed the sheets one by one from the remaining glass sculptures and watched as she walked slowly from piece to piece, pausing occasionally to trail her fingers over a surface. An oversize pair of tailor’s shears, nicked and scarred from heavy use. A massive coil of rope. An antique sewing machine. A shuttle from a loom. A china cup, chipped, a bar of soap, softened and oddly shaped, two consumables originally made with lead and bone.

  “Tell me about them?”

  Putting his process into words was never his strong suit. Chelsea had articulated a vision for his work so eloquently he’d bought into the way she saw him, not realizing until much later that she’d sabotaged his own artistic direction more effectively than any critic. He’d tried to live up to what she saw and had lost himself in the process. For Milla, he’d try.

  “I was thinking about what the East End used to be, this area of London where all of the shit jobs were done, and how what we made or did created the beauty the rest of the world loved. East Enders made leather and silk, built ships and ran docks, made rope and fulled cloth. The smelly, backbreaking, poorly paid work formed the foundation of beauty and trade that made others rich.”

  He stopped, rubbed his nose. She held her phone up, recording him, the movement so much a part of her that he noticed but didn’t care. For the first time in years, he wanted to talk about his creative process, and not just with his mentor, but with Milla. It felt more natural to stop protesting about being in the picture or video than it did to step aside, hang back, turn away. “We love the finished product so much it’s easy to forget the ugliness that goes into making it. I wanted to honor the Londoners who made things other Londoners consume, and the historically significant part of the city that’s rapidly disappearing into Canary Wharf.”

  She lowered her phone and came to stand beside him. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “But more important, I think, they’re you. They speak to who you are, where you come from, what matters to you. Thanks for showing them to me.”

  “Any time,” he said.

  She turned and looked up at him, and he kissed her. It felt so right to kiss her, in this place, the connection between them as hot and flexible as molten glass. They stumbled back into the hot shop, where he collapsed onto a metal folding chair. He wasn’t risking Milla’s smooth skin to one of the work spaces covered with chemicals or shards of glass.

  It didn’t take much to work her skirt up to her hips, giving him free access to the sweet curve of her backside. She reached behind him, gripped the back of the chair and kissed him with a purpose. He tasted the spices from the kebab and falafel they’d shared before she set her mouth to the stubble on his throat. The smooth line of her neck tempted him, and he used teeth and tongue there until she whimpered and hitched herself forward to snug her sex against his hard cock.

  “Tell me you have a condom,” she said.

  He blinked, trying to remember if he still had a foil in his wallet or not, failing because it was really hard to think with Milla heating up in his arms. “Dunno,” he said. “Do you?”

  “Normally, yes, but I started carrying Elsa’s phone case,” she said. “There’s room for credit cards, not protection.”

  “Up you go,” he said. She stood up so he could reach into his jeans pocket for his wallet. The inner pocket held one condom, slightly battered, not past the expiry date.

  “Whew,” she said, and sent her panties to her ankles.

  “We would have made do,” he said as he started to open his zipper.

  “I’ll do that,” she said, and reached for his belt.

  He tore open the packet, hissing in anticipation when her warm fingers gently freed his shaft and held it so he could roll the condom down. She aligned herself with the tip of his cock and took him inside her. He could hardly breathe from the heat, the slick pressure, the vulnerable look in her eyes. Her hair curtained her face, and he tucked it behind one ear before sliding his fingers into it and pulling her mouth to his.

  Her flats scritched against the cement floor as she sought the right angle to ride him, her mouth hot and wet and open against his. Each steady lift and drop of her hips coaxed his orgasm up his shaft, bit by bit, until he was drowning in heat and desire. He worked his fingers between their bodies, turning his wrist until he found the right spot. A swift, low moan as she let her head drop back was his response; he watched the sex flush bloom on her throat and cheeks, bit the inside of his lip and calculated ratios for various color combinations until she tipped her head forward, pressed her open mouth to his and came apart in his arms.

  He gripped her hips and thrust up once, twice, again, and came. She ground her sex against him, kissing her way from his mouth to his ear while the tremors racked him. When they subsided she rested her forehead on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her hips, closed his eyes and breathed in her unique scent.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to not show the pictures or videos to anyone?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  He felt her smile against his neck. “Why not?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Good,” she said. “Charlie, I...can we—”

  The doorknob rattled in the latch. “Oi! Who’s in there?”

  Milla leaped off his lap like she’d touched a live electric wire, shoving her skirt back down.

  “It’s Billy,” he said. “He’s got keys.”

  No time for dignity. He used a paper towel to remove the condom and stuffed it into the trash, then zipped up with a shocking disregard for metal teeth and sensitive skin. Milla swept her panties from the floor and looked around wildly. No handbag. No pockets. The doorknob turned; if she put them on now, she’d be caught with her skirt at her hips.

  “Give,” he said, beckoning with his fingers. He jammed them into his front pocket just as Billy unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Oh, it’s you. I was passing by and saw the lights. I thought someone broke in,” he said, with a significant glance at the back room.

  “No,” he said, steadfastly refusing to look at Milla. “I was showing her the studio.”

  �
�All right, then,” Billy said, glancing between the two of them.

  “I’ll shut everything down,” Charlie said.

  “Right then,” Billy repeated. “Later.”

  When the door closed behind him, Milla sagged. “We are so going to get caught at this,” she said.

  She sounded worried. Would he mind? He wasn’t sure if he would, if Billy and Elsa and Kaitlin knew they were...what? Dating? Not really. Sleeping together? Sure. With Milla, the man he used to be was coming out of hiding. Taking risks, aware of the consequences, confident he could handle them. It made him feel young again. Reckless. Happy.

  “Maybe,” he said, and kissed her again. “Maybe.”

  Chapter Six

  “We’re going to miss you,” Nina Darmayne said as she peered over her red-framed glasses at Milla. “Are you sure you want to give notice? We could just about manage until you return, or get someone on a temporary basis.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Milla said. What a weight off her shoulders! Knowing she had a job waiting for her would make it that much easier to start saving for the next trip. “Thank you very much.”

  She returned to her desk in the back room and finished updating the email list and the website so everything was in order before she left, then got out her lunch to eat quickly at her desk. Charlie’s miniature cleat was tucked away behind her iMac screen, where she could sneak peeks at it as she worked. She understood better why he was so protective of his privacy. A sweeping change in the way he worked would have to be nurtured until he thought it was ready.

  The rest of the staff was at a lunch meeting, so she plugged her phone into the iMac, put on her headphones and replayed the video while she ate, keeping an eye on the video feed from the gallery door as she did. His passion was captivating, his enthusiasm and commitment to the East End so heartfelt and genuine. He wasn’t in it for the trend of galleries and studios encroaching on his neighborhood, but because his roots ran deep there.

  A swift tap on her shoulder startled her. She spun in her chair, the rapid movement tugging her headphones free in a very undignified fashion. Nina was standing behind her. “Who’s that?” she asked, her face alive with curiosity.

  “Um, just a friend,” Milla said.

  “Did he make those pieces? Where was this filmed? Is it one of your travel projects?”

  For a split second, Milla was torn. Lying would be incredibly easy. She could tell Nina that this was indeed someone she’d met on her last trip to Norway. Charlie was blond, with blue eyes, and Nina hadn’t heard him talking. On the other hand, Nina had been nothing but kind and generous to her, supportive of her travels, giving her lots of chances to grow in her work. Realistically, Charlie looked about as Nordic as she did.

  Hesitate and you’re dead meat, her father used to say. A two-second pause, and Nina turned her into roadkill. “Wait a moment,” Nina said slowly. “He looks familiar. That’s Charlie Tanner, isn’t it?”

  “That’s his name, yes,” Milla said vaguely. “I’m living with two other girls in a flat he rents in Spitalfields.”

  “Yes, yes,” Nina said, clearly uninterested in Milla’s living arrangements. “What are those?”

  “That’s a cleat, and those are tailor’s shears, and—”

  “I can see what they are, ninny,” Nina said. “Since when does Charlie Tanner work in glass? The last we knew of him he was a brilliant but rather unpredictable painter with the self-protective instincts of a turtle on the M5.”

  “Um...I’m not sure?” Milla said, then heard herself, tentative, hesitant. Her father would shake his head. “He apprenticed himself to a glassblower shortly after his divorce. He’s been selling to galleries and shops in America and Asia for several years.”

  “Has he, now?” Nina said. She whisked her glasses from the top of her head and put them on her nose, then gathered Milla’s headphones by their cord and pressed the earpiece to her ear. “Replay the video.”

  Milla’s heart sank to her knees. Nina was braced on one hand, watching the video again, her eyes studying Charlie’s latest work. “Who represents him?” she asked absently.

  “No one,” Milla said. Charlie had never mentioned an agent, but then again, Charlie had never mentioned his ex-wife. “He’s got an internet business and set up his own relationships with the international buyers. I think he’s a little leery of the art world.”

  “Phone number,” Nina said with a snap of her fingers.

  Milla shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “That video was private. He’s not ready to sell the works.”

  “Then I’ll merely reach out to him and let him know that when he’s ready to seek representation, I’d like to talk to him.”

  “No. Please,” she said, and abandoned all dignity. “He’s very private. You know what happened to him with Chelsea. He trusted me with that,” she said, gesturing at the screen. “I can’t give you his number.”

  “Are you dating Charlie Tanner?” Nina asked, looking at Milla as if she’d grown another head.

  Oh, God. “Yes? No! Not really. I’m not sure.”

  She swept her glasses back up on her head. “He’s unlisted, I suppose.”

  “He doesn’t even have a cell phone.”

  “All right,” Nina said and straightened to point one narrow, perfectly manicured finger at Milla. “I won’t try to contact him. You will let him know that when he’s interested in showing his work, he should contact me first. If I find out he’s signed with another gallery before I have a chance to talk to him, I’ll fire you on the spot.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Of course,” Milla said.

  When Nina went back to her office, Milla put her head in her hands. Now she had one more secret to keep. The threads were all getting tangled—Charlie’s awful history with Chelsea, which wasn’t really a secret but wasn’t talked about, either; his new work, which was definitely a secret, except now Nina knew about it; how Milla felt about him, which was definitely a secret, although she couldn’t remember why now. But the last thing she’d do was let Charlie know Nina Darmayne wanted to represent him. If Charlie decided to contact another gallery while she was gone, he’d do it on his own terms, in his own time, and Nina would be none the wiser until it was too late.

  The doorbell chimed softly. Milla straightened and plastered a smile on her face. Ten minutes ago she’d been thrilled to keep her job. Now, it would be worth losing her job to know that Charlie’s secret was safe.

  * * *

  On Friday Milla worked through lunch in order to leave an hour early to meet Jared, aka IT Guy, at a coffee shop near the gallery. When they’d made the arrangements Milla had scaled back from drinks to a less freighted coffee date in the late afternoon. Jared seemed as easygoing as his profile indicated, and based on the way he ambled into the coffee shop, all long limbs and amiable eyes, he’d been telling the truth about being laid-back.

  She was prepared to rush through the coffee date. Jared was also a recent London transplant, self-employed, running a business building websites and the infrastructure to maintain a social media presence online, and when a reasonable opportunity arose, Milla recommended Kaitlin for design work. But he offered a second cup of coffee and returned with her decaf latte and a couple of biscuits as well, then started swapping stories about mishaps getting around London, and before she knew it, the light outside the coffee shop’s window had taken on the deep gold of the long summer evening.

  “I have to go,” she said. “I’m meeting friends at the pub. You’re welcome to join us. It’s just pints and the quiz, but we have fun.”

  “I can’t,” he said regretfully. “I have a client meeting. Thanks for squeezing me in. Let me know if you ever need a sub. I’m good with general knowledge.”

  “Are you really? That would great. I’m going to be gone for the next four weeks, and Kaitlin’s desperate to win one of the T-shirts. She designed it, but refuses to make one for herself. She’s very competitive.”

  “I can relate,” Ja
red said. “I’ll text her, see what’s what for the next few weeks.”

  He bent over to kiss her goodbye. When his lips brushed her cheek, a very unsettling truth bloomed in Milla’s mind. She absolutely wanted Jared to come to the Fire Spell for the quiz. He had all the makings of a really good friend—sweet, thoughtful, refreshingly not self-absorbed. She’d even go out with him again, except for one teensy little problem.

  He wasn’t Charlie.

  Which meant her teensy little problem was actually a very big one.

  She waved goodbye again from the sidewalk. She unchained her bike from a lamppost, strapped on her helmet and straddled the frame. She took a moment to text Kaitlin that she was on her way, then attached the phone to her handlebars.

  “No big deal,” she said as she pushed off, peering over her shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. “You’re going away for four weeks. He’s coming down from a big creative jag. This actually works really well. You can tell him you want to be more than friends, and give him time to think about it. And you. Because maybe you’re just saturated with great sex pheromones and you just think you want to be more than friends with Charlie.”

  But deep down inside, she knew. She knew she wanted friendship, and more. The fragile trust they’d built over the last few weeks meant as much to her as the niche she was carving out for herself as a YouTube personality and travel writer. She was falling in love with her friend.

  “Milla!”

  Charlie’s voice echoed in her ears. She braked to a halt and looked for him. He stood on the sidewalk a couple of blocks from the pub, back to the wall beside the tattoo parlor, hands shoved in the pockets of his army jacket.

  “Hi!” she said, a little too brightly. “Hi. Why aren’t you at the pub?”

  “Didn’t feel like going tonight. How was your date?”

  “Nice,” she said. “Really nice. I invited him to join us, but he, ah, had a client meeting.”

  Charlie’s gaze sharpened. The rest of the street dropped away as she studied him. His body all but vibrated with pent-up creativity, hesitation, desire. Definitely desire. “You invited him to the quiz?”