Fast & Loose Elizabeth Bevarly (bts book recommendations .txt) 📖

dozens of halogen lamps overhead that rained down enough white-bright light to illuminate the studio to its farthest corners. Adding to the brilliance was a freestanding blowtorch in the middle of the room that erupted in even more light, though this was a glowing mix of yellow and blue amid the white crystal clarity of the other.

And the glass. Good God, it was everywhere, what seemed like dozens of pieces in even more colors, sitting on shelves, scattered about the floor, leaning against the walls, hanging from a grid work of stainless steel overhead. Most of it was unstructured and fluid, frozen rivers of mottled hues that flowed into one another so seamlessly, it was hard for Cole to tell where some of the pieces ended and others began.

Lulu hadn’t heard him come in thanks to the heavy hiss of the blowtorch doing battle with the music that blasted at about a billion decibels, some guy roaring about bleeding it out, digging in deeper, and then throwing it away. She sat on a low stool in profile to the left of the blowtorch, her eyes covered by old-fashioned riveter’s goggles made of heavy canvas and dark green glass to protect her eyes from the fire’s light. She was dressed in her construction worker-type garb again of white tank top and overalls, one denim strap having come undone to let the bib fall diagonally across her breasts. Her hair was bound haphazardly atop her head, but a few errant, sweat-dampened curls corkscrewed around her face and over her equally damp neck. Perspiration streaked what he could see of her face and throat, and as he began to circle slowly around toward her front, he saw that one very enticing rivulet was streaming down between her breasts.

Even when he stood within a few feet of her at an angle of only forty-five or so degrees, she didn’t see him, so focused was she on her work. In one leather workgloved hand, she gripped a long stick that held a blob of orange-hot glass being made oranger and hotter by the fire, and with the other hand, she adjusted the flame on the torch. The loud hiss grew louder still, louder, even, than the music, and Cole had to battle the urge not to cover his ears with his hands. Clearly the noise didn’t bother Lulu, so he wasn’t going to let it bother him, either.

In fact, the noise seemed to energize her, because as the flame grew higher, she drew nearer to it, picking up a small metal tool and touching it to the molten glass. Cole watched in fascination as the formless blob took shape, though, he had to admit, it was a shape he couldn’t quite identify. It seemed to please Lulu, though, because she withdrew it from the flame and held it up toward one of the halogen lights, turning it one way, then another before pulling it back toward herself and making a few adjustments with the tool.

As she moved her arms, Cole noticed muscles at work he hadn’t noticed on her before, the elegant bow of her biceps, the delicate curve of her forearm, the graceful camber of her shoulder. When she turned her body away from him, the cutout sleeves of her shirt revealed muscles in her back, too, that had developed through her art. Where he would have thought such muscles on a woman would be mannish and unattractive, he instead found them incredibly sexy. That Lulu had such strength and power in those arms meant she was in no way fragile or passive. On the contrary, her strength and power was something he liked.

Something he liked a lot.

When she turned her body back toward him again, he noted how the sheen of perspiration refracted and shone on her face the same way the glass did with the light shining through it. As she worked, Lulu became one with the glass that surrounded her, as vibrant, delicate, and clear as the art itself. It had never occurred to Cole that the act of creation could be so unbelievably sensuous. But Lulu made it inexorably so.

For several more minutes he watched in silence as she worked, noticing more things about her he hadn’t noticed before. The way her hair wasn’t just one color—it was dozens of shades of auburn and amber and gold. The way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating on an especially precise task. How she wiped away the sweat the same way a man would, with a complete lack of decorum. How no matter how hard she was concentrating, or how carefully she was forming the glass, her left foot still tapped perfectly in time with the blaring music.

Then, without warning, she looked up from her work and saw him. Immediately, she pushed the goggles up onto her forehead so she could meet his gaze. And then…zing. Just as it had that night in the bar, time for Cole came to a stop, and everything in the room went out of focus. Everything except Lulu, who became clearer to him than ever.

“Hello,” he heard himself say as if from a million miles away. Even though he’d had to raise his voice for the greeting, he scarcely discerned the word.

She studied him without moving for another moment, then squeezed her eyes shut tight and shook her head once, as if she, too, had lapsed into a sort of otherworldly existence.

“Hey,” she shouted back when she opened her eyes again. She lowered the flame on the blowtorch until it was barely a flicker emitting little more than a low-grade whisper of sound. She rose from her stool, moved to a bucket of water and lowered the hot glass into it, then covered the few feet to the boom box—stepping over and around a half-dozen pieces of glass as she did—and lowered the volume on the music.

“Sorry,” she said as she shed her gloves and scooped up a rag to wipe off her