Emma was pretty sure Nick was lying about being snowed in, though of course she had no frame of reference—still, she appreciated that he was trying to distract her.
On the plane here, she’d reminded herself that this might all be a wild goose chase. That the man who’d provided half of her DNA had likely disappeared for a reason.
Seeing him, though, setting eyes on the man—she hadn’t expected the tug of kinship, the need to connect.
Clearly Mike hadn’t felt the same way.
Turning, she watched Nick move the sensual piece he had on the table. Hefting a coil of wire, a tangle of thin rods, and some other bits and pieces, he nodded with satisfaction and motioned her to join him.
“Time for a welding lesson.” It was the last thing she expected to hear. She only had time to blink before he placed the large shield he’d been wearing earlier over her head. He grinned at her confusion as he added a thick pair of gloves that came up over the elbow, tucking the sleeves of the baggy T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—into the cuffs.
“This is not a fashion statement I’m looking to make,” she said as he tugged his own mask over his face. He was still shirtless. Not that she was complaining.
“Safety first.” He picked up the torch and she arched an eyebrow at his naked torso. He couldn’t see it, of course, so he didn’t comment on it. “Okay. Pick a piece to start with.”
“What are we making?” She appreciated art, but her mother had never really nurtured that streak in her. Having now met her father, the artist, she supposed she knew why.
Looking at the metal pieces on the table, her mind stayed blank.
“Your choice.” When he fired up the torch, she jumped at the sudden flare of sparks, a squeak escaping her. “Mercy, give a girl some warning!”
Nick laughed. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
She snorted inelegantly, then gestured toward the table. “I have no idea where to start here.”
“Pick a piece. Whatever little bit calls to you.” Taking her gloved hand in his, he placed it on the pile of metal. Pursing her lips, she chose a diamond shape with the slightest purple sheen.
“Then what?”
“Pick another. Then we put them together and see what happens.”
Letting herself be guided by his hand over hers, Emma felt herself relax just the tiniest bit. Nick’s words, his rough voice, were easy to sink into as he explained things, clearly passionate about his topic.
She liked this. She liked him. Spending time with him here, now, just like this—companionship without their hands all over each other.
It felt good. Right.
When she left, it was going to hurt.
“See?” Nick held up the two pieces she’d chosen and indicated that she should choose a third. “See how they make kind of a heart shape? We could go in that direction. Or wherever else this drags you. That’s all there is to it.”
“Won’t be any time at all before I’m as famous as you, then, hmm?” Looking back at him from over her shoulder, she smiled, more of the tension falling away.
The sound of tires on the driveway and the slamming of a truck door made them both stiffen. For a moment she felt guilty, as though she was intruding.
The steady gaze of Nick’s eyes through the shield had her squaring her shoulders. Maybe Mike wanted nothing to do with her, but Nick did. She could be here if here was where she wanted to be.
Nick’s fingers found hers, squeezed through the gloves, and she felt a jolt of the courage he was giving her.
Here was definitely where she wanted to be.
She didn’t look up as Mike slammed his way back into the studio, but she found herself tracking him in her peripheral vision. Without a word, he shed his winter layers—thick jacket, snow pants, hat—sorry, toque—and gloves. In long johns and sweatpants, he then hauled a large sculpture onto his own table with a grunt.
What he’s doing doesn’t matter. Taking a deep breath, she focused on positioning a new piece of scrap metal.
“Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She nodded, exhaling sharply when he curled her fingers around the torch with his own this time.
Together, they struck the metal, and Emma’s shield darkened—this, he’d explained, was to protect her eyes from the UV light. When her vision had adjusted, she watched with fascination as the metal seemed to melt—Nick called this building a weld pool—fusing the pieces together.
He turned the torch off, and as soon as the crackling had stopped Emma lifted her shield. The smell of the torch’s fuel was thick in the air, so sharp it burned the inside of her nose, but as she looked at the little pile of metal that she was helping to shape, she found that the smell was addictive.
“Not a heart.” Careful to steer clear of the hot metal, she traced the lines in her head on the dented metal table. “A tree. It’s a Christmas tree.”
“It can be whatever you want.” Nick grinned at her, his shield lifted; she couldn’t stop the way her heart fluttered when their eyes met.
A loud snort cut through the moment. Emma and Nick both looked over at Mike, who was shaking his head.
“If you want to learn how to sculpt with metal, find someone who knows what they’re doing, not some young pup who thinks he knows it all.”
Nick smirked in reply, but his hand came to rest on her shoulder, a show of support.
The polite thing to do, long ingrained in her, was to simply ignore the somewhat insulting comment.
Lifting her own hand to brush over Nick’s, she figured she’d left the need to be polite back in Georgia.
“Are you offering?” Tensing as she spoke, she looked at Mike with as steady a gaze as she could manage.
The flash of uncertainty was gone quickly, hidden again beneath the grizzled exterior. Still, she knew she’d seen it, so she didn’t turn away.
“First lesson,” Mike said as he returned to his piece, “don’t let the kid give you wine. Alcohol and fire don’t mix.”
Her temper sparked. “I think you lost the right to give me lectures about safety when you left.”
She wasn’t sure if she’d expected some kind of reaction; at any rate, she didn’t get one. Shrugging, she turned back to her own piece.
As she struggled to place the newest scrap of metal, she was surprised to hear him speak again—to her. “Piece needs balance. You don’t weight it properly, it’ll topple right over.”
Narrowing her eyes, she looked at Mike, the way his hands moved expertly over his own work, then regarded her own statue.
“Where should I put this piece, then?”
“Along the bottom.” He fired up his own torch. “You put it above those feathery bits like you were doing, it’s going to be top-heavy. Not pleasing to the eye.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Emma tried his suggestion, trying to weld the scrap closer the bottom. After the way he’d acted, it irritated her to admit that Mike was right. It looked a million times better than the way she’d had it.
Nick helped her attach it. Eager now, she selected some wire, brow furrowing as she worked.
She was aware when Nick quietly moved away, leaving her with the torch and only the supervision of Mike—of her father.
They worked in silence for an hour. When Emma finally set down the torch, Mike was standing next to her. She realized with a start that her posture mimicked his own—feet shoulder width apart, one arm crossed over the chest, the other raised so the chin could rest in the hand.
It was unnerving to see herself echoed in a stranger.
“Well.” Mike regarded her creation wordlessly, but from the corner of her eye she could see his lips twitching. “It’s…hmm.”
“It’s a hot mess.” She grinned when he huffed out a relieved breath.
“It’s your first try,” he said, and she held a hand up as she laughed.
“It’s hideous.” Stepping forward to run her fingers over one of the crudely attached branches of the tree, she laughed again. “Here, you keep it. Consider it a lifetime’s worth of grade-school art projects.”
An awkward silence stretched out as she realized what she’d said. Sneaking another glance at Mike—why did she find it so hard to look at him fully?—she saw his face set in somber lines.
“I’m not the best person,” he said abruptly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Never claimed any different. But I’m not cruel. I had my reasons for leaving you.”
Emma waited for him to continue, to tell her what those reasons were, but he turned his attention back to his own work.
The conversation was over.