Page 2 of Fire Dancer

“Except pegasuses aren’t real,” the killjoy brother added.

“Pegasi,” Stacy murmured as she signed the invoice. Like most of our regular customers, her company handled the billing separately. She started scooping the box into her arms, then stopped and pulled something out of her pocket.

“Oh — I almost forgot.” She handed me a flyer. “My boss is sponsoring a design contest. I thought you might want to enter. You’re the best glassblower I know.”

I chuckled. “The only one you know?”

She grinned. “Still the best. And the prize is pretty impressive.”

That sure piqued my interest. “How impressive?”

Stacy was about to answer, but I yelped when I spotted it on the flyer.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

She lit up with a proud glow. “Yep. Business is good, and my boss is very generous.”

Clearly, Stacy had a thing for her boss. From what I’d gathered, she hadn’t found Mr. Right to swap vials with — yet — but it was obvious she was keeping that option open for the day her boss finally took notice of her. Then he would sweep her off her feet, share his vast wealth in a marriage of true love that had no need for a prenuptial agreement, and they would live happily ever after.

How likely that was, I didn’t know. But, heck. We all had our secret fantasies.

Meanwhile, visions of greenbacks filled my mind. Make that, visions of me strolling along the canals of Venice, then hopping a ferry to Murano, a mecca of glassmaking since the Middle Ages. Twenty-five thousand dollars could not only get me there, but also allow me to enroll in a course taught by one of the famous masters — and still have plenty left over.

Now, that would be a dream, and a win wouldn’t hurt my résumé either.

I tucked the flyer away in my pocket. I would definitely be poring over that later.

“Thanks so much for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you next week!” With that, the bubbly redhead picked up the box and headed for the door.

The teenage boy scurried over to open it for her. Either he had good manners, or pretty redheads were his type.

“Aw, thank you.” Stacy flashed him a smile.

His dopey grin confirmed my second theory.

Stacy’s elbow bumped the door frame as she departed, and the vials in the box clinked softly.

The storefront windows afforded a view of a big SUV idling at the curb. The hatch popped open, and Stacy loaded the box, then walked around the vehicle to slide into the back seat. The driver — barely a silhouette through those dark, tinted windows — eased away, heading down the road.

“Blood vials, huh?” the girl murmured, gazing after Stacy.

I was tempted to point out the sets we sold retail, but the mother shot me a hard look that said,Don’t you dare give her any ideas.

I pointed in the opposite direction. “These dream catchers are really popular.”

“Wow! I bet none of your friends has one of those.” The mom towed her daughter over.

Outside, a Jeep rolled into the spot vacated by Stacy’s ride. The driver hesitated, then parked and hurried toward the shop entrance. The door burst open and—

Joyful butterflies fluttered in my belly, and an angels’ chorus filled the cathedral of my mind. The doorway was too packed with hot-blooded man for me to see much sky, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a rainbow there.

Ingo,my heart sighed, as it always did whenever he made an entrance. Because Ingo didn’t simply enter a room. He owned it the moment he stepped over the threshold.

A moment later, my Hallmark-card moment shattered. He was just another guy now. Nothing special about him. No siree. Not even with those midnight eyes that lit up when he saw me or that raven hair I used to run my fingers through.

He paused at the door, eyes bright, cheeks pink, stuck in a time warp a moment longer than I. Clearly, he remembered what we used to have too.

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