Page 34 of Take Me Under

“My thoughts exactly. She completes the flames. Or perhaps the flames complete her.”

He turned back to me, his gaze curious. “You have a sharp eye. One wouldn’t look right without the other.”

I studied the glass and marble artwork inside the case. “I always thought the flames were missing something.”

“Are you familiar with them?” he asked, his question revealing his surprise.

I glanced his way and smiled. “Of course, I recognize them. I’m the creator. I don’t know how the flames came to be here, but I’d recognize my art anywhere.”

“I’m sorry. But did you just say you’re the creator?” His normally reserved expression took on a look of disbelief.

“Yes. I created this piece a few years back.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m an artist. Blowing glass is a part-time hobby that I mastered when I was in college. But I only create when I need to.” I shrugged. “Not enough to make a living on, but it helped pay for a bit of my college expenses.”

“A hobby? No. This is more than a hobby. It’s real talent. Clearly the purchaser of the piece thought so too, or it wouldn’t be displayed here so prominently.”

I silently considered the flames. I recalled shaping the molten glass with the blowpipe and manipulating the form. The endresult was a vibrant exchange of colors, where the calming blue contrasted with bright orange.

Still, despite its beauty, my glass creation paled in comparison to the sculpture of the woman placed strategically behind it. She defined art. Even though I loved what I had created, I’d always felt that the flames were missing something, and now I knew why. They needed the passionate woman to give reason for their existence.

“Perhaps,” I said with a small sigh. “I’ll admit, I’d hated to part with this particular piece. I’d always felt that this was one of my better works. But life happens. I had bills to pay, and a gallery in Florence offered me a price I couldn’t turn down. I often wondered who the gallery had sold it to, now here it is in front of me, against all odds. I mean, the chances of me stumbling upon it an ocean away must be slim to none.”

“Ironic indeed,” Anton mused.

My eyes darted to look beyond the iron gates but all I could see was a driveway disappearing into the darkness. “What is this place, anyway?”

“Private property,” he replied evenly.

I looked at him, thinking he would explain more, but he didn’t. Instead, Anton’s gaze bore into mine, his expression inexplicably intimate. I returned his dark, magnetic stare, attempting to measure what he might be thinking. Those piercing onyx eyes held steady. And once again, my thoughts drifted to what he would be like in bed.

Unable to stand his scrutiny any longer, I tore my gaze from his and turned my head to look at the glass case once more.

“My parents’ neighbor, Enzo, had a little glassblowing shop. I was fascinated by the art and used to watch him work for hours. During my third year of upper secondary school—or eleventh grade as it’s called in the States—he began to teach me,” I explained.

My thoughts strayed to the past, remembering my first solo piece created under Enzo’s supervision.

“Go on,” Anton prodded.

“He passed away suddenly, leaving his glassblowing workshop to me. He had no family, so I suppose it made sense since I was the only person who spent time with him. I’d lose myself in the shop for hours, allowing time to just slip away.” I paused again as I recalled what it had felt like to be in the heated embrace of a roaring furnace. I breathed deep, imagining that I was filling my lungs right before pushing air into the blowpipe, giving life to an unknown creation. “It’s like weaving magic from fire and sand.”

“You love it,” he stated.

Blinking, I pulled myself from my reverie and angled my head to look at him. He scanned my face, studying me as if I were the work of art, and not the statue beside us.

“I do. Very much.”

“Yet you dig up bones for a living. Another mystery,” he added. “Why archaeology over doing what you truly love?”

He posed the question as if it had a simple answer. The truth stalled in my throat, and I stayed silent for the span of a few heartbeats. Perhaps it was because a small part of me was disappointed in myself for not following my dreams. I had always considered myself strong and independent, yet I’d chosen to walk a path that had been predetermined for me rather than forge my own.

“Like I said, there was no money in it. So, I chose archaeology for my father.”

He moved closer to me once again, reaching for my hand and encasing it in his. As much as I knew I should pull away, I couldn’t bring myself to. Instead, I found my fingers involuntarily lacing through his.

His free hand moved up, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. I shivered from the contact.

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