I shake my head. “Not until I’ve interviewed everyone in here and find out where the Glass Ghost is hiding.”
She sighs. "I believe you’re determined enough to find the man, and if you wait much longer, you’ll get stuck in the snow.” She pauses, as if making up her mind. Then she nods toward a window with a view of a snowy gravel road behind the store. “If you're set on chasing ghosts, follow the old service road up to the ridge. You might see furnace light if he's working. But you’re wasting your time. He doesn’t give interviews."
I thank her and head back out, adrenaline buzzing. Snowflakes drift thick and lazy from the sky, catching in my hair and meltingagainst my flushed skin. The air has that heavy, electric feel that only happens right before a storm cracks open.
I hop back into my tiny rental and make my way up the narrow road until I reach a gate barring the road. The snow is really coming down now, and I weigh my options. Surely, the woman wouldn’t have sent me up here if I couldn’t reach the Glass Ghost. And it’s aroad. It has to leadsomewhere.There must be something beyond the gate… either the Glass Ghost himself, or at least some shelter.
It's not like I’d be hiking deep into the woods. I can just follow the path until I find something, and I can turn back any time. And it’s daytime. Nothing bad happens to people while the sun is shining, right?
I bundle up as best as I can, duck beneath the gate, and then start walking. My breath fogs the air in white puffs, boots crunching through snow so fresh it sparkles like scattered diamonds. Pine branches hang low under the weight of accumulation, releasing soft whispers as wind moves through them.
After ten minutes or so, I’m ready to turn around. Then I see it.
A glow.
At first, I think it's sunlight pushing through the trees, but sunlight doesn't flicker like that. Doesn't pulse. Doesn't throw long shadows that ripple like molten gold.
I move closer, heart hammering, until I see the workshop tucked into the slope, windows blazing with firelight. Heat rolls out in shimmering waves, distorting the winter air. And through the windows I see the man inside.
Not an old hermit.
Not a frail artisan.
A drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man…
He’s tall, but it’s not just his height that’s impressive. He has broad shoulders and thick forearms dusted with dark hair. Hismovements are slow and powerful as he turns a glowing orb on the end of a steel pipe. His face is half-lit by the fire in the furnace and half-hidden in shadow, highlighting his chiseled jaw line. His hair is pushed back, damp with sweat despite the cold beyond his walls.
This is the Glass Ghost?He could be George Clooney’s younger, taller, better looking brother.
He turns suddenly, like he felt me staring.
Our eyes lock through the window, and his narrow in anger.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I jerk back, stumbling on the snowy path as the door creaks open, and he steps out into the cold like the winter air is nothing to him.
Up close, he's even taller. Andhotter.
And definitely not happy to see me.
"What are you doing here?" he rumbles, voice rough like it hasn't been used in days.
"I—I'm Emory West. I'm a journalist. I'm writing a feature on—"
"No." He crosses his arms. "Turn around. Go home."
Okay.Not the warm welcome I was hoping for.
"I just want to talk," I insist. "People love your ornaments. They want to know who you are."
He shakes his head once. "No interviews. No pictures. No spotlight.”
“Just—”
“Not interested."
Snow thickens around us, wind picking up, cutting through my coat. I glance at the sky. "Look, the storm's almost here. If I hike back down right now, I won't even make it to my car before turning into a human popsicle."
