“Yes, ma’am. This is great.” He started to explore the minute he stepped in, moving to the benches, bending down to check out the furnace. “You studied in Venice, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes.”

“What started you off? God, I hate when people ask me that. Never mind." He laughed at himself and strolled toward her pipes. His fingers itched to touch. Cautious, he looked back at her, measured. “I’m bigger than you.”

She nodded. “I’m meaner.” But she relented enough to take up a pontil herself and hand it to him.

He hefted it, twirled it. “Great murder weapon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time someone interrupts my work.”

“So what’s the process?” He glanced toward drawings spread out on a bench. “You sketch out ideas?”

“Often.” She sipped at her tea, eyeing him. In truth, there was something about the way he moved, light and fluid without any fuss, that made her yearn for her sketchpad. “After a quick lesson?”

“Always. It must get pretty hot in here when the furnaces are fired. You melt the stuff in there, and then what?”

“I make a gather,” she began. For the next thirty minutes she took him step by step through the process of hand-blowing a vessel.

The man was full of questions, she thought. Intriguing questions, she admitted, the kind that made you go beyond the technical processes and into the creative purpose behind them. She might have been able to resist that, but his enthusiasm was more difficult. Instead of hurrying him along, she found herself answering those questions, demonstrating, and laughing with him.

“Keep this up and I’ll draft you as pontil boy.” Amused, she rubbed a hand over her belly. “Well, come in and have some tea.”

“You wouldn’t have any of Brianna’s cookies—biscuits.”

Maggie’s brow arched. “I do.”

A few moments later Gray was settled at Maggie’s kitchen table with a plate of gingersnaps. “I swear she could market these,” he said with his mouth full. “Make a fortune.”

“She’d rather give them to the village children.”

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a brood of her own.” He waited a beat.

“I haven’t noticed any man coming around.”

“And you’re the noticing sort, aren’t you, Grayson Thane?”

“Goes with the territory. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“I won’t disagree.” Maggie poured boiling water into a warmed teapot.

“You’re going to make me yank it out,” he muttered. “Is there someone or not?”

“You could ask her yourself.” Miffed, Maggie set the pot on the table, frowned at him. Oh, he had a talent, she thought, for making you want to tell him what he wanted to know. “No,” she snapped out and slapped a mug on the table in front of him. “There’s no one. She brushes them off, freezes them out. She’d rather spend all her time tending to her guests or running out to Ennis every time our mother sniffles. Self-sacrificing is what our Saint Brianna does best.”

“You’re worried about her,” Gray murmured. “What’s troubling her, Maggie?”

“ ’Tis family business. Let it alone.” Belatedly she poured his cup, then her own. She sighed then, and sat. “How do you know she’s troubled?”

“It shows. In her eyes. Just like it’s showing in yours now.”

“It’ll be settled soon enough.” Maggie made a determined effort to push it aside. “Do you always dig into people?”

“Sure.” He tried the tea. It was strong enough to stand up and dance. Perfect. “Being a writer’s a great cover for just being nosy.” Then his eyes changed, sobered. “I like her. It’s impossible not to. It bothers me to see her sad.”

“She can use a friend. You’ve a talent for getting people to talk. Use it on her. But mind,” she added before Gray could speak, “she’s soft feelings underneath. Bruise them, and I’ll bruise you.”

“Point taken.” And time, he thought, to change the subject. He kicked back, propping a booted foot on his knee. “So, what’s the story with our pal Murphy? Did the guy from Dublin really steal you out from under his nose?”

It was fortunate that she’d swallowed her tea or she might have choked.

Her laugh started deep and grew into guffaws that had her eyes watering.

“I missed a joke,” Rogan said from the doorway. “Take a breath, Maggie, you’re turning red.”

“Sweeney.” She sucked in a giggling breath and reached for his hand. “This is Grayson Thane. He was wondering if you stepped over Murphy’s back to woo me.”

“Not Murphy’s,” he said pleasantly, “but I had to step all over Maggie’s—ending with her head, which needed some sense knocked into it.

It’s nice meeting you,” he added, offering Gray his free hand. “I’ve spent many entertaining hours in your stories.”

“Thanks.”

“Gray’s been keeping me company,” Maggie told him. “And now I’m in too fine a mood to yell at you for not waking me this morning.”

“You needed sleep.” He poured tea, winced after the first sip. “Christ, Maggie, must you always brew it to death?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, propped her chin on her hand. “What part of America are you from, Gray?”

“No part in particular. I move around.”

“But your home?”

“I don’t have one.” He bit into another cookie. “I don’t need one with the way I travel.”

The idea was fascinating. Maggie tilted her head and studied him. “You just go from place to place, with what—the clothes on your back?”

“A little more than that, but basically. Sometimes I end up picking up something I can’t resist—like that sculpture of yours in Dublin. I rent a place in New York, kind of a catchall for stuff. That’s where my publisher and agent are based, so I go back about once, maybe twice a year. I can write anywhere,” he said with a shrug. “So I do.”

“And your family?”

“You’re prying, Margaret Mary.”