Page 16 of Heartwood and Hardware
"Dean! There you are!" A voice cuts through our moment. A convention staff member approaches, clipboard in hand. "Your evening demonstration starts in fifteen minutes. We need to go over the safety procedures with the audience."
Dean's jaw tightens slightly, but he nods. "I'll be right there." As the staff member walks away, he turns back to me, regret evident in his expression. "I have to?—"
"Go," I finish for him, tucking the wooden heart into my pocket alongside the fox. "I understand."
"Will you stay? For the demonstration?" There's a vulnerability in the question that makes my heart squeeze.
"Of course," I promise. "I'll be right here."
His smile returns, warming his eyes. "Good. And after, maybe we could?—"
"Dean! Now, please!" The staff member calls again.
He sighs, squeezing my hand briefly before turning away. "Don't go anywhere," he says over his shoulder.
"I won't," I call after him.
Like the heart in my pocket, something new is taking shape between us—something neither of us planned, but that feels as natural and right as the wood yielding to the knife, revealing what was always meant to be there.
CHAPTER SIX
RILEY AND DEAN
Riley
I lean against the side of a nearby tent, watching Dean prepare for his demonstration. The crowd has grown considerably—word of his skill has spread throughout the convention. I can't blame them for wanting to see him work. There's something mesmerizing about watching his hands transform raw wood into art, each movement purposeful and precise.
As Dean arranges his tools, Parker approaches him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. They speak quietly, heads bent together. I'm too far away to hear their conversation, but I can see the easy camaraderie between them. Friends, not just business associates.
I pull out my phone to check the time. Dean's demonstration should start in about five minutes. My inbox has exploded with messages from panel attendees, but they can wait. Right now, I just want to enjoy watching Dean work, to see the concentration in his eyes as he reveals what's hidden in the wood.
The crowd hushes as Dean steps up to his workstation. He scans the audience, his eyes finding mine immediately. Thesmall smile that crosses his face when our gazes lock sends warmth spreading through my chest.
As Dean begins his introduction, explaining the process of detail carving, I notice Parker talking to another vendor a few feet away from me. They're speaking in low tones, but something in their animated gestures draws my attention.
"—can't believe Zaftig actually pulled it off," Parker says, just loud enough for me to hear. "Dean's been alone too long. He needed this push."
The word "Zaftig" catches my attention. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it.
"That matchmaking agency does good work," the other vendor replies. "My sister met her husband through them."
Matchmaking agency? I freeze, suddenly alert.
"When Dean finds out this was all arranged, he'll thank me," Parker continues, oblivious to my presence. "The girl seems perfect for him—exactly the type Zara said would complement his personality."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Arranged? This was all arranged?
My mind races, pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. The "special guest" Parker mentioned to Dean. The conveniently timed demonstration just as my panel ended. The "decompression area" suggestion that led me directly to Dean's booth.
It wasn't chance. It wasn't a natural connection. It was orchestrated.
I'm a project. A setup.
Everything feels tainted now. The fox. The heart. The connection I thought we shared. Was any of it real, or was it all just the product of careful matchmaking algorithms?
I back away further, clutching my laptop bag to my chest like armor. My breath comes faster, the familiar tightness of anxiety squeezing my lungs. I need to leave. Now.
As I turn to go, I catch Dean's eye again. He falters mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he registers my distress. He makes a small gesture, as if asking if I'm okay.
