Page 20 of Heartwood and Hardware
After an hour of searching with no success, I return to the convention center. The evening demonstrations are wrapping up, vendors packing away their wares. Parker looks up hopefully as I approach.
"Any luck?"
I shake my head, slumping into my chair. "She's gone."
"I really messed up, didn't I?" Parker's usual confidence is absent. "I just wanted to help. For what it's worth, I've neverseen you connect with someone the way you did with Riley. That wasn't manufactured."
I pull out my phone again, staring at our last exchange. She needs time to think. I should respect that, give her space.
But the thought of her believing I manipulated her, that our connection wasn't genuine, is intolerable.
"Tell me everything you know about this Zaftig agency," I say to Parker.
He sighs, sitting across from me. "Not much. They're matchmakers—old school, personal approach. They find people who complement each other. I met one of the owners, Zara, at a craft fair last month. We got talking about my chronically single friend who carves wood and needs someone who gets him."
"And she suggested Riley?"
"Not specifically. She said they had clients who might appreciate your particular... intensity." He chooses the word carefully. "When I mentioned you'd be at Comic-Con, she seemed interested."
"So they what—engineered our meeting? Made sure Riley would find my booth?"
"Something like that." Parker looks genuinely remorseful. "I didn't know the details. Just that someone might stop by."
I lean back, processing this. "And Riley overheard you talking about it."
"Must have. I was telling Mike how successful the match seemed." Parker winces. "I should have been more discreet."
"Yeah." I stand, reaching for my jacket. "You should have."
"What are you going to do?"
I pull out my phone, sending one more message to Riley.
Dean
I didn't know. Please let me explain when you're ready. What happened today was real.
"Right now? Pack up. Go home. Hope she reaches out when she's ready."
Parker helps me dismantle my booth in silence. As we load the last pieces into my truck, he pauses.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry. I thought I was helping."
"I know." I clap him on the shoulder, some of my anger dissipating. "Your methods need work, but your intentions were good."
"You going to be okay?"
I shrug. "Ask me tomorrow."
My workshop is too quiet when I return. Usually, the silence is welcome after a day of crowds and conversation. Tonight, it feels empty, echoing with possibilities lost.
I pull out the fox carving from my pocket, studying its alert expression. The match to the one Riley has—or had. For all I know, she threw it away when she discovered the truth.
The thought sends a pang through my chest.
Setting the fox on my workbench, I pick up a fresh block of cedar. My hands need something to do, some way to process the emotions churning inside me.
The wood responds to my knife, curls peeling away to reveal the form hidden within. I work without conscious thought, letting muscle memory guide me. Only when the basic shape emerges do I recognize what I'm creating—a small bear, standing protective and watchful.
