Page 23 of Heartwood and Hardware
CHAPTER SEVEN
RILEY
My fingers grip the small wooden box as I approach Dean's booth. Inside are the fox and bear carvings he left for me at lost and found, along with a note explaining their significance. The fox looking up at the bear, the bear gazing down at the fox—different creatures finding unexpected common ground.
Just like us.
I spent all night reading and rereading Dean's messages, weighing my hurt against what my heart already knows to be true. No matchmaker, no matter how skilled, could have manufactured the connection we formed yesterday. The way Dean listened—actually listened—to my excited rambling about code. The vulnerability in his eyes. The patient way his hands worked even as his eyes were on me.
Those moments were real.
Dean spots me before I reach him. His hands freeze mid-motion, tools suspended over wood. The hope and uncertainty in his expression make my chest tighten.
"Hi," I say, stopping a few feet away.
"Hi." His voice is rough, cautious. "You came back."
"I got your messages." I clutch the box tighter. "And this."
Parker, working at the neighboring booth, suddenly finds something urgent to do on the far side of the convention area. At least he has the decency to look guilty as he makes his escape.
Dean sets down his tools, wiping his hands on a rag. "I meant every word I wrote, Riley. I had no idea about any matchmaking plan."
"I believe you." The words come easier than I expected. "It took me a while to get there, but I do."
Relief washes over his features. "Thank you."
"Can we talk?" I gesture toward the less crowded area behind his booth. "Somewhere a little quieter?"
Dean nods, quickly securing his workspace before leading me to a small break area hidden from the main convention floor by a row of potted plants. Two empty chairs wait in the corner like they've been placed there specifically for difficult conversations.
We sit facing each other, close enough that our knees almost touch. The wooden box rests in my lap, a physical manifestation of everything that's happened between us.
"I'm sorry I ran," I start, meeting his eyes directly. "I overheard Parker talking about Zaftig, about how our meeting was arranged, and I just... panicked."
"You had every right to be upset." Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I was furious when I found out what Parker had done."
"It wasn't just about being set up." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to articulate the fear that sent me running. "It was thinking that the only reason someone like you would be interested in someone like me was if it was literally arranged by professionals."
Dean's brow furrows. "Someone like me?"
"You know." I gesture vaguely at all of him. "Talented. Confident. Capable of existing in social situations without mentally cataloguing every possible way to mess up."
A small smile tugs at his lips. "Is that what you think I am?"
"Aren't you?"
"Riley." He shakes his head, his expression softening. "I spent three years after my last breakup barely speaking to anyone outside of work. I find peace in wood because it doesn't expect conversation. People exhaust me. Social situations are a minefield I'd rather avoid." He pauses, holding my gaze. "Except with you. With you, it's... different."
The sincerity in his voice wraps around me like a warm blanket. "I felt that too," I admit. "Like I could just be myself without calculating every word or gesture."
"That's not something anyone could arrange or manufacture." Dean reaches for my hand, his fingers warm against mine. "That's just us."
I turn my hand in his, our palms meeting. "When I heard about the matchmaking, I thought everything I felt was based on a lie. That I was just... a project."
"You were never a project to me." His thumb traces circles on my skin. "You were a surprise. The best kind."
"Even though we were pushed together by meddling friends and professional matchmakers?"
