Page 24 of Heartwood and Hardware
Dean's smile widens. "They may have opened the door, but we walked through it on our own."
The tension I've been carrying since yesterday finally begins to dissolve. I open the wooden box with my free hand, revealing the carvings nestled inside. "Tell me about these."
"The fox and the bear." Dean's voice takes on that special quality it has when he talks about his work—passionate, yet somehow peaceful. "Both solitary creatures by nature. Different in almost every way. Yet here they are, finding connection."
I lift the bear carving, studying its alert expression. "It's beautiful. They both are."
"I carved them last night, thinking about you. About us." His eyes never leave mine. "About how sometimes the most unexpected connections are the most meaningful."
"I kept thinking about that yesterday," I confess. "How in just one day, you became someone whose perspective matters to me. Whose observations make my world richer." I set the bear down beside the fox. "That's not something that can be engineered."
"No, it's not." Dean's fingers tighten around mine. "Riley, I don't care how we met. I care about what happened after. The conversations we had, the things we shared—that was all real. At least for me."
"For me too." The words come out softer than intended, nearly a whisper.
Something shifts in Dean's expression—a softening, an opening. "Where do we go from here?"
I consider the question, tracing the grain of the wooden box with my fingertip. "I'd like to find out what this is between us. Without matchmakers or arranged meetings. Just... us."
"I'd like that too." The hope in his voice makes my heart flutter.
"Starting now?" I suggest.
Dean glances toward his booth. "I have one more demonstration scheduled in an hour."
"I can wait." I smile. "Or help. I'm pretty good with a payment app, I hear."
His laugh warms me from the inside out. "Stay. Please."
"I will." I stand, still holding his hand. "But first..."
I step closer, into the space between his knees. Dean looks up at me, his expression a mixture of surprise and anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, I lean down and press my lips to his.
The kiss is gentle at first—a question, an offering. Then Dean's hand comes up to cup my cheek, and the kiss deepens into an answer. His lips are warm and sure against mine, histouch reverent. I sink into the sensation, my free hand finding his shoulder for balance.
When we finally part, I'm breathless, my heart racing. Dean's eyes are darker, more intense.
"I've wanted to do that since yesterday," he admits, his voice rough.
"Me too." I smile, feeling lighter than I have in days. "Worth the wait."
Dean stands, bringing our bodies closer together. His height makes me tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, but I don't mind. There's something comforting about his solid presence.
"I should get back," he says reluctantly. "Prepare for the demonstration."
"And I should let you." I don't move away. "But I don't want to."
His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Come with me. Be my assistant."
"What would that involve?"
"Handing me tools. Explaining the process to anyone who asks. Being a very distracting presence."
I laugh. "I can do that."
Dean's demonstration goes beautifully. I stand nearby, passing him tools when needed, watching his hands transform wood with practiced precision. Several attendees comment on our obvious connection, assuming we've been working together for years. We don't correct them.
Afterward, as Dean packs up his booth for the day, the conversation flows easily between us. The awkwardness that might have lingered after our reconciliation is absent, replaced by a comfortable familiarity that belies our short acquaintance.
