Page 25 of Heartwood and Hardware
"Where are you staying?" Dean asks as he secures the last of his tools.
"The convention hotel. It's just a few blocks from here."
He hesitates, then meets my eyes directly. "Would you like to come to my place? I could make dinner. Show you my workshop." He pauses. "No pressure. Just... more time together."
The invitation sends a pleasant warmth through me. "I'd like that."
The drive to Dean's place takes about twenty minutes, through increasingly wooded areas until we reach a small house set back from the road. It's exactly what I would have imagined for him: rustic but well-maintained, with a large detached workshop visible behind it.
"It's not much," Dean says as he unlocks the front door. "But it's home."
Inside, the house is surprisingly cozy. Natural wood elements dominate—hardwood floors, exposed beams, handcrafted furniture that I suspect Dean made himself. Large windows let in the evening light, illuminating walls decorated with a mix of nature photographs and fantasy art prints.
"This is beautiful," I say, turning slowly to take it all in. "It feels like you."
Dean's expression softens. "That might be the nicest compliment anyone's given me about this place."
"I mean it. It's authentic. Thoughtful." I run my hand along a bookshelf filled with fantasy novels and woodworking guides. "Like its owner."
He steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Would you like to see the workshop before dinner?"
"Absolutely."
The workshop is Dean's true domain. Larger than I expected, it's filled with tools organized with meticulous care, wood in various stages of transformation, and completed pieces that take my breath away. Dragons with scales so detailed they seemready to move. Bears caught mid-roar. Foxes with expressions so lifelike I half expect them to wink.
"This is incredible," I breathe, moving from piece to piece. "Your talent is... I don't even have words."
"Thank you." Dean watches me explore, a quiet pride in his expression. "This is where I feel most myself."
I understand completely. "Like me with my code. When everything else feels chaotic or overwhelming, there's this one space where everything makes sense."
"Exactly." He moves to stand beside me, our shoulders touching. "Most people don't get that."
"I do." I turn to face him. "I get you, Dean Evans."
The words hang between us, simple but profound. Dean's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his touch gentle but sure.
"And I get you, Riley Bennett."
This time when our lips meet, there's no hesitation. The kiss deepens immediately, my arms winding around his neck as his encircle my waist. His body is solid and warm against mine, his hands respectful but eager as they explore my back, my hips, the curve of my waist.
When we part for breath, Dean rests his forehead against mine. "Dinner can wait," he murmurs. "If you want..."
"I want," I whisper back, my body humming with anticipation. "I definitely want."
He leads me back to the house, through the living room to a bedroom that continues the natural wood theme. A large bed with a handcrafted headboard dominates the space. Dean stops just inside the doorway, turning to face me.
"We can slow down," he offers. "If this is too fast."
I shake my head, stepping closer. "It doesn't feel fast. It feels right."
The certainty in my voice seems to dissolve any remaining hesitation. Dean pulls me against him, his kiss deeper now,hungrier. I respond in kind, my hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt.
"I've thought about this since I first saw you," he confesses between kisses. "You standing there, looking at my carvings with such genuine interest."
"I've thought about your hands," I admit, taking one in mine to press a kiss to his palm. "How they create such beautiful things. How they'd feel on me."
A groan escapes him. "Let me show you."
