Page 7 of Heartwood and Hardware
I groan. "Great. So now some stranger has seen my work and knows I'll be at the con."
"She's not just some stranger. She's good at what she does. And she seemed genuinely interested in your art."
I grab a piece of sandpaper and start smoothing the bear's muzzle, working against the grain harder than I should. "I don't need help meeting women."
"When's the last time you actually tried?"
The question hangs between us. Truth is, I haven't tried. Not really. After Vanessa left, claiming I was "emotionally unavailable" and "impossible to talk to," I retreated further into my work. Wood made sense. People didn't.
Parker sighs, recognizing my silence for the answer it is. "Look, I'm not saying you need to marry the next woman you meet. Just... be open to the possibility that there's someone out there who gets you. Someone who sees what I see. A talented artist who expresses himself through his work because he can't always find the right words."
I run my fingers over the bear's face, feeling for imperfections. "I'm fine on my own."
"I know you are. But 'fine' isn't the same as happy." Parker pushes off from the workbench. "Anyway, I didn't come here just to harass you about your non-existent love life. I wanted to confirm our booth setup time for Friday."
Grateful for the change of subject, I outline our plan for the outdoor demonstration area. Parker's blacksmithing setup will be adjacent to my carving station, creating what the conorganizers are calling "Maker's Row." We discuss logistics, timing, and what pieces we're bringing to sell.
As Parker heads for the door, he pauses. "Oh, and Dean? Someone special might stop by your booth on Saturday."
My stomach tightens. "Parker, if you've arranged some kind of?—"
He holds up his hands. "I swear I haven't set anything up. But Zara mentioned there's a panelist who might appreciate your work. Someone creative, like you. That's all I know."
I grunt noncommittally, already turning back to my bear.
"Just be your charming self," Parker calls over his shoulder, laughing as he ducks out the door.
Alone again, I let out a long breath and survey my workshop. Pieces in various stages fill the space—the massive bear dominating the center, smaller carvings lined up on shelves, chunks of raw wood waiting for their turn. Each piece represents hours of focus, of losing myself in creation.
My peace doesn't last for long. My phone buzzes with a text from my sister.
Emma
Don't forget Mom's birthday dinner Sunday. And yes, you have to come even if you're tired from your nerd convention.
I smile despite myself.
James
It's not a nerd convention. It's a pop culture and art expo.
Emma
Says the man who spent three months carving a dragon for the Game of Thrones guy.
James
That commission paid for my new bandsaw.
Emma
Whatever helps you sleep at night, geek. See you Sunday. Bring wine.
I set the phone down, shaking my head. Emma never lets me forget that beneath my rugged exterior beats the heart of what she calls "a fantasy art dork." She's not wrong. I may look like I should be felling trees in the wilderness, but I've spent more hours than I'd admit designing mythical creatures and reading fantasy novels.
The light outside my workshop windows has shifted, the afternoon sun casting longer shadows across the floor. I've been at this for hours, but the bear still needs work before Friday. I pick up a detail knife and lean in close, focusing on the eyes.
Comic-Con will be a challenge. I'm not great with crowds—too much noise, too many people wanting to chat. But the chance to show my work, to connect with people who appreciate fantasy art, is worth the discomfort.
