Page 8 of Heartwood and Hardware
And maybe, though I'd never say it aloud, there's a small part of me that wonders about Parker's matchmaker friend and this "special someone" who might stop by. Not that I'm looking. Not that I need anyone to complete me or my life.
But still.
I carve a final detail into the bear's eye—a tiny spark of awareness, of life—and step back to assess my work. Almost there. Almost ready to face the world.
Just like me.
CHAPTER THREE
RILEY
The applause hits me like a physical wave. My hands shake as I unclip the microphone, mumbling thanks to the moderator who's saying something about my "brilliant insights." I can't process her words. The panel went well (I think). When I was talking about code, explaining my open-source project, everything flowed naturally. But now, with five hundred pairs of eyes still on me, my skin prickles with awareness.
Too much. Too loud. Too everything.
I scan the exits while the moderator wraps up. There's a crowd forming already—audience members with questions, industry people with business cards, fans with praise. Normally, I'd push through, do the expected networking, but today the fluorescent lights seem extra harsh, my thoughts extra scattered.
I need air.
Slipping behind the other panelists, I make for the side exit, clutching my laptop bag like a shield. Someone calls my name. I pretend not to hear, quickening my pace. The guilt will come later. Right now, survival mode is kicking in.
The exit sign glows like a beacon. Beneath it, I spot a small blue placard: "Quiet Zone This Way." The convention center actually followed through on their email promise. Relief washesthrough me as I push through the door into blessed semi-silence.
The outdoor area opens before me—a courtyard with vendor booths arranged in a horseshoe. There are still people, but fewer, spaced out. The late afternoon sun feels gentle compared to the artificial lighting inside. I take my first full breath in hours.
That's when I hear it—the distinctive growl of a chainsaw, controlled yet powerful. Not what I expected in a "quiet zone," but somehow less jarring than the convention center cacophony. The sound has direction, purpose. It's not just noise; it's creation.
I follow the sound, curious despite my overstimulated state. At the far end of the courtyard stands a man with a chainsaw, surrounded by wooden sculptures. He moves with confident precision, the saw an extension of his arms as it bites into a massive cedar log. Wood chips fly in an arc around him, catching sunlight like amber rain.
The sculpture taking shape is a bear, already recognizable though still rough. As I watch, the man steps back, kills the engine, and surveys his work. The sudden silence feels expectant, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
Without the saw's roar, I notice other details—smaller carvings displayed on a table nearby. Dragons with intricate scales. Wolves mid-howl. Tiny foxes with alert expressions. Each piece looks alive, as if it might move the moment you look away.
I drift closer, drawn to the foxes especially. They're small enough to fit in a palm, but detailed down to whiskers and paw pads. One sits with its head tilted, ears perked forward in eternal curiosity.
"They're good luck."
I startle, looking up to find the carver watching me. He's taller than he seemed from a distance, broad-shouldered withstrong hands now resting on his workbench. His expression is serious, but his eyes are kind.
"Sorry," I stammer. "I didn't mean to interrupt your—" I gesture vaguely at the bear.
"You didn't." His voice is deep, steady. "Taking a break anyway." He studies me for a moment. "You look like you could use a seat."
Only then do I realize I'm still clutching my laptop bag in a death grip, my knuckles white. The adrenaline crash is hitting, leaving me shaky.
"I... yeah. Thanks." I perch on the folding chair he indicates, setting my bag carefully at my feet. "I was on a panel. Inside. It was... a lot."
He nods like this makes perfect sense, though I haven't explained it well. "Crowds can be overwhelming."
"Exactly." The word comes out more forcefully than I intend. "Sorry. It's just—most people tell me to 'just relax' or 'everyone gets nervous.'"
A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Not helpful advice."
"The least helpful," I agree, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
He turns back to his table, picking up one of the fox carvings—the curious one I was admiring. Without ceremony, he holds it out to me.
"Here."
