Page 3 of Falling for Felix (Mountain Men Fall Harder #1)
Harper
"You have got to be kidding me."
I stare at the hand-painted vendor sign nailed to the pop-up tent directly next to mine. Elegant script on reclaimed wood reads "Dixon Woodworks - Felix Dixon, Artisan."
Felix. As in Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysteriously Allergic to Cider from the Corn Maze.
As in the man who caught my dog and made my pulse literally skip a beat.
As in my booth neighbor for the entire weekend .
Pickles, who has apparently decided that Felix is his new best friend, lets out a happy yip and plops down in the grass between our booths. He immediately begins working on a twig like it's gourmet jerky, completely unbothered by the cosmic joke that seems to be unfolding around us.
I lean around the edge of my colorful mosaic display to get a better look at Felix's setup.
He's arranging furniture on a wooden platform—handcrafted pieces that look like they belong in a luxury mountain lodge catalog. A coffee table with live-edge wood and delicate copper inlay. Bar stools with curved backs that seem to flow like water. A rustic bench with such clean lines it makes my artist’s heart physically ache.
He glances up and freezes when he sees me watching.
"You again," he mutters, but there's no real annoyance in his voice. More like resignation mixed with something that might be amusement.
I grin and wave like we're old friends. "I could say the same thing! Looks like the universe wants us to be neighbors.”
"It's a small town," he says, going back to his careful arrangement of wooden bowls. “We were bound to run into each other again.”
"I prefer to believe in fate.”
What can I say? I’m a romantic.
And I’d rather believe there’s a Grand Design than chalk this reunion up to a small-town coincidence.
He doesn't respond to that, just starts unpacking more furniture from boxes that look like they were built specifically for transport. Everything he pulls out is beautiful. His pieces are functional but with the kind of craftsmanship that speaks to hours of careful work. It’s art.
I watch him handle each piece like it's precious, adjusting angles with an eye for display that suggests he's done this before.
"Okay, grumpy Hemsworth ," I say, settling into my own booth setup while keeping one eye on him. "Are we going to be booth neighbors who maintain polite distance and pretend not to notice each other? Or are we going with Option B?”
He sets down a wooden serving tray—walnut, I think, with a subtle grain that catches the morning light—and looks at me with those steady eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite… what’s Option B?”
Well, there's the option where we develop intense sexual tension that builds over the course of the weekend until it reaches a breaking point…
“We become besties while having a fabulously fun day selling lots of art. Obviously.”
A sound escapes him. Low, almost like a laugh, but rougher. More like a growl. His mouth does that twitching thing again, and this time I'm sure it's fighting a smile.
Definitely progress.
The morning passes in a steady rhythm of setup and early festival-goers.
I sell a mosaic mirror to a woman from Nashville who tells me it's "absolutely divine" and two stepping stones to a couple planning a garden renovation.
Felix sells a handcrafted dining table to visitors from Knoxville who spend twenty minutes running their hands over the smooth finish and asking about his techniques.
Every transaction I witness confirms what I suspected: he's incredibly talented. The kind of artist who makes gorgeous pieces that will outlast all of us.
And every now and then, I catch him watching me work. Not staring exactly, but observing. Like he's trying to figure out how I fit into his carefully ordered world.
The feeling is mutual.
Around noon, when the festival crowd starts to thicken, I notice Felix slipping Pickles a piece of his sandwich when he thinks I'm not looking.
My dog has positioned himself as the unofficial greeter between our booths, tail wagging at every customer, occasionally wandering over to plant himself at Felix's feet.
"He likes you," I call out during a lull in traffic.
Felix glances down at Pickles, who's now sprawled across his right boot. "He's persistent."
"That's his best quality. Also his most annoying one."
He smirks. "Sounds familiar."
I look up from the mosaic flower pot I’m polishing, surprised by the teasing note in his voice. "Are you saying I'm persistent, Felix?"
"I'm saying you haven't stopped talking since yesterday."
"And yet you’re still here, listening to me. Sometimes you even talk back . Almost like a real conversation,” I tease.
He pauses in his arrangement of hand-carved wooden spoons, and for a moment, I think he might actually respond with something revealing. Something that might give me a clue whether he feels the chemistry between us too—or if it’s all in my head.
Instead, he just shrugs and goes back to his work.
But the almost-smile is definitely there.
And I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I'm growing on him.