Page 4 of Falling for Felix (Mountain Men Fall Harder #1)
Felix
The bonfire crackles and sparks, sending orange light dancing across the faces of the festival-goers gathered around it.
Music drifts from the small stage set up near the food trucks—banjo and fiddle, something locals can clap along to even if they can't carry a tune.
Laughter rolls across the vendor field in waves, mixing with the scent of funnel cake and hot cider that perfumes the crisp evening air.
I should have left an hour ago.
Hell, I should have left three hours ago, right after I made my last sale of the day. Should have loaded up my truck, driven back to my cabin, and spent the evening in my workshop where the only sounds are the whisper of sandpaper on wood and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Instead, I'm sitting on a hay bale beside Harper like some kind of tame, social version of myself I barely recognize.
She's got her knees drawn up, scuffed boots resting on the edge of the bale, purple glasses catching the firelight like stained glass. Her shirtdress rides up just enough to show the smooth line of her calves.
She smells like oranges and clove, with an underlying scent of something I can't quite place. Grout, maybe, from her mosaics?
Her work is beautiful.
And God help me, so is she.
She talks like she's known me longer than a day and a half.
Like she's not afraid of the silence that follows most of my responses.
Like she can see something in me that I've forgotten exists.
"You know," she says, petting the dog with one hand and gesturing toward the crowd with the bottle of local beer she's been nursing with the other, "I've been to a lot of festivals. Craft fairs, art shows, farmers markets. But this place has something special."
"What's that?"
"Community." She takes a small sip, thinking. "Like, real community. Not the fake kind where everyone's just trying to network or sell something. People here actually care about each other."
I follow her gaze to where Joy is holding court near Stella’s pie stand, telling a story that has a group of tourists hanging on every word. Beyond her, I can see other familiar faces—Parker from Jackson’s Orchard, a fellow woodworker named Porter, and Beckett, the fire marshal.
"Most of them have known each other their whole lives," I say.
"Including you?"
I nod. "Born here. Left for college. Eventually came back."
"And you've been hiding in the woods for the past few years?"
The question hits closer to home than I'd like. “Who told you that?”
“Joy.”
Of course. “I’m not hiding.”
“No?” She turns to study me, firelight playing across her features. “What would you call it then?”
I consider the question, taking a long pull from my own beer. “Living quietly.” I pause, considering what else to say. “Used to sell through a gallery in Nashville. Took commissions. Worked with designers who chased the latest trends. Somewhere along the way, I stopped recognizing my own work.”
Harper doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.
“So, I left. Now I build what I want, how I want. And I sleep better.”
"Mmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"It's what I wanted."
" Wanted ," she repeats, emphasizing the past tense. "What about now?"
Now? I stare at her for a long moment, taking in everything that’s so undeniably her .
The way she's angled toward me, like our conversation is the most interesting thing happening at the entire festival.
The way her eyes stay on mine even when I don't respond right away.
The way she doesn't seem to need me to fill every silence with words.
"Now's more complicated," I admit.
She smiles at that, soft and understanding. "Complicated how?"
I shake my head. "You talk too much."
"I've been told that before."
"You ask too many questions."
"Also not the first time I've heard that."
"And you've got this way of looking at people like you can see right through them."
"That bothers you?"
I lean back, studying her face in the flickering light. "It should."
"But it doesn't?"
"No," I say quietly. "It doesn't."
Harper sets down her beer and shifts closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Can I tell you something?"
"Like I could stop you.”
"I think you're full of shit about wanting to be alone."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is that your professional opinion, doctor?"
"It's my artistic opinion. Artists are good at seeing what people don't want to show.
" She gestures toward my booth setup, visible in the distance.
"Your furniture isn't made by someone who doesn't want to connect with people.
It's made by someone who wants to create something beautiful for them to live with. Something that will last."
I shrug. "It's just furniture."
"Bullshit,” she says. "That coffee table you sold today? The one with the copper inlay? That's not just furniture. That's faith in humanity. That’s believing that someone out there deserves beautiful things in their life."
I stare at her, caught off guard by the insight. By the way she's managed to see something in my work that I haven't let myself acknowledge.
She’s right, though. I don’t just make furniture for the sake of it. I want people to use it. To enjoy it.
"You're dangerous," I say finally.
"How so?"
"You make me want things I'd convinced myself I didn't need."
Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Like what?"
“Like this." I lean closer. So close that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “There’s still time for you to run far away.”
"I'm not running."
"No," I say, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not."
The space between us disappears like it was never there. I brush my mouth over hers—tentative, testing—and she sighs into the kiss like I'm something she's been waiting for her whole life.
When I deepen the kiss, cupping her jaw in my palm, she melts against me. Her fingers find the front of my shirt, gripping like she doesn't want to let go.
Neither do I.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.