Page 3 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

CHAPTER TWO

DEAN

Sawdust flies as my chainsaw bites into cedar, the familiar vibration traveling up my arms. The sharp, sweet scent fills my workshop. My body knows this dance by heart: the weight of the saw, the resistance of the wood, the way to coax what I see in my mind into physical form.

I step back, kill the engine, and survey the bear taking shape.

Seven feet of red cedar, slowly revealing the creature I glimpsed inside it three weeks ago.

The basic form is there now. I survey the powerful haunches, the curved back, the massive head turned slightly as if catching a scent on the wind.

This one's special. My showpiece for the Comic-Con this weekend. Not that I'd admit how much it matters to me.

I grab a chisel to refine the face, working in the quiet that follows the chainsaw's roar. This is the part I love most—the silence, the focus, the conversation between my hands and the wood. No need for words here. Just instinct and touch.

"Yo, Evans! You in there?"

Parker's voice shatters my concentration. I sigh, setting down the chisel.

"Back here," I call, wiping my hands on a rag that's more sawdust than cloth.

Parker Mitchell appears in the doorway, all six-foot-four of him grinning like he's caught me doing something embarrassing instead of just working. His leather apron and the faint smell of smoke tell me he's come straight from his own workshop.

"Still hiding in your cave, I see." He gestures around my workspace. "Though I gotta say, that bear is looking fierce."

I grunt in acknowledgment, running a hand along the cedar's grain. "Should be ready for Saturday."

"Better be. I've been talking you up to everyone." Parker helps himself to the coffee I brewed hours ago, grimacing at the first sip. "Man, this is awful. How do you drink this?"

"I don't drink it for the flavor."

"Clearly." He sets the mug down and picks up one of the small fox figures from my workbench. "I see you're well-stock with anxiety foxes."

I nod, suddenly self-conscious. The foxes are personal—something I carve between the larger commissioned pieces. Each one fits in the palm of a hand, detailed down to the individual fur tufts and alert expressions.

"They're good luck," I mutter.

"For the con?"

"For whenever things get too..." I trail off, not sure how to explain.

"Too people-y?" Parker supplies, turning the fox over in his calloused hands.

"Something like that."

He sets the fox down gently. "You know, most people deal with social anxiety by having a drink. Or therapy."

"I prefer wood."

"So I've noticed." Parker leans against my workbench, crossing his arms. "Speaking of preferences, when was the last time you went on a date?"

I pick up my chisel again, focusing intently on the bear's eye. "Don't start."

"I'm just saying, man. You spend more time with your chainsaw than with actual humans."

"Chainsaws don't make small talk."

Parker laughs. "Fair point. But seriously, Dean. It's been what—two years since Vanessa?"

I flinch at the name. "Three."

"Three years! Jesus. Even trees need pollination sometimes."

I point the chisel at him. "You did not just compare my love life to tree reproduction."

"I absolutely did." He grins, unrepentant. "Look, I'm not saying you need to hit the bars or download some hookup app. Just... be open to possibilities."

I return to the bear, carving a slight furrow above its eye to suggest wariness. Feels appropriate.

"I'm bringing this up," Parker continues, undeterred by my silence, "because I might have mentioned you to someone."

My hand stills. "You did what?"

"Relax! It's not a setup. Well, not exactly." He has the decency to look slightly guilty. "Remember that dating agency I told you about?"

"That one for curvy women?"

"My point is that it isn't just any dating service. They're matchmakers. Old school, personal. They find people who actually fit together, not just swipe right on a photo."

I turn back to my bear. "I don't need matchmaking."

"Said the man who hasn't had a date since the Obama administration."

"It hasn't been that long," I mutter.

"Close enough." Parker picks up another fox, this one with its head tilted quizzically. "All I did was mention you to one of the matchmakers. Said you'd be at Comic-Con this weekend. That's it."

I eye him suspiciously. "That's it?"

"Well..." He sets the fox down carefully. "I might have shown her your Instagram. The one with your carvings."

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 con organizers 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.

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.