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

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 washes through 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 with strong 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."

I blink at him. "What?"

"For luck." He places it in my palm when I hesitantly extend my hand. "You look like you could use some."

The wood is smooth against my skin, polished to a soft glow. The fox is small but weighty, grounding. I run my thumb over its pointed ears, feeling the grain.

"I can't just take this," I protest. "Don't you sell these?"

He shrugs. "I make them between bigger projects. Keeps my hands busy." He gestures to the bear. "That's what pays the bills."

I examine the fox more closely. "The detail is incredible. How do you get the fur texture so realistic?"

Something in his expression shifts, opening slightly. "Micro gouges. Different angles create different effects." He picks up another fox from the table. "See these lines here? That's red oak. The grain naturally creates the illusion of fur direction when carved right."

"It's like optimizing code," I say without thinking. "Working with the natural structure to create the desired outcome."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Code? You're a programmer?"

"Developer," I correct automatically. "I work on database systems and algorithmic ethics." I wait for his eyes to glaze over—it's the usual reaction—but instead, he looks genuinely interested.

"Algorithmic ethics? That's about preventing bias in AI, right?"

Now it's my turn to be surprised. "Yes, exactly. Most people don't make that connection."

"I read an article about it. How facial recognition software often misidentifies women and people of color because of biased training data."

I lean forward, excitement temporarily overriding my social awkwardness.

"That's just the tip of the iceberg. I'm working on a framework that helps identify potential bias points before deployment.

It's like a pre-check system that—" I catch myself, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "Sorry. I'm info-dumping."

"No, it's interesting." He sets down his tools and gives me his full attention. "So you're creating something that catches problems before they start?"

"That's the goal." I twist the fox in my hands, finding comfort in its solid presence. "Though some days it feels impossible. There are so many variables, so many ways things can go wrong."

He nods, looking back at his bear. "I get that. Every piece of wood has hidden flaws. Knots where you don't expect them. Grain that suddenly changes direction." He runs a hand along the bear's rough form. "The trick is working with what's there, not fighting it."

"Exactly!" The word bursts out of me. "That's what I tell my team all the time. We can't eliminate every potential problem, but we can create systems flexible enough to adapt."

We fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence. I realize I've been sitting here talking to a stranger for several minutes without feeling the usual social anxiety. Something about his direct manner makes conversation easier—no hidden meanings to decipher, no social niceties to navigate.

"I'm Riley," I offer. "Riley Bennett."

"Dean Evans." He extends a hand, then seems to think better of it, looking down at his sawdust-covered palm. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."

I shake his hand anyway. It's warm, calloused, steady. "I don't mind a little sawdust."

"Good thing, because it gets everywhere." He brushes at his flannel shirt, sending a small cloud into the air. "Follows me home. Shows up in my food. Pretty sure I've got sawdust in my DNA at this point."

That startles a laugh out of me. "I know the feeling. I find snippets of code that I've saved in the weirdest places. My sister says I shed code like other people shed hair."

His smile reaches his eyes this time, crinkling the corners. It transforms his face from serious to warmly approachable. "Hazards of the trade."

I glance down at my laptop bag, suddenly remembering the stickers plastering its surface: coding jokes, pop culture references, and my favorite: "I'm not antisocial, I'm selectively social." Dean follows my gaze, and I watch as he reads the stickers, his mouth quirking up at the antisocial one.

"That explains why you escaped out here." He gestures to the convention center doors. "Most people are heading in, not out."

"I needed a break from..." I wave my hand vaguely, not sure how to explain.

"People?"

"Everything." I sigh, surprised at my own candor. "The noise, the lights, the social pressure. After a panel, I'm just... empty. Like I've used up all my words and energy."

Dean nods, and there's recognition in his eyes. "That's why I work with wood. It doesn't expect conversation."

"Exactly! Code is the same way. It either works or it doesn't. No gray areas, no hurt feelings." I stroke the fox's smooth back. "Though I do occasionally swear at my computer."

"I definitely swear at the wood," Dean says, his voice dry. "Especially when it splits wrong."

"Does it answer back?"

"Not yet. The day it does is the day I start going to therapy."

We both laugh, and I realize with surprise that I'm comfortable. The convention center chaos feels distant now, my post-panel anxiety faded to background noise.

I notice a wood shaving clinging to my cardigan sleeve and pick it off, holding it up. "I think your work is trying to tag me."

Dean leans closer, plucking something from my hair. "Looks like it." He holds up a tiny curl of cedar between two fingers. "Consider yourself marked by the woodworking gods."

"Is that good luck or bad luck?"

"Depends on who you ask." His eyes crinkle again. "My Uncle John would say it means the wood has chosen you."

"And what do you say?"

Dean seems to consider this, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. "I say it means you were meant to wander over here today."

The directness of his gaze makes my cheeks warm. I'm not used to this kind of attention—focused, unambiguous. Most people get uncomfortable with my intensity, but Dean meets it with his own.

"I think I was," I admit softly, surprising myself. "The convention center had a note about this being a decompression zone. I didn't expect to find..." I trail off, not sure how to finish.

"A guy making a racket with a chainsaw?" he supplies, his tone lightly self-deprecating.

"Someone who understands the need for space." I turn the fox in my hands, running my thumb along its tail. "And who makes beautiful things."

Now it's Dean's turn to look slightly flustered, though it's subtle—just a slight shift in posture, a brief glance away. "It's just wood."

"It's not just wood. It's..." I search for the right words, wishing I could be as eloquent about art as I am about code. "It's seeing potential where others see just a log. Finding the shape that's already there, waiting to be revealed." I look up at him. "That's a gift."

Dean studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to look away. Usually, I hate sustained eye contact—it's too intense, too hard to interpret—but with him, it feels honest rather than invasive.

"Most people just say they look cool," he finally says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, they do look cool," I concede, grinning back. "Especially the dragons."

"You like fantasy?"

"Love it. I'm a massive Tolkien nerd. And anything with complex world-building." I gesture to my bag, where a small Evenstar pendant hangs from the zipper. "My coding projects all have Lord of the Rings codenames."

Dean's expression brightens. "I've got a whole series of Middle Earth creatures back in my workshop. Balrog, Fellbeast, even tried my hand at Treebeard once."

"Seriously? That's amazing! Did you bring any of them?"

"Just a small Smaug. He's over there." Dean points to a table display where a dragon the size of a cat crouches over a pile of tiny carved coins.

I stand, drawn to the sculpture. "Can I see?"

"Of course."

As I move toward the dragon, I notice more wood shavings clinging to my leggings. I brush at them ineffectually, then laugh. "I think I'm collecting more of your workshop as we speak."

Dean looks down at himself, at the sawdust covering his clothes, then at the trail I'm leaving as I walk. "Between your code snippets and my wood shavings, we're leaving quite a trail."

"The modern Hansel and Gretel," I quip. "Breadcrumbs are so last century."

His laugh is unexpected and warm, like the cedar scent surrounding us. For a moment, we're just standing there grinning at each other, connected by nothing more than shared humor and scattered wood chips.

It feels like the beginning of something.

I clutch the fox a little tighter, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it really is good luck after all.