Page 7 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

CHAPTER SIX

RILEY AND DEAN

Riley

I lean against the side of a nearby tent, watching Dean prepare for his demonstration.

The crowd has grown considerably—word of his skill has spread throughout the convention.

I can't blame them for wanting to see him work.

There's something mesmerizing about watching his hands transform raw wood into art, each movement purposeful and precise.

As Dean arranges his tools, Parker approaches him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. They speak quietly, heads bent together. I'm too far away to hear their conversation, but I can see the easy camaraderie between them. Friends, not just business associates.

I pull out my phone to check the time. Dean's demonstration should start in about five minutes.

My inbox has exploded with messages from panel attendees, but they can wait.

Right now, I just want to enjoy watching Dean work, to see the concentration in his eyes as he reveals what's hidden in the wood.

The crowd hushes as Dean steps up to his workstation. He scans the audience, his eyes finding mine immediately. The small smile that crosses his face when our gazes lock sends warmth spreading through my chest.

As Dean begins his introduction, explaining the process of detail carving, I notice Parker talking to another vendor a few feet away from me. They're speaking in low tones, but something in their animated gestures draws my attention.

"—can't believe Zaftig actually pulled it off," Parker says, just loud enough for me to hear. "Dean's been alone too long. He needed this push."

The word "Zaftig" catches my attention. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it.

"That matchmaking agency does good work," the other vendor replies. "My sister met her husband through them."

Matchmaking agency? I freeze, suddenly alert.

"When Dean finds out this was all arranged, he'll thank me," Parker continues, oblivious to my presence. "The girl seems perfect for him—exactly the type Zara said would complement his personality."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Arranged? This was all arranged?

My mind races, pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. The "special guest" Parker mentioned to Dean. The conveniently timed demonstration just as my panel ended. The "decompression area" suggestion that led me directly to Dean's booth.

It wasn't chance. It wasn't a natural connection. It was orchestrated.

I'm a project. A setup.

Everything feels tainted now. The fox. The heart. The connection I thought we shared. Was any of it real, or was it all just the product of careful matchmaking algorithms?

I back away further, clutching my laptop bag to my chest like armor. My breath comes faster, the familiar tightness of anxiety squeezing my lungs. I need to leave. Now.

As I turn to go, I catch Dean's eye again. He falters mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he registers my distress. He makes a small gesture, as if asking if I'm okay.

I shake my head slightly and step behind a tall display, breaking our visual connection. I can't face him right now. Can't pretend everything's fine when my mind is spinning with doubt and hurt.

The irony is bitter. All day, I've been marveling at how easy it was to be with Dean, how naturally our connection formed. But it wasn't natural at all. It was engineered. Designed. Optimized—just like the algorithms I work with.

And I fell for it completely.

I make my way through the convention center, moving on autopilot. The crowds that felt overwhelming earlier now provide welcome anonymity. I'm just another face, another body navigating the packed aisles.

My phone buzzes repeatedly—probably Jamie. Or maybe it's Dean, noticing my abrupt departure. I ignore it, focusing only on finding the exit.

Outside, the evening air is cool against my flushed skin.

I gulp it down, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside me.

Part of me wants to march back in there and confront Dean, demand to know if he was aware of the setup.

Another part wants to run as far away as possible, to protect myself from further humiliation.

My phone buzzes again. This time, I check it.

Dean

Are you okay? Did something happen?

The simple concern in his message makes my throat tighten. I start typing, delete it, start again.

Riley

Did you know about Zaftig?

Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. Finally:

Dean

What's Zaftig?

The question seems genuine, but how can I trust that now? Maybe he's just covering his tracks.

Riley

The matchmaking agency that arranged for us to meet.

The dots appear and disappear several times, suggesting Dean is typing and retyping his response. My heart pounds as I wait.

Dean

I have no idea what you're talking about. What matchmaking agency?

Riley

I overheard Parker. This whole thing—me coming to your booth, us meeting—it was all set up by some agency called Zaftig.

This time, the response comes quickly.

Dean

I swear I knew nothing about this. Where are you? Can we talk?

I stare at the screen, uncertainty gnawing at me. Is he telling the truth? Was he really as clueless as I was?

Riley

I need some time to think. I'm sorry.

I turn off my phone before he can respond, slipping it into my bag. The wooden heart and fox go back into my pocket, where my fingers curl around them, unwilling to let go despite my confusion.

The logical part of my brain argues that I'm overreacting. So what if some agency orchestrated our meeting? The connection we formed was still real. The conversations, the shared understanding, the way Dean looked at me—those things can't be faked.

But the wounded, insecure part—the part that's always been told I'm "too much," that no one could possibly appreciate my intensity—whispers that it was all an illusion.

That Dean was just being nice because Parker put him up to it.

That the only reason someone like him would be interested in someone like me is if it was literally his assignment.

I pull out the heart again, studying the spiral pattern Dean carved into it. He said he watched my panel, that this design was inspired by the code on my slides. That level of detail, of personal attention, couldn't have been part of some matchmaking script.

Could it?

My thoughts chase each other in circles, doubt and hope wrestling for dominance. The convention center doors open nearby, spilling attendees into the evening. I spot a flash of flannel and duck my head, not ready to face Dean yet.

But it's not him, just another bearded convention-goer. I exhale, relief and disappointment mingling uncomfortably.

A group of cosplayers passes by, their elaborate costumes momentarily distracting me. One of them is dressed as a character from my favorite game—a detail Dean would probably notice and point out to me if he were here.

The thought brings a fresh wave of confusion. In just one day, he's become someone whose observations I value, whose perspective enriches my own. How could something that feels so genuine be the product of matchmaking manipulation?

I stand, unable to sit still with my churning thoughts. The wooden heart and fox weigh in my pocket as I begin walking, no destination in mind. Just movement, just distance from the source of my turmoil.

My mind replays moments from the day: Dean offering me his chair when I was overwhelmed. The way his eyes lit up when I understood his explanation of wood grain. His hands guiding mine as we carved together. The careful detail of the code spiral in the heart.

None of that felt scripted or forced. It felt like two people discovering a unexpected connection, finding common ground in their differences.

But then Parker's words echo again.

I stop walking, suddenly aware that I've wandered into a small park adjacent to the convention center. The evening has deepened, the sky turning indigo above the trees. A few other convention attendees dot the benches, taking breaks from the indoor chaos.

My phone remains off in my bag, a barrier between me and whatever explanation Dean might offer.

Part of me wants to turn it on, to hear him out.

But another part fears what I might learn —that our connection was manufactured, that I was selected as a suitable match by some algorithm or matchmaker's intuition.

The irony doesn't escape me. I spend my days creating algorithms that make decisions affecting people's lives, and now I'm upset that someone might have applied similar logic to my own life.

But this is different. This is personal. This is about authenticity and choice, the very things I fight to preserve in my work.

I sink onto an empty bench, pulling out the wooden heart again. In the fading light, the grain seems to shift and flow, the code spiral at its center a mystery I can't quite decode.

What would my algorithm suggest in this situation? What would the logical course of action be?

Gather more data. Verify the source. Test the hypothesis.

But emotions aren't code. They don't follow logical patterns or respond to debugging. They're messy and contradictory and impossible to optimize.

I close my fingers around the heart, feeling its smooth contours against my palm. Whatever prompted our meeting, the way I felt with Dean was real. The ease of our conversation, the mutual understanding, the growing attraction—those things came from us, not from some matchmaking strategy.

The question is: can I trust that feeling now, knowing how it started?

I don't have an answer yet. All I know is that something that felt beautifully organic now seems suspect, and the uncertainty is tearing me apart.

The wooden heart and fox sit heavy in my pocket as I continue walking, symbols of a connection I thought was chance but might have been carefully calculated all along.