Page 8 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

My insecurities, never far from the surface, rise with renewed strength. Was I selected because I needed "fixing"? Did some matchmaker look at my profile and think, "This awkward, intense woman needs someone patient like Dean"? The thought makes my cheeks burn with humiliation.

I've spent my life being evaluated and found wanting—too direct, too passionate, too much. The idea that even my chance at connection was orchestrated because I couldn't manage it on my own feels like confirmation of every insecurity I've ever harbored.

As darkness falls completely, I find myself at a crossroads—literally and figuratively. The path back to the convention center lies to my left, while the route to my hotel stretches to the right.

I stand frozen between them, the wooden heart clutched in my hand, torn between confronting the truth and protecting myself from it.

Whatever I decide, one thing is certain: what felt like the most natural connection I've ever experienced now feels like the most artificial.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

Dean

The chainsaw vibrates in my hands, but my focus is shattered. Riley's abrupt departure plays on repeat in my mind—her wide eyes, the hurt in her expression, the way she shook her head before disappearing into the crowd. Something went wrong, but I have no idea what.

I kill the engine mid-cut, earning confused murmurs from the audience.

"Sorry, folks. Technical issue." I set the saw down, scanning the crowd for any sign of Riley. Nothing. "Let's take five minutes."

Parker approaches as the crowd disperses. "Everything okay? You never stop mid-demonstration."

"Riley left." I wipe sawdust from my hands with more force than necessary. "Something happened. She looked upset."

"Ah." Parker's expression shifts, guilt flashing across his features. "About that..."

My stomach drops. "What did you do?"

"Nothing bad! I was just talking to Mike about how well you two hit it off, and how the matchmaking worked perfectly, and?—"

"Wait, is this that thing you were talking about earlier?" I grab Parker's arm, pieces clicking into place. "The thing that you assured me wasn't you setting me up?"

Parker winces. "I might have mentioned you to them. And they might have arranged for Riley to find her way to your booth after her panel."

"Jesus, Parker." I release his arm, stepping back. "So this whole day—meeting Riley, everything—it was all orchestrated?"

"The meeting was arranged," Parker admits. "But everything after that was real. You can't fake the connection you two have."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a message from Riley.

Riley

Did you know about Zaftig?

My heart sinks. She overheard. She thinks I was in on it.

"She thinks I knew," I tell Parker, my voice tight. "She thinks I was playing her."

"That's not?—"

"Not what you intended? Doesn't matter." I type quickly, asking what Zaftig is, trying to understand

Her responses make the situation painfully clear. She believes our entire connection was manufactured—a setup orchestrated by strangers with an agenda.

"I need to find her." I pocket my phone. "Cover for me."

"Dean, I'm sorry. I thought?—"

"Not now." I cut him off, already moving toward the convention center entrance. "We'll talk later."

Outside, the evening air carries a hint of autumn. I scan the area, looking for Riley's familiar figure among the dispersing convention-goers. Nothing.

I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail. She's turned off her phone.

"Dammit, Riley." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated and worried. "Where are you?"

For a moment, I consider returning to my booth. Maybe she'll come back when she's ready to talk. But the thought of waiting, of doing nothing while she believes I deceived her, is unbearable.

I start walking, checking side streets and nearby coffee shops. The wooden fox I carved for her sits in my pocket, twin to the one I gave her earlier. I'd been planning to surprise her with the matched set, to explain how foxes are solitary creatures until they find their mate.

Now that explanation feels hollow, tainted by Parker's well-intentioned meddling.

After an hour of searching with no success, I return to the convention center. The evening demonstrations are wrapping up, vendors packing away their wares. Parker looks up hopefully as I approach.

"Any luck?"

I shake my head, slumping into my chair. "She's gone."

"I really messed up, didn't I?" Parker's usual confidence is absent. "I just wanted to help. For what it's worth, I've never seen you connect with someone the way you did with Riley. That wasn't manufactured."

I pull out my phone again, staring at our last exchange. She needs time to think. I should respect that, give her space.

But the thought of her believing I manipulated her, that our connection wasn't genuine, is intolerable.

"Tell me everything you know about this Zaftig agency," I say to Parker.

He sighs, sitting across from me. "Not much. They're matchmakers—old school, personal approach. They find people who complement each other. I met one of the owners, Zara, at a craft fair last month. We got talking about my chronically single friend who carves wood and needs someone who gets him."

"And she suggested Riley?"

"Not specifically. She said they had clients who might appreciate your particular... intensity." He chooses the word carefully. "When I mentioned you'd be at Comic-Con, she seemed interested."

"So they what—engineered our meeting? Made sure Riley would find my booth?"

"Something like that." Parker looks genuinely remorseful. "I didn't know the details. Just that someone might stop by."

I lean back, processing this. "And Riley overheard you talking about it."

"Must have. I was telling Mike how successful the match seemed." Parker winces. "I should have been more discreet."

"Yeah." I stand, reaching for my jacket. "You should have."

"What are you going to do?"

I pull out my phone, sending one more message to Riley.

Dean

I didn't know. Please let me explain when you're ready. What happened today was real.

"Right now? Pack up. Go home. Hope she reaches out when she's ready."

Parker helps me dismantle my booth in silence. As we load the last pieces into my truck, he pauses.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry. I thought I was helping."

"I know." I clap him on the shoulder, some of my anger dissipating. "Your methods need work, but your intentions were good."

"You going to be okay?"

I shrug. "Ask me tomorrow."

My workshop is too quiet when I return. Usually, the silence is welcome after a day of crowds and conversation. Tonight, it feels empty, echoing with possibilities lost.

I pull out the fox carving from my pocket, studying its alert expression. The match to the one Riley has—or had. For all I know, she threw it away when she discovered the truth.

The thought sends a pang through my chest.

Setting the fox on my workbench, I pick up a fresh block of cedar. My hands need something to do, some way to process the emotions churning inside me.

The wood responds to my knife, curls peeling away to reveal the form hidden within. I work without conscious thought, letting muscle memory guide me. Only when the basic shape emerges do I recognize what I'm creating—a small bear, standing protective and watchful.

Like the one at the convention. The one Riley watched me carve with such genuine interest.

I set down my knife, the magnitude of what I've lost hitting me all at once. One day. Just one day with her, and already the workshop feels emptier without her curious questions, her insightful observations, her laugh that seemed to surprise her every time.

My phone sits silent on the bench. No response from Riley.

I pick it up, staring at our last exchange. I need to try one more time. Not to pressure her, but to make sure she knows the truth.

I type carefully, then delete it all. Start again. Delete again.

How do I explain that while our meeting may have been arranged, everything that followed was real? That I've never connected with anyone the way I connected with her? That the thought of her believing I deceived her is unbearable?

Finally, I type:

Dean

Riley, I just learned about Zaftig from Parker.

I swear I had no idea our meeting was arranged.

Parker mentioned me to them without my knowledge.

I understand if you need space, but please know that everything between us—every conversation, every shared moment—was genuine.

At least on my side. The connection I felt with you was real.

No matchmaking agency could manufacture that.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone down. She'll respond when she's ready. If she's ready.

By the time I finish the bear, it's nearly midnight. It sits on my workbench beside the fox, two creatures caught in a moment of connection.

My phone remains silent.

One more try, I decide. One more message, and then I'll respect her silence.

I pick up the fox and bear, positioning them together on a small piece of wood. The fox looks up at the bear, the bear gazes down at the fox—different species finding unexpected common ground.

I take a photo and attach it to a new message.

Dean

I made these tonight, thinking of you. The fox isn't alone anymore. Neither is the bear. Whatever happens, thank you for today. It meant more than I can say.

After sending it, I place the carvings in a small box with a note explaining their significance. Tomorrow, I'll drop it at the convention center's lost and found. If Riley returns for the second day, maybe she'll find it. Maybe she'll understand what I'm trying to say.

Or maybe not. Maybe this connection, so promising and unexpected, was over before it truly began.

The thought sits heavy in my chest as I clean my tools and prepare for bed. Tomorrow, I'll have to return to the convention, set up my booth again, go through the motions of demonstrating and selling my work.

But tonight, I allow myself to feel the loss of something precious—a connection I didn't know I was looking for until I found it.

And lost it.

Morning comes too early, sunlight filtering through my workshop windows. I've slept poorly, dreams filled with fragments of yesterday: Riley's laugh, her focused expression as she helped with my payment app, the way her eyes lit up when she understood my explanation of wood grain.

I check my phone immediately. Still no response.

Sighing, I shower and dress, packing the small box with the fox and bear carvings. Even if Riley never sees them, I need to try. Need to make one last effort to reach her, to explain.

The convention center is already bustling when I arrive. I drop the box at lost and found, providing Riley's name and a brief description. The attendant promises to keep it safe, giving me a sympathetic look that suggests she understands more than I've explained.

Parker is already setting up his booth when I reach our area. He looks up warily as I approach.

"You still speaking to me?"

"Barely," I reply, but there's no real heat in it. My anger has faded overnight, replaced by a dull resignation. "Any sign of her?"

He shakes his head. "Sorry, man."

I nod, unpacking my tools with mechanical efficiency. The bear sculpture from yesterday needs finishing—I still have demonstrations scheduled, obligations to fulfill.

Parker studies me for a moment. "You really like her, don't you?"

The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. Do I like Riley? The word seems inadequate for what I felt yesterday —the instant recognition, the ease of our conversation, the sense that I'd found someone who spoke my language.

"Yeah," I finally say. "I do."

"Then fight for her." Parker's usual bravado returns. "The Dean Evans I know doesn't give up easily."

"She asked for space."

"So give her space. But make sure she knows the truth first." He gestures to my phone. "One more try. What have you got to lose?"

He's right. I've already lost the connection we were building. What's one more attempt to salvage it?

I pull out my phone, considering what to say. Riley values directness, honesty. No games, no manipulation. Just truth.

Taking a deep breath, I type:

Dean

Riley, I understand if you never want to speak to me again.

But before you make that decision, please know this: I had no idea about any matchmaking plan.

Parker referred me to Zaftig without telling me.

I never knew our meeting was arranged. Everything that happened between us, every conversation, every shared moment, was real. At least for me.

I've never connected with anyone the way I connected with you yesterday. The ease of our conversation, the way you understood things about me that most people miss, the comfort I felt in your presence—none of that was manufactured or forced.

I carved that fox for you because something about you called to me. I carved the heart because seeing you understand my work, my process, moved me in a way I can't fully explain.

If you want nothing more to do with me, I'll respect that. But please don't doubt the authenticity of what we shared. Whatever brought us together, what happened after was genuine.

I left something for you at the convention center lost and found. If you're willing, I'll be at my booth all day. If not, I understand.

I read it over once, twice, making sure it says exactly what I need to say. Then I hit send, watching the message status change to "delivered."

Whether she reads it or not is beyond my control now.

"Done?" Parker asks.

I nod, pocketing my phone. "Now we wait."

"And work," he reminds me, gesturing to our half-setup booths. "We've got demonstrations in an hour."

Right. Work. The familiar rhythm of preparation grounds me as I arrange my tools, position the bear for today's carving, set out smaller pieces for sale. The routine is comforting, even as my mind keeps circling back to Riley.

As the morning progresses, I go through the motions—greeting attendees, explaining my process, demonstrating techniques. My hands know what to do even when my heart isn't in it.

Between demonstrations, I check my phone. Still no response.

By mid-afternoon, resignation sets in. She's made her choice. I need to respect it.

I'm packing away tools after my final demonstration when Parker nudges me.

"Don't look now, but I think your fox came back."

My head snaps up, following his gaze to the edge of the demonstration area.

Riley stands there, clutching a small box—the one I left at lost and found. Her expression is guarded, uncertain, but she's here.

She came back.