Page 9 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

CHAPTER SEVEN

RILEY

My fingers grip the small wooden box as I approach Dean's booth.

Inside are the fox and bear carvings he left for me at lost and found, along with a note explaining their significance.

The fox looking up at the bear, the bear gazing down at the fox—different creatures finding unexpected common ground.

Just like us.

I spent all night reading and rereading Dean's messages, weighing my hurt against what my heart already knows to be true.

No matchmaker, no matter how skilled, could have manufactured the connection we formed yesterday.

The way Dean listened—actually listened—to my excited rambling about code.

The vulnerability in his eyes. The patient way his hands worked even as his eyes were on me.

Those moments were real.

Dean spots me before I reach him. His hands freeze mid-motion, tools suspended over wood. The hope and uncertainty in his expression make my chest tighten.

"Hi," I say, stopping a few feet away.

"Hi." His voice is rough, cautious. "You came back."

"I got your messages." I clutch the box tighter. "And this."

Parker, working at the neighboring booth, suddenly finds something urgent to do on the far side of the convention area. At least he has the decency to look guilty as he makes his escape.

Dean sets down his tools, wiping his hands on a rag. "I meant every word I wrote, Riley. I had no idea about any matchmaking plan."

"I believe you." The words come easier than I expected. "It took me a while to get there, but I do."

Relief washes over his features. "Thank you."

"Can we talk?" I gesture toward the less crowded area behind his booth. "Somewhere a little quieter?"

Dean nods, quickly securing his workspace before leading me to a small break area hidden from the main convention floor by a row of potted plants. Two empty chairs wait in the corner like they've been placed there specifically for difficult conversations.

We sit facing each other, close enough that our knees almost touch. The wooden box rests in my lap, a physical manifestation of everything that's happened between us.

"I'm sorry I ran," I start, meeting his eyes directly. "I overheard Parker talking about Zaftig, about how our meeting was arranged, and I just... panicked."

"You had every right to be upset." Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I was furious when I found out what Parker had done."

"It wasn't just about being set up." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to articulate the fear that sent me running. "It was thinking that the only reason someone like you would be interested in someone like me was if it was literally arranged by professionals."

Dean's brow furrows. "Someone like me?"

"You know." I gesture vaguely at all of him. "Talented. Confident. Capable of existing in social situations without mentally cataloguing every possible way to mess up."

A small smile tugs at his lips. "Is that what you think I am?"

"Aren't you?"

"Riley." He shakes his head, his expression softening.

"I spent three years after my last breakup barely speaking to anyone outside of work.

I find peace in wood because it doesn't expect conversation.

People exhaust me. Social situations are a minefield I'd rather avoid.

" He pauses, holding my gaze. "Except with you. With you, it's... different."

The sincerity in his voice wraps around me like a warm blanket. "I felt that too," I admit. "Like I could just be myself without calculating every word or gesture."

"That's not something anyone could arrange or manufacture." Dean reaches for my hand, his fingers warm against mine. "That's just us."

I turn my hand in his, our palms meeting. "When I heard about the matchmaking, I thought everything I felt was based on a lie. That I was just... a project."

"You were never a project to me." His thumb traces circles on my skin. "You were a surprise. The best kind."

"Even though we were pushed together by meddling friends and professional matchmakers?"

Dean's smile widens. "They may have opened the door, but we walked through it on our own."

The tension I've been carrying since yesterday finally begins to dissolve. I open the wooden box with my free hand, revealing the carvings nestled inside. "Tell me about these."

"The fox and the bear." Dean's voice takes on that special quality it has when he talks about his work—passionate, yet somehow peaceful. "Both solitary creatures by nature. Different in almost every way. Yet here they are, finding connection."

I lift the bear carving, studying its alert expression. "It's beautiful. They both are."

"I carved them last night, thinking about you. About us." His eyes never leave mine. "About how sometimes the most unexpected connections are the most meaningful."

"I kept thinking about that yesterday," I confess. "How in just one day, you became someone whose perspective matters to me. Whose observations make my world richer." I set the bear down beside the fox. "That's not something that can be engineered."

"No, it's not." Dean's fingers tighten around mine. "Riley, I don't care how we met. I care about what happened after. The conversations we had, the things we shared—that was all real. At least for me."

"For me too." The words come out softer than intended, nearly a whisper.

Something shifts in Dean's expression—a softening, an opening. "Where do we go from here?"

I consider the question, tracing the grain of the wooden box with my fingertip. "I'd like to find out what this is between us. Without matchmakers or arranged meetings. Just... us."

"I'd like that too." The hope in his voice makes my heart flutter.

"Starting now?" I suggest.

Dean glances toward his booth. "I have one more demonstration scheduled in an hour."

"I can wait." I smile. "Or help. I'm pretty good with a payment app, I hear."

His laugh warms me from the inside out. "Stay. Please."

"I will." I stand, still holding his hand. "But first..."

I step closer, into the space between his knees. Dean looks up at me, his expression a mixture of surprise and anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, I lean down and press my lips to his.

The kiss is gentle at first—a question, an offering. Then Dean's hand comes up to cup my cheek, and the kiss deepens into an answer. His lips are warm and sure against mine, his touch reverent. I sink into the sensation, my free hand finding his shoulder for balance.

When we finally part, I'm breathless, my heart racing. Dean's eyes are darker, more intense.

"I've wanted to do that since yesterday," he admits, his voice rough.

"Me too." I smile, feeling lighter than I have in days. "Worth the wait."

Dean stands, bringing our bodies closer together. His height makes me tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, but I don't mind. There's something comforting about his solid presence.

"I should get back," he says reluctantly. "Prepare for the demonstration."

"And I should let you." I don't move away. "But I don't want to."

His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Come with me. Be my assistant."

"What would that involve?"

"Handing me tools. Explaining the process to anyone who asks. Being a very distracting presence."

I laugh. "I can do that."

Dean's demonstration goes beautifully. I stand nearby, passing him tools when needed, watching his hands transform wood with practiced precision. Several attendees comment on our obvious connection, assuming we've been working together for years. We don't correct them.

Afterward, as Dean packs up his booth for the day, the conversation flows easily between us. The awkwardness that might have lingered after our reconciliation is absent, replaced by a comfortable familiarity that belies our short acquaintance.

"Where are you staying?" Dean asks as he secures the last of his tools.

"The convention hotel. It's just a few blocks from here."

He hesitates, then meets my eyes directly. "Would you like to come to my place? I could make dinner. Show you my workshop." He pauses. "No pressure. Just... more time together."

The invitation sends a pleasant warmth through me. "I'd like that."

The drive to Dean's place takes about twenty minutes, through increasingly wooded areas until we reach a small house set back from the road. It's exactly what I would have imagined for him: rustic but well-maintained, with a large detached workshop visible behind it.

"It's not much," Dean says as he unlocks the front door. "But it's home."

Inside, the house is surprisingly cozy. Natural wood elements dominate—hardwood floors, exposed beams, handcrafted furniture that I suspect Dean made himself. Large windows let in the evening light, illuminating walls decorated with a mix of nature photographs and fantasy art prints.

"This is beautiful," I say, turning slowly to take it all in. "It feels like you."

Dean's expression softens. "That might be the nicest compliment anyone's given me about this place."

"I mean it. It's authentic. Thoughtful." I run my hand along a bookshelf filled with fantasy novels and woodworking guides. "Like its owner."

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Would you like to see the workshop before dinner?"

"Absolutely."

The workshop is Dean's true domain. Larger than I expected, it's filled with tools organized with meticulous care, wood in various stages of transformation, and completed pieces that take my breath away.

Dragons with scales so detailed they seem ready to move.

Bears caught mid-roar. Foxes with expressions so lifelike I half expect them to wink.

"This is incredible," I breathe, moving from piece to piece. "Your talent is... I don't even have words."

"Thank you." Dean watches me explore, a quiet pride in his expression. "This is where I feel most myself."

I understand completely. "Like me with my code. When everything else feels chaotic or overwhelming, there's this one space where everything makes sense."