He doesn't respond to that, just starts unpacking more furniture from boxes that look like they were built specifically for transport. Everything he pulls out is beautiful. His pieces are functional but with the kind of craftsmanship that speaks to hours of careful work. It’sart.I watch him handle each piece like it's precious, adjusting angles with an eye for display that suggests he's done this before.
"Okay,grumpy Hemsworth," I say, settling into my own booth setup while keeping one eye on him. "Are we going to be booth neighbors who maintain polite distance and pretend not to notice each other? Or are we going with Option B?”
He sets down a wooden serving tray—walnut, I think, with a subtle grain that catches the morning light—and looks at me with those steady eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite… what’s Option B?”
Well, there's the option where we develop intense sexual tension that builds over the course of the weekend until it reaches a breaking point…
“We become besties while having a fabulously fun day selling lots of art. Obviously.”
A sound escapes him. Low, almost like a laugh, but rougher. More like a growl. His mouth does that twitching thing again, and this time I'm sure it's fighting a smile.
Definitely progress.
The morning passes in a steady rhythm of setup and early festival-goers. I sell a mosaic mirror to a woman from Nashville who tells me it's "absolutely divine" and two stepping stones to a couple planning a garden renovation. Felix sells a handcrafted dining table to visitors from Knoxville who spend twenty minutes running their hands over the smooth finish and asking about his techniques.
Every transaction I witness confirms what I suspected: he's incredibly talented. The kind of artist who makes gorgeous pieces that will outlast all of us.
And every now and then, I catch him watching me work. Not staring exactly, but observing. Like he's trying to figure out how I fit into his carefully ordered world.
The feeling is mutual.
Around noon, when the festival crowd starts to thicken, I notice Felix slipping Pickles a piece of his sandwich when he thinks I'm not looking. My dog has positioned himself as the unofficial greeter between our booths, tail wagging at every customer, occasionally wandering over to plant himself at Felix's feet.
"He likes you," I call out during a lull in traffic.
Felix glances down at Pickles, who's now sprawled across his right boot. "He's persistent."
"That's his best quality. Also his most annoying one."
He smirks. "Sounds familiar."
I look up from the mosaic flower pot I’m polishing, surprised by the teasing note in his voice. "Are you saying I'm persistent, Felix?"
"I'm saying you haven't stopped talking since yesterday."
"And yet you’re still here, listening to me. Sometimes you eventalk back. Almost like a real conversation,” I tease.
He pauses in his arrangement of hand-carved wooden spoons, and for a moment, I think he might actually respond with something revealing. Something that might give me a clue whether he feels the chemistry between us too—or if it’s all in my head.
Instead, he just shrugs and goes back to his work.
But the almost-smile is definitely there.
And I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I'm growing on him.
Chapter 4
Felix
Thebonfirecracklesandsparks, sending orange light dancing across the faces of the festival-goers gathered around it. Music drifts from the small stage set up near the food trucks—banjo and fiddle, something locals can clap along to even if they can't carry a tune. Laughter rolls across the vendor field in waves, mixing with the scent of funnel cake and hot cider that perfumes the crisp evening air.
I should have left an hour ago.
Hell, I should have leftthreehours ago, right after I made my last sale of the day. Should have loaded up my truck, driven back to my cabin, and spent the evening in my workshop wherethe only sounds are the whisper of sandpaper on wood and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Instead, I'm sitting on a hay bale beside Harper like some kind of tame, social version of myself I barely recognize.
She's got her knees drawn up, scuffed boots resting on the edge of the bale, purple glasses catching the firelight like stained glass. Her shirtdress rides up just enough to show the smooth line of her calves.
