I blink and look away.
Not the time, Sadie.
I should say something. Announce myself. But I stand there for a moment, watching him work, and that restless anxiety from the BookTok theory thread and the book club panic starts to ease.
Being here calms those nerves.
Mateo’s a fourth-generation blacksmith. The kind of guy everyone in town knows and likes. The kind who remembers your coffee order and fixes things without being asked.
He must sense my presence because he turns, setting down his tools and pulling off his safety glasses. When he sees me, his face does this thing—this slow smile that I’ve seen a hundred times but still makes the butterflies come alive in my stomach.
That smile should come with a warning label.
Might make your panties wet.
It’s the kind of smile that makes a woman forget what she came here for. Makes her want to stay longer than she should.
The kind of smile I write about in my books.
Owen never smiled at me like that. I don’t think he was ever genuinely happy to see me. My presence alone wasn’t worth stopping work for.
But with Mateo…
“Tesoro.“ The nickname makes me smile, a callback to my shabby pirate booty costume five Halloweens ago that he’s never let go of. His voice is rough from the heat. His eyes do a quick sweep—head to toe and back—before settling on my face. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Oh, it’s warm in here.
I swallow, stepping further inside and shoving my hands in my pockets. “I know. Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to check if those bookends were ready. The wildflower ones?”
“They’re ready.” He crosses to a workbench against the wall. “They’ve been ready since yesterday, actually. I was going to bring them by this afternoon.”
Of course he was.
Because that’s what Mateo does. He makes custom pieces for my shop and delivers them personally, always finding some reason to stop by.
He stands close—closer than necessary—as he unwraps the bookends from their protective cloth. And I can’t help but notice the ash smudged on his forearm, the small scar on his knuckle from an old forge accident, the very slight, almost-not-there dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.
I wonder what it would be like to breathe him in. Brush my lips against his. Run my fingers over the ridges of his chest.
Stop it, Sadie.
My breath does that stupid stutter it does when I’m nervous.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Oh, right. Bookends.
I reluctantly tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at what he’s holding.
They’re beautiful. Stunning. Wrought iron shaped like desert wildflowers, delicate petals and stems that look as though they might sway in a breeze, but I know they’re solid. Strong. Exactly what I described when I commissioned them three weeks ago, but somehow better than I imagined.
“Mateo, these are incredible.”
Except I’m no longer looking at the bookends. I’m looking at his hands. The way they cradle the iron like it weighs nothing. Calloused fingers, scarred knuckles, steady and sure. The same hands I described in chapter three of my book — a carpenter’shands that could build fortresses but touched her like she was something precious.
Coincidence. It has to be.
I didn’t base that on Mateo.
