His thumb grazes across my knuckles—barely there, probably accidental, but maybe not—before he releases the package into my hands. From the way his eyes darken, focused on where we touched, I think maybe he feels it too.
Not between his thighs. Well, yes, between his thighs, but not his… he doesn’t have a…
Good lord, Sadie, shut the fuck up.
Mateo Herrera, all lean muscle and easy confidence and calloused hands that just brushed mine like it was nothing, is my friend.My friend. And friends don’t make your whole body shiver from a two-second touch. Friends don’t look at you the way he’s looking at me right now. But it did, and he is, and I don’t know what to do with that.
We stand there for a beat too long, so close. Breathing the same fiery air. The heat from the forge rages over us. And the way he’s looking at me like—
Like what, Sadie? Like he wants to eat you? Your romance books are getting to your head. Stop being ridiculous.
“I should get back. Macy’s alone at the shop.”
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment, maybe? It’s gone before I can be sure.
“Already?” He doesn’t move back, doesn’t give me space. Not that I’m complaining. “I was going to ask if you wanted coffee. I just made a fresh pot.”
Yes. Coffee. That sounds incredible.
“Oh.” I clutch the bookends tighter. And instead, I say, “I really should go. Like I said, Macy’s by herself and—“
His jaw tightens. For a second, I think he’s going to push. Ask what’s really wrong. But then he smiles.
“Right. Yeah.” He finally steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let me know if anything needs adjusting.”
“They’re perfect. “ I break first.
I always do.
CHAPTER 2
The metal glows fiery orange against the anvil as I bring the hammer down in steady, rhythmic strikes.Tink. Tink. Tink.
Shape it.
Mold it.
Make it stronger than it started.
That’s the goal.
That’s what my father used to say. Same words, same anvil. He stood in this exact spot for thirty-five years, shaping metal withhands that never rushed, never forced. He’d say the iron tells you what it wants to be — you just have to be patient enough to listen. Three years gone, and I still catch myself listening for his footsteps behind me, waiting for him to correct my grip or tell me I’m hitting too hard.
The sun climbed high about an hour ago. It shines brightly outside, but it being directly overhead means it doesn’t touch much beyond the forge’s open doors. I’ve been at this since before dawn.
I roll my aching shoulders, stretching the tightness that comes from honest, back-breaking work. Sweat drips down my skin despite the November chill drifting through the door.
I need to finish this piece before five, but I can’t focus worth a damn.
I keep replaying this morning in my head. The way Sadie’s entire body reacted when our fingers touched—that sharp intake of breath, the shiver she couldn’t hide. She wouldn’t hold my gaze for more than a few seconds. Bolted when I offered coffee, stammering about Macy being alone.
Something’s bothering her.
But she felt it. I know she did. The same electricity that’s been building between us for five years. And then she ran in her very Sadie-like way she does when things get too real.
I bring the hammer down harder than necessary. The clang echoes through the forge.
She was out the door before I could push. I offered her a simple cup of coffee, and she looked at me like I’d asked for something dangerous and forbidden, backing toward the exit, putting distance between us, clutching those bookends to her chest like armor.
