6. Nothing Ruins Celibacy like a Sewing Kit
NOTHING RUINS CELIBACY LIKE A SEWING KIT
Felicity
One second Maverick was in the chair. The next? Gone. Vanished. Like a tiny, sticky-fingered escape artist with zero regard for my blood pressure or my future.
My heart dropped. I lurched up, scanning the corners of the office, then the hallway, then back to the chair where he’d been. No sign of my son.
I rushed into the corridor, calling his name in a voice pitched somewhere between “fun scavenger hunt” and “Code Red Amber Alert.” I checked the bathrooms, empty, the break room, abandoned, the supply closet, locked.
Each room echoed with that weird, hallowed silence of early morning before staff clocked in.
The panic was real enough that my chest hurt.
I made a circuit of the conference room and kitchen, then doubled back to peek out the window.
No sign of Maverick in the gravel lot or near the stables.
My imagination conjured a hundred disastrous scenarios: him falling into a horse trough, him running into the road, him being lured away by a rogue chicken.
I knew better than to underestimate the magnetic pull of livestock on a four-year-old boy.
My chest actually hurt. This is how I die, I thought. Not heroically. In a ranch office, because my four-year-old went missing chasing a rogue chicken.
Then I heard it, a faint, high-pitched giggle. It echoed from the direction of the executive wing. That was weird, because the only offices down that way belonged to Dean and Selma.
I followed the sound, heart pounding. Dean Lockhart’s office was the inner sanctum of the ranch, which staff had warned me was off-limits unless he summoned you. Apparently, Sunshine wasn’t a fan of impromptu drop-bys. So much so, Harper warned me he took the offense as a personal insult.
It was so strange to learn about Dean through the lens of his brothers, townspeople, and ranch staff. They all had similar descriptions of him, claiming he was a cold, distant, non-feeling human who kept everyone at arm’s length. They teased him, saying he was a robot, void of human emotions.
Nonna explained that Dean had always been her favorite “Heartbreaker” which was a nickname he and his brothers were known for around town.
I figured the moniker was a play on words, but Nonna explained that every time Selma gave birth to one of her sons, nurses and visitors in the hospital would comment, “You got yourself a heartbreaker,’ or, “He’s going to be a little heartbreaker,” or something to that effect.
I asked her if the brothers lived up to their name, not that it was any of my business, but I had to admit, I wanted dirt on Dean’s love life.
I hadn’t been able to manage to go a full five minutes without him popping into my head unprovoked.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Working with Dean was difficult enough, not that we communicated that much, or at all.
We passed each other in the hallways, sat in the same meetings, and occasionally had to speak about the job, mainly my projected expense reports.
He was definitely keeping me at arm’s length.
Nonna said none of the boys had settled down until Sadie came back last year and reunited with Dawson, named after the James Vanderbeek’s (rest in peace) character in Dawson’s Creek.
She said Damon, named after The Vampire Diaries, was a flirt. She actually said he had "honey on his tongue and trouble in his eyes.” Said he would flirt with a lamppost if you put a skirt on it.
I could attest to that characterization.
Damon had charm and charisma in spades, and he had no issues turning those qualities on when it came to the opposite sex.
The third in line to the Lockhart dynasty had paid me quite a bit of attention the past week and made me feel very welcome.
Usually, I didn’t love getting hit on by men, and especially not at the workplace, but Damon had such a non-threatening, fun, happy vibe about him, it didn’t bother me at all.
The youngest Lockhart, Dylan, named after one of the leads in Beverly Hills, 90210, was a wild man, an adrenaline junkie. He was fearless, jumping off roofs into swimming pools, “surfing” on the top of moving SUVs, playing chicken with tractors, Footloose style.
But she said Dean, named after Rory’s boyfriend in Gilmore Girls, reminded her the most of her late husband, and love of her life, Raphael.
She said they both had a quiet confidence, a dry wit, intelligence, type-A tendencies, unflappable loyalty, an authority and command that made people listen the first time they said something, and were fiercely private people.
She said Raphael didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, he wrapped it in socks and buried it deep down into her subconscious.
Nonna said it was fair to say that all four Lockharts had left trails of broken hearts, but the only one who ever had anything remotely serious was Dawson.
For some reason, that had made me sad for Dean.
I don’t know if it was just because he had a reputation of being so closed off, but I’d seen a different side of him, one that made me want to dig deeper into the humanity I doubted many people witnessed.
I had a feeling beneath that hard exterior, there was a very sensitive man who deserved love.
I kept telling myself I was not the one to show him that.
I just wasn’t sure I believed myself. He made it very difficult not to fall for him when he would go to my house during work hours and fix not only the roof, but the ceiling as well.
I hadn’t asked him to. He’d mentioned Uncle Walter had given him a spare key and told me he could give it back but asked if it would be okay if he dropped by to fix the roof.
I told him to keep it, just for emergencies and of course, if he wanted to go check on the roof, he had my blessing.
I’d just come home one day and not only was the roof and ceiling in the kitchen repaired, he’d also filled all the holes and installed the recessed lighting.
Oh, and it was also spotless. He was a man who was a fan of cleanliness.
When I saw the repairs to my house, my eyes filled with tears. What man does that without being asked or wanting anything in return? It was unnerving and also, deeply, deeply romantic.
I finally reached Dean’s office, and the door was slightly ajar.
The sound of Maverick’s laughter was definitely coming from inside.
I peeked in, half-expecting to find Maverick talking a mile a minute, holding Dean hostage with his stories.
Instead, I saw something out of a Norman Rockwell fever dream: Dean, in his crisp, white button-down and tailored-to-perfection black slacks, which were his uniform for this place, perched on the edge of his desk, was holding Deputy Neigh Neigh with one hand and a sewing kit with the other.
Maverick stood at attention, watching with rapt, almost religious focus, as Dean attempted to suture a torn seam in the horse’s leg.
The sight was so bizarre and sweet that I forgot my initial panic entirely about Mav being missing. I just stood there, unseen for a moment, watching the way Maverick’s whole body vibrated with excitement.
“Is it going to be alright?” Maverick asked, breathless.
Dean considered the question like he was testifying in court. “If he holds very still, I think he’ll pull through. But he’s probably going to have a scar.”
Maverick solemnly nodded. “He’s brave. Like a real horse, right?”
“Braver,” Dean responded, not even glancing up from his work. “Most horses faint at the sight of needles.”
Maverick giggled, it was the same sound I’d heard from the hallway.
Dean finished the stitch, tied it off with an impossible little knot, and then handed the patient back to its owner. “There you go. You might want to give him a few days off from rodeos.”
Maverick cradled the horse, eyes shining. “Thank you! You’re a doctor and a cowboy.”
Dean huffed out a sound of laughter, which was the closest I’d ever seen him come to smiling. “I have a friend named Dr. Russo who would probably not agree with you.”
I was sure he was talking about Giovanni Russo, Nonna’s grandson.
I’d met him once when I was dropping off Mav for the day.
He was a really good-looking guy, charming, and funny.
He didn’t tempt me in the slightest to break my No Men rule.
Neither did Damon, or Dylan, for that matter, both of whom could have easily been Abercrombie or Calvin Klein models in the ’90s at the peak of both campaigns.
The only man who had made me question whether I could shut off all romantic ties with the opposite sex was Dean Lockhart. The man just did something to me, something I couldn’t explain. It was frustrating, to say the least.
Not able to witness the precious moment any longer without the danger of falling in love with the man who’d just performed open-stuff surgery on Deputy Neigh, I cleared my throat and stepped inside, feeling suddenly like I was intruding.
“Sorry to barge in,” I said, trying to gather up some authority, “I was just looking for Mav.”
Dean met my eyes—steady, unreadable—and gave a half-shrug. “He showed up with a medical emergency. We had to perform emergency surgery.”
Maverick sprinted over, clutching Deputy Neigh-Neigh, and threw his arms around my waist. “Mom, he fixed Neigh! He can ride again!”
I tried to ignore the way my heart stuttered at the sight of Dean, all stoic competence and secret kindness. He handed me the sewing kit, as if to prove he hadn’t been doing anything sentimental. “You might want to keep this on hand,” he muttered.
“Thanks,” I said, tucking it into my pocket. “And thank you for… uh, the surgery. Say thank you to Mister Dean, Mav.”
“Thank you Mister Dean. Can I stay with you?”
“Oh no, I don’t think…that’s not…” I stumbled over my words. “Dean has work—"
The tension that always seemed to hover over Dean’s shoulders was gone, replaced by a kind of dry exasperation as he cut me off. “If you’re going to keep bringing your kid to work, you may as well let him shadow the CFO. I run a tight ship.”
Mav beamed, clearly interpreting this as an invitation to return any time or to stay.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he cut me off again, his statement filled with authority and finality that had me wishing there was a fainting couch nearby because I felt a very big swoon coming on.
“Thanks, but I’m sure you have work to do,” I said as I tried to herd my four-year-old son toward the door, but he wriggled free and approached Dean’s desk with the fearless intensity of a child who’d just scored a major win.
“Are you the boss?” Maverick asked.
Dean leaned back and regarded him. “One of them.”
“And you have a real horse?”
“Yes.”
Maverick’s eyes widened, starstruck. “Can I have him?”
Dean paused. “No.”
Maverick thought about this, then pointed at Dean. “Can I have you?”
Dean, master of the deadpan, looked at him for a long moment. “That’s not usually how job offers work. But I’ll keep you in mind if my schedule opens up.”
I felt my entire face go up in flames. “He’s not—He doesn’t— Mav, buddy, we talked about this, you can’t just ask for people—”
“Yeah-huh, Daddy used to say that you were his and he was yours,” Mav relayed, putting my business out in front of a man I truly didn’t want to think of me as a damaged, single mom. “And Daddy had Bruno and Bruno was ours so that means I could have a horse, too.”
Bruno was my ex’s cat, so I saw the logic that Mav was working with. If he had Dean, then he’d have Dean’s horse.
My cheeks instantly heated. “That’s not the same—”
Dean held up a hand to halt my flailing. “It’s fine.” He looked at Maverick with what I could only describe as amusement. “For all the things you could be used for, a horse is not the worst.”
I wanted to disappear into the carpet, but Maverick was already rifling through the candy dish on Dean’s desk.
“I should get back to my office,” I said, attempting to salvage a shred of dignity.
“Probably wise,” Dean said, but his eyes had softened at the edges.
As I guided Maverick out, he looked back at Dean with pure, undiluted hero-worship. “Bye, Cowboy Boss!”
Dean lifted two fingers in a salute. “Make sure Deputy Neigh Neigh stays off that leg.”
Once we got back inside my office, Mav picked up his iPad once more, and I leaned against the wall, clutching the sewing kit to my chest. My heart was thundering.
Not just from the search-and-rescue adrenaline, but from something else—a weird, disorienting tenderness at the way Dean had handled my son.
Like he was secretly fluent in kids, or at least in Maverick.
I walked to my desk, trying to shake off the after-effects of that encounter. Maverick was already plotting Deputy Neigh-Neigh’s triumphant return to the rodeo circuit, while I tried to steady my hands enough to send a thank-you email to Bethany at Ever After Blooms.
But my composure was shot. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dean bent over a stuffed horse, hands steady and patient, treating my son’s emergency with a gravity he didn’t even give to most adults.
It was so unexpectedly sweet, so weirdly intimate, that it rattled the cage of my carefully maintained man moratorium.
This was bad. Very bad.