Chapter 1 #2
Mateo’s at the anvil, his back to me, shoulders moving in that steady rhythm I’ve watched dozens of times over the years. More times than I should probably admit, even to myself. There’s something hypnotic about watching him work—the precision, the strength, the absolute focus.
I’ve always told myself I come here because his metalwork is beautiful. Because he’s a friend. Because the forge is calming.
I’m a damn liar.
I take another moment to watch. Black t-shirt. Worn jeans. Work gloves. He’s completely focused on the piece of glowing metal in front of him, bringing the hammer down with an accuracy that looks effortless but I know takes years to perfect.
The muscles in his arms flex with each strike.
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’s hands that could build fortresses but touched her like she was something precious.
Coincidence. It has to be.
I didn’t base that on Mateo.
God, I’m such a liar.
“You like them?” He’s watching my face with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of my surroundings. The heat from the forge. The smell of smoke and metal and him. The way his voice dropped lower on that question, like my answer matters more than it should for a simple commission.
His gaze hasn’t wavered from my face. It hasn’t dropped lower, hasn’t done that thing Owen used to do—that quick, assessing scan that always made me feel like I was failing some invisible test.
Stop imagining things, Sadie.
“I love them.” I reach out and trace one of the petals with my finger. The metal is cool now, smooth. “They’re perfect. What do I owe you?”
“Consider them a gift.”
I look up. “Mateo—“
“You’ve been doing that thing where you don’t charge me full price for books.” He crosses his arms, leaning back against the workbench. “The ‘friends and family discount’ you keep giving me? We’re even.”
There’s something in the way he says “friends and family” that I can’t quite place. Almost like he’s both and neither all at once.
Like he’s waiting for me to catch on to something I’m missing.
Nope. No. I can’t go there. I’m reading into things.
“That’s different. Books don’t take—“ I gesture at the bookends. “This is hours of work. Custom metalwork. You can’t just—”
“I can, actually.” His smile turns teasing. “It’s my forge. I make the rules.”
“Mateo.”
“Sadie.”
We stare at each other. I’m trying to look stern, but the corner of my mouth is betraying me.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But next time—“
“Next time you’ll try to pay me, and I’ll refuse, and we’ll have this exact same conversation.” He’s grinning now. “I know the script.”
Friends and family. That’s what we are. What we’ve always been.
“How’s everything at the shop?” he asks, carefully wrapping the bookends back up.
“Good. Busy.” I shove my hands back in my pockets. “Macy’s excited about book club tonight.”
“Yeah? What are you reading?”
My throat goes dry. “Oh, you know. Romance. The usual.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You okay? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Just busy.” This lie tastes sour. “You know how book club nights are.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You say that like you’re not proud of that romance section you’ve built. Pretty sure half this town learned to love the genre because of your recommendations.”
“A girl’s allowed to have her guilty pleasures.” Pride warms my chest despite the anxiety still humming under my skin. “Besides, someone has to defend the genre.”
“You do it well.” He hands me the wrapped bookends, and his fingers brush mine.
And linger.
And the contact doesn’t just send a spark up my arm. Nope. No, instead, my whole body betrays me with the most delicious shiver crawling over my skin and between my thighs.
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.