Chapter 3

The loft skylight at the old theater became my warmest sanctuary in this unfamiliar city.

Riding on my deep understanding of vintage textiles and sharp craftsmanship, I gained a firm foothold here and started taking on side gigs—restoring and tailoring pieces for indie plays and private clients.

Every week after getting paid, I'd keep a small portion for basic living expenses and deposit the rest into a brand-new personal bank account registered exclusively under Carly's name.

As my side work picked up, I desperately needed a heavy-duty treadle sewing machine that could handle thick, vintage fabrics.

On a bright, sunny weekend afternoon.

I pushed a small handcart borrowed from the theater to the flea market, where I managed to hunt down an extraordinarily heavy Singer sewing machine.

Though the finish was a bit faded, the gears ran like butter—a absolute beast for repairing heavy-duty fabrics.

However, disaster struck on the way back.

The brick pavement on the street corner was slick from recent rain, and one of the cart's wooden wheels got caught tight in a deep groove.

Snap! The old cart's handle snapped clean off, and the heavy, hundred-pound iron machine lost its balance, pitching straight toward the muddy pavement.

My face went pale from shock, and I instinctively dove forward, trying to cushion the blow with my own body.

This was the treasure I had emptied my savings to buy.

"Watch out!"

A deep, steady voice rang out over my head.

Before I hit the ground, a broad, calloused arm shot out and firmly caught the heavy machine frame.

Immediately after, a warm force yanked me back, pulling me out of harm's way.

With a soft thud, the sewing machine was set down safely on the dry curb stone.

Shaken, I squatted on the ground, breathing heavily, clutching my hems tightly with trembling fingers.

Conditioned by years of living with the Vances, I pulled my shoulders in, kept my head low, and blurted out out of reflex.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I was in the way, and I almost broke your stuff!"

Back at the Vance house, breaking or dropping anything guaranteed a sharp barrage of screaming and harsh punishment from Evelyn.

"Hey, take it easy. You didn't do anything wrong."

The voice dropped low and impossibly gentle, like someone comforting a startled stray cat.

I slowly lifted my head.

Sunlight filtered through the sycamore leaves, casting soft light over the young man in front of me.

He looked to be around twenty-two or twenty-three, wearing a clean pair of overalls over a grey T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal defined, muscular forearms.

His hair was a sunny light brown, and his amber eyes were clear and warm. He carried a subtle, pleasant scent of cedarwood and fresh sawdust.

He didn't tower over me; instead, he crouched down on one knee, meeting my gaze at eye level: "Are you okay? Did you cut your hands?"

Looking into his eyes—devoid of any disgust or harsh judgment—the tension in my body slowly dissolved.

"I'm okay. Thank you."

The young man stood up, carefully inspecting the cast-iron machine and the broken handcart.

"The cast-iron frame is kept in great shape, though the bottom wooden pedal is a bit worn and cracked from age."

A flash of expert appreciation lit up his eyes. "Lucky for you, I happen to be a carpenter."

He pointed across the street to a cozy shop with a wooden sign reading Croft’s Woodcraft.

"I'm Ethan Croft."

He gave a clean, vibrant smile. "I run the woodshop across the street. I can craft and re-sand a new wooden treadle pedal for you—guaranteed to feel better than the original."

I felt the few small bills left in my pocket, biting my lip nervously. "I don't have that much cash on me."

Seeing my anxiety, Ethan's smile grew even warmer: "Helping a neighbor fix a wooden pedal isn't on my billable invoice. Besides, getting an old, gorgeous machine like this back to life? It's my honor."

I looked up at this man exuding the scent of cedarwood, my expression dead serious: "Thank you. I'm Carly Vance."