Crafted by love, p.1
Crafted by Love, page 1
CRAFTED BY LOVE
A SLOW-BURN GAY ROMANCE MM
HAYDEN TEMPLAR
CRAFTED BY LOVE
Copyright © 2025 by Hayden Templar
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
https://haydentemplar.com
CONTENTS
Chapter-1
Chapter-2
Chapter-3
Chapter-4
Chapter-5
Chapter-6
Chapter-7
Chapter-8
Chapter-9
Chapter-10
Chapter-11
Chapter-12
Chapter-13
Epilogue
Thank you
Also by Hayden
About the Author
CHAPTER-1
On rain-slicked roads, Dustin drove his deluxe fast car carefully, gripping the wheel tightly.
"Recalculating," announced the GPS for what felt like the tenth time. He sighed, checking his watch, a sleek designer brand that caught the dim light. He was already late.
Without warning, the car's engine made a troubling shudder. Yellow warning lights flashed across the dashboard. Dustin's perfectly composed expression faltered as the vehicle lost power.
"No, no, no," he muttered, guiding the dying car toward the curb. With one final mechanical protest, the car went silent, rolling to a stop beside a weathered brick building.
His dark hair showed silver at the temples. At 37, he looked fit and well-groomed, aware that his appearance mattered. His tailor crafted his charcoal gray designer suit to fit his 6’1" frame; expensive, and looked it.
None of which helped him then, stranded in an industrial district he'd never have visited.
He pulled out his phone and discovered there was only one bar of service. Fantastic.
He finally reached roadside assistance on his third try, but the call was crackly.
"An hour?" Dustin repeated, glancing out at the intensifying rain. "There's nothing sooner?" he sighed when the apologetic voice confirmed there wasn't.
As he ended the call, Dustin noticed light flowing from the windows of what appeared to be an old warehouse beside him.
With the rain now coming down in sheets, the decision made itself. He tucked his phone inside his jacket, took a breath, and stepped out into the downpour.
By the time he reached the heavy wooden door, his immaculate suit was soaked through. Water dripped from his hair onto his face as he knocked firmly, three decisive raps that conveyed authority even in distress.
For a moment, nothing happened, so he knocked again, louder, and the door opened a few inches, warm light and the rich scent of wood and varnish spilling out into the rain.
A man appeared in the gap, roughly Dustin's age but entirely different in presentation. He stood an even six feet tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his plain navy t-shirt.
His small, practical ponytail pulled back his wavy brown hair, revealing a strong jawline with several days of stubble. His expression was a mixture of suspicion and annoyance, hazel eyes narrowing slightly at the stranger on his doorstep.
"Can I help you?" The voice was deep, with a directness that suggested its owner had little patience for pleasantries.
Dustin used his winning smile, the one that always helped him in business. "I'm incredibly sorry to disturb you. “My car broke down," he gestured toward the sedan, and roadside help won't be here for at least an hour. I was hoping I might wait somewhere dry?"
The man's eyes flicked to the luxury car, then back to Dustin, taking in the suit and the watch peeking from beneath his cuff. His expression remained unmoved by the practiced charm.
"This isn't a waiting room," he said. "There's a coffee shop about six blocks east."
Dustin wasn’t used to being refused, but then strong wind and rain soaked him again. A small puddle began forming at his feet.
Reluctant compassion flared across the other man's face. With a barely audible sigh, he stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Fine. You can dry off inside. I'm working, though."
"Thank you," Dustin said, genuinely grateful as he stepped in from the rain. "I'm Dustin Thornton."
"Hudson Reid," the man replied, offering nothing more while he closed the heavy door against the storm.
The interior was nothing like what Dustin expected. Despite the building's industrial exterior, the workshop within felt almost sacred. Exposed beams and warm lighting brightened the high-ceilinged workshop. He recognized the arrangement of the space as orderly chaos. The tools hung in careful arrangements, and wood at various stages of completion.
Most striking were the scents: cedar and oak, linseed oil and varnish, all mixing in a perfume no department store could ever replicate.
Hudson moved past him, returning to a workbench where a partially completed chair waited. He tossed a clean shop towel in Dustin's direction without looking at him.
"Thanks," Dustin said, attempting to dry his face and hair. The effort was symbolic; his suit would remain uncomfortably damp until he could change.
Hudson merely nodded, already focused on sanding a curved chair arm with methodical precision. His hands moved with practiced confidence, brawny forearms dusted with fine sawdust. They were working hands, calloused, with a small scar across the right knuckles.
"I apologize again for the intrusion," Dustin said, breaking the silence. "I'm not usually in this part of town."
"I figured," Hudson replied without looking up, the sandpaper making a soft shushing sound against the wood.
Dustin checked his watch again, calculating how long he'd need to call and reschedule his meeting. Light from the watch created rainbows on the wall.
Hudson noticed, his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly.
"That's quite a timepiece," he said, tone unreadable.
Dustin unconsciously adjusted his cuff over the watch. "It was a gift to myself when my company went public."
"Must be nice," Hudson said, returning to his sanding.
No judgement, but the conversation stalled, the class gulf between them as tangible as the rain-soaked air outside. Dustin usually navigated difficult social situations well, but he felt unusually awkward. His usual repertoire of small talk seemed suddenly inadequate.
While Hudson worked, Dustin's gaze wandered around the workshop, taking in details. Despite the building's obvious age and some visible repairs to the roof, everything was maintained. Tools that must have been decades old gleamed alongside more modern equipment.
Then his eyes fell on a completed piece near the far wall, and it intrigued him.
It was a coffee table, crafted from what appeared to be walnut with a live edge, the natural contour of the tree preserved rather than squared off. Flaws became beauty with reinforced butterfly joints. The finish brought out rich variations in the grain, somehow both rustic and sophisticated.
Ignoring his wet clothes and the silence, Dustin felt drawn to it.
Protecting his work, Hudson watched Dustin warily as he came closer.
Dustin stopped before the table, eyes taking in every detail. Without a word, he felt the smooth top and rough edges of the object.
"This is extraordinary work," he said quietly, and for the first time since entering the workshop, there was nothing practiced in his tone. "How long did it take you?"
Hudson paused his sanding, Dustin's genuine reverence catching his attention. He set down his tools and approached, stopping a few feet away.
"About seven weeks, start to finish," he said as he studied Dustin's reaction to the piece. "Finding the right slab took the longest. I wanted something with character but structural integrity."
"You achieved both," Dustin said, still examining the joints. "These butterfly keys, walnut as well?"
Hudson's eyebrows rose slightly. "No, that's ziricote. Creates a better contrast."
"It's beautiful," Dustin murmured. "My grandfather was a hobbyist woodworker. Nothing at this level, but he taught me to appreciate the grain." He looked up, meeting Hudson's eyes directly. "How did you learn?"
Hudson's demeanor softened a bit. "Trade school first, then apprenticed with an old master for five years. Been on my own for eight now."
"It shows," Dustin said, gesturing to the table. "There's a confidence in the design choices. You don't see craftsmanship like this much anymore."
For the first time, the hint of a smile touched the corner of Hudson's mouth.
"Most people just want cheap stuff they can throw away when the trend changes," he said, running a hand almost absently along the table's edge. "I build pieces that outlast trends. Outlast my clients if I do it right."
Dustin nodded, understanding. "I just purchased the old Westmore mansion. It needs extensive renovation, but the bones are incredible. A space like that deserves furniture with intention behind it."
Hudson heard that the huge, historic Queen Anne house had been sold for millions.
"Immense project," Hudson said, voice neutral again. He glanced at the recently patched corner of the ceiling.
Dustin saw the workshop’s problems: poor heating, old tools, and a leak.
Before either man could speak again, Dustin's phone rang. The roadside help had arrived earlier than expected.
"I should go," Dustin said, oddly re
Hudson nodded, stepping back from the table. "No problem."
Dustin moved toward the door, then paused. "Does your workshop have a name? Or a card?"
Hudson hesitated, then pointed to a simple logo burned into a wooden plaque on the wall: "Reid Custom Furnishings" with a phone number underneath.
Dustin memorized it as the tow truck’s flashing lights appeared in the workshop.
"Good luck with the car," Hudson said, opening the door to the still-pouring rain.
Dustin nodded his thanks and stepped outside, looking back again at the workshop before hurrying to the tow truck.
Hudson stood in the doorway, watching as they hooked Dustin’s car to the truck. His fine clothes didn’t blind him to the quality woodworking.
After the truck and Dustin turned the corner, Hudson went back inside. He found his gaze drawn to the coffee table.
The visitor’s wet footprints disappeared from his concrete floor. Driven by impulse, Hudson touched the coffee table where Dustin had been.
The leak continued to drip into the bucket. Back to sanding, he still thought about the man in the suit who appreciated his work.
He didn't expect to see Dustin Thornton again. Men like that didn't return to places like his, but Hudson dreamed of his work in a luxury home.
If that wasn’t the beginning of a terrible movie, I don’t know what is!
CHAPTER-2
From his penthouse, Dustin looked at the city three days after a rainstorm, lost in thought. He remembered the workshop’s perfect table, and he remembered the artisan with the guarded eyes and powerful hands.
"Mr. Thornton?"
Eliza, his assistant in her early forties, was an invaluable part of his work life.
The contractor confirmed a 2 PM meeting at the mansion; she relayed. "And the structural engineer's report came in. No foundation issues, just as you suspected."
"Good."
Eliza waited a beat, then tilted her head. “Everything okay?
Dustin paused, then put his coffee down. "I need you to do something for me. It's... not precisely business-related."
Though her face was neutral, her eyes showed curiosity. Dustin rarely mixed personal errands with work.
"There's a furniture workshop in the industrial district. Reid Custom Furnishings." He retrieved his phone, showing her the address he'd found online. "I'd like you to go there and purchase a specific piece. A walnut coffee table with butterfly joints."
Eliza made a note on her tablet. "For the mansion renovation?"
"For here initially. I'll move it to the mansion eventually."
She nodded. "Would you like me to negotiate the price? I'm sure I could—"
A sharper than intended “No,” came from him before his tone mellowed. "Pay whatever the asking price is. In full, but I need you to do something else."
Eliza waited, eyebrows raised.
"Don't mention my name. Say you're buying it for a client who wishes to remain anonymous if asked."
Eliza’s surprise was genuine. "May I ask why?"
Unable to explain it, Dustin faced the window again. "The artisan, Hudson Reid, has certain... preconceptions about people like me. I'd rather he sold the piece on its merits, not because he thinks I can afford to overpay."
It was a partial truth.
Eliza nodded. "I'll be discrete."
"Thank you, and Eliza? Make sure he gets the full price he's asking. No corporate discounts or tax arrangements."
She added a note and then left.
Eliza entered Hudson’s workshop later that morning, taking it in with an appraising eye. She looked out of place in her designer outfit, but acted very confident.
Hudson, wary of another rich visitor, looked up from his table-finishing.
"Can I help you?" he asked, setting down his cloth.
"I hope so," Eliza said, offering a professional smile. "I'm looking for a coffee table for a client. They mentioned they'd seen your work and were interested."
Hudson's expression revealed nothing, but he straightened. "I have a few completed pieces. What kind of style is your client looking for?"
"They described a walnut table, live edge with butterfly joints? They were quite specific."
A flicker of recognition crossed Hudson's face. "I know the piece you mean." He gestured toward the table Dustin had admired, still positioned near the wall. "That one was just completed last month."
Unlike Dustin, Eliza critically circled it. "This appears to be what they described. How much are you asking?"
Hudson hesitated, as if internally calculating what someone in Eliza's position might pay. "$4,200."
The price didn’t faze her. "My client is prepared to pay the full amount today."
Now Hudson did look surprised. No attempt to haggle, no mention of finding something similar for less.
"May I ask who your client is?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "If they've seen my work before, I might remember them."
Eliza offered an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid they prefer to remain anonymous. They often purchase art and furnishings this way."
Hudson's expression closed slightly. "Of course I forgot about wealthy people and their eccentricities."
Eliza didn't rise to the bait. “When can you deliver it?”
"I can arrange delivery by this weekend," Hudson said, moving toward his desk to write up a receipt. "I'll need an address and contact information."
Eliza provided Dustin's building information but used her own name and phone number as the contact. "Will you deliver it personally?"
"No," Hudson said as he wrote. "I work with a local delivery service for completed pieces." He looked up, with a hint of defensiveness in his expression. "They're fully insured and experienced in handling custom furniture."
"I'm sure that will be satisfactory," Eliza replied smoothly, producing a credit card from her wallet. "My client has allowed full payment today."
As the transaction completed, Hudson's curiosity clearly got the better of him. "This client — do they collect furniture often?"
Eliza considered the question as she replaced her card in her wallet. "They appreciate quality craftsmanship, which is increasingly rare. I expect they might be interested in future pieces if this one meets their expectations."
A fleeting pride crossed Hudson’s face. "Well, tell them I appreciate the business."
Eliza pocketed her receipt and left.
“No way,” Vanna said, dismissing the table’s design. "This is completely wrong for the Westmore mansion."
Dustin suppressed a sigh. Vanna Granston, a famous interior designer, booked months in advance, designed for tech billionaires and royalty. Her signature style mixed simple luxury and bright colors, a look Dustin initially liked.
They sat in his penthouse that afternoon, surrounded by the sleek furnishings that had suited him perfectly until three days ago.
He peered at the online workshop photos of Hudson and asked about her concerns.
Vanna swept her long black hair over one shoulder, an expression suggesting she was trying to be patient. This design isn’t timeless or contemporary, Dustin, contrary to what you requested for Westmore.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The Westmore has stood for over a century. Its last owners filled it with mass-produced furniture that will last a few years at most. I want original pieces that match the home's permanence."
"Then we commission from established designers with proven longevity. Eames, Wegner, Panton." Vanna swiped to another screen showing sleek, museum-worthy furniture. "Clean lines. Architectural significance. Investment pieces that appreciate."
“Just like any other rich person’s house,” Dustin retorted, surprised by his sharpness.
Vanessa's shaped eyebrows rose. "I thought that was rather the point? To signal you've arrived, that you belong in that house?"
The unexpected question lingered as Dustin stood.
