Knit for Profit (Side Hustle #11)

Chapter 1

one

Isla

The bell above the door chimes, and I look up from the disaster I've created on the counter. Silk flowers, mason jars, and approximately seventeen different types of ribbon are currently engaged in what can only be described as a craft supply mutiny.

"Just a second!" I call out, wrestling a particularly stubborn spool of burlap ribbon back into submission.

March in Silver Ridge means fresh snow, muddy boots, and—if I'm lucky—tourists starting to trickle in before the real season hits in May.

The shop's been quieter than a library at midnight, which gives me plenty of time to experiment with new display ideas.

Whether those ideas are actually good is another question entirely.

I finally look up and freeze.

The man filling my doorway is massive. Easily six-four, maybe taller, with shoulders so broad they nearly brush the doorframe.

Snow clings to his dark hair—thick and slightly too long, with silver threading through at the temples.

His beard is full but neatly trimmed, more salt than pepper, framing a jaw that looks like it was carved from the mountains themselves.

But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Pale blue, almost gray, startling against his weathered, tanned skin. They're fixed on me with an intensity that makes heat bloom in my chest and spread outward.

He's beautiful in a rough, dangerous way. The kind of beautiful that makes my mouth go dry.

"Hi," I manage, my voice coming out breathy like some girl from a Hallmark romance. I brush ribbon scraps off my sweater with suddenly clumsy hands. "Sorry about the mess. Creative vision versus reality, you know how it is."

He doesn't smile. Just gives a single nod.

"Can I help you find something?"

"Birdie needs yarn." His voice is deep, rough, like he doesn't use it often. "Roads are bad. She can't drive."

Oh. This must be Mac Hawthorne, Birdie's neighbor.

I've heard about him—the quiet loner who does odd construction jobs around town, keeps to himself mostly.

Birdie mentions him sometimes when she comes in for her supplies, always with a fond smile that suggests there's more to him than the town gossip implies.

"Of course! Birdie's arthritis must be acting up with this cold.

" I come around the counter, and suddenly he's right there, taking up all the oxygen in the room.

I'm not short at five-six, but I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and the height difference makes something low in my belly tighten. "What's she working on?"

"Afghans. For the church sale."

I head toward the yarn wall, grateful for something to do besides stare at him. "She's so talented. Those granny square blankets she made last year sold out in like an hour."

Behind me, silence. I glance back to find him following a few steps behind, moving with surprising quiet for someone so large.

His canvas work jacket pulls across his shoulders with each movement, hinting at serious muscle underneath.

The kind of body that comes from actual physical labor, not a gym.

My face feels warm. I force myself to focus on the yarn wall.

"What colors does she need?" I gesture to the wall of yarn, organized by weight and color in a rainbow that's probably the most successful thing about my shop management skills.

He steps closer, and I catch his scent. It's intoxicating. I want to lean in and breathe deeper, which is absolutely inappropriate for a yarn transaction.

"Birdie usually goes for jewel tones. These would work..." I reach for a skein of deep burgundy worsted weight.

"No." The word comes out sharp. He clears his throat. "She wants... neutrals. Grays. Maybe cream."

I pause, surprised. "Really? That's different for her. Usually she goes for bolder colors."

His jaw tightens. "Said she wants something different this time."

It's a little odd, but who am I to question what Birdie wants? I pull down skeins in charcoal gray, a soft cream, and a medium gray with subtle heathering. "These?"

He examines them with an intensity that seems excessive for someone just picking up supplies for a neighbor, then nods. "Yeah. These work."

"You sure? I could add the burgundy just in case?"

"These are good." He takes them from my hands, and when his fingers brush mine, that jolt of electricity shoots through me again.

His hands are huge, scarred and rough with calluses. Working man's hands. Strong hands.

I wonder what they'd feel like on my skin.

God, where did that come from?

At the register, I ring up the three skeins, trying not to stare at him as he stands across the counter. He's so big he makes my small shop feel even smaller, like he's filling every available space.

"How's Birdie doing? I heard she took a fall last week."

His jaw tightens, and those pale eyes flash with something fierce. "She's fine. Stubborn."

"She's definitely that," I agree with a smile. "She was in here three days after it happened, insisting she didn't need help carrying anything."

"She needs to be more careful." It's not quite anger in his voice, but concern so intense it borders on it. "Snow's making everything worse. Ice under the fresh powder."

"You must worry about her."

He just nods.

I finish ringing up and look at the total. "That'll be thirty-seven fifty."

He pulls out his wallet and counts out two twenties. When I hand him his change, our fingers brush and hold for just a moment too long.

For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged with something I can't name, something that makes my heart beat faster and my skin feel too warm.

Then he steps back, and I quickly bag the yarn, my hands suddenly clumsy. "Here you go."

He takes the bag, careful not to touch me this time, which somehow feels more significant than if he had.

"Tell Birdie I said hi," I say, my voice not quite steady. "And that I have new embroidery floss in if she's interested."

He pauses at the door, looking back. For a second, I think he might say something else. Instead, he just nods once and disappears into the snowy afternoon.

I stand there staring at the closed door for a solid thirty seconds before I realize I'm smiling like an idiot.

"Well," I say to the empty shop. "That was interesting."

I return to my ribbon disaster, but my mind isn't on display design anymore. It's on pale blue eyes, broad shoulders, and the way my skin tingled when his hand brushed mine. Mac Hawthorne is the first man who's made me feel anything besides numbly content in the year since Grandma died.

The first man who's made me want.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom: Dinner Sunday? Dad's grilling.

I type back a quick yes and set the phone down, catching sight of my reflection in the window. My dark curly hair is escaping its braid as usual, and I've got a smudge of glitter on my cheek. My cheeks are flushed pink.

Not exactly the polished shop owner I'm supposed to be.

But maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't have to have everything figured out. Maybe it's enough to be here, trying, making terrible ribbon displays and meeting mysterious mountain men who make my heart race with a single look.

The shop bell chimes again, and a regular bustles in stamping snow off her boots, launching into a story about her grandson's hockey game. I push thoughts of Mac Hawthorne aside and focus on my customer, on the comfortable rhythm of small-town retail.

But later, when I'm closing up for the evening and the shop is quiet again, I find myself standing at the door where he stood, remembering the way he filled the space.

And wondering if he felt it too.