Chapter 3
three
Isla
The church basement smells like coffee, cinnamon rolls, and that particular mustiness that comes with old buildings. I'm setting up my table near the back, arranging my grandmother's remaining inventory and trying not to feel like a failure.
Saturday morning craft shows used to be Grandma's thing. She'd light up this entire room with her energy, knowing everyone's names, their grandkids' names, asking about gardens and recipes and lives. I'm just... here. Going through the motions.
I let my eyes wander around the basement. The usual vendors are setting up.
And then I see him.
Mac Hawthorne, carrying a plastic bin, shoulders tense like he'd rather be anywhere else. He's heading toward Birdie's table near the front, and even from here I can see the discomfort radiating off him.
My heart does a stupid flip. I've thought about him constantly since Tuesday. Those eyes. Those hands. The way he looked at me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm weaving through vendors toward Birdie's table. Mac has his back to me, unloading items from the bin while Birdie directs him like a tiny, tie-dyed general.
The work laid out on her table stops me cold.
Cable-knit throws in rich tones. Baby blankets with intricate Fair Isle patterns. Fingerless gloves that look impossibly soft. And in the center, a lap afghan in shades of gray that makes my chest ache.
It's not just beautiful. It's art.
The pattern is some kind of Celtic knot design with texture I've never seen before. Each stitch is perfect. The color transitions from charcoal to silver to cream seem to glow.
I reach out to touch it, and the yarn is like butter under my fingers.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mac's voice comes from behind me, rough and close.
I spin around and nearly collide with his chest. He's right there, close enough that I catch his scent of woodsmoke and pine and soap.
"Sorry," I manage. "I was just... this is incredible work."
Something flickers in his eyes. Pride. "Birdie's talented."
"This is Birdie's?" I look back at the afghan, then at Birdie, who's chatting with Mrs. Hendrick. Birdie does beautiful crochet work—granny squares, simple patterns. This is something else entirely.
Mac's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "She's been working on new techniques."
There's something in his voice. Something off. But before I can figure out what, Birdie appears beside us.
"Isla! Mac didn't scare you off, did he?" She winks at me. "He's been grumpy all morning about being here."
"I'm not grumpy," Mac mutters.
"You're the definition of grumpy, darling." Birdie pats his arm affectionately. "Isn't this afghan gorgeous? It's my favorite piece."
"It's stunning." I watch Mac's face as I say it. There—that flash of pride again, quickly hidden. "The pattern must have taken forever to learn."
"Oh, you know, YouTube tutorials and stubbornness." Birdie laughs, but she won't quite meet my eyes.
Mac shifts his weight, looking like he wants to bolt. "I should go."
"Already? But you just got the table set up." Birdie's tone is innocent, but her eyes twinkle with mischief. "Besides, I thought you could help Isla carry things to her car later. That's what strong young men are for, isn't it?"
My cheeks flush. "I don't have that much—"
"I can help." Mac's voice is gruff, but he's looking at me with those pale blue eyes. "When?"
"I... usually pack up around one?"
He nods once. "I'll be there."
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing through the growing crowd.
Birdie hums contentedly, straightening a baby blanket. "He likes you."
"He barely said ten words to me."
"Exactly. Mac doesn't waste words on people he doesn't care about." She gives me a knowing look. "And he definitely doesn't offer to help carry things."
I watch where he disappeared, my heart still racing. "Birdie... that afghan. Did you really make it?"
She's quiet for a moment, then smiles. "Does it matter who made it, dear? It's beautiful either way."
Which isn't an answer at all.
The craft show drags on. I sell some soap and sachets, but mostly I watch Birdie's table from across the room. Her pieces sell fast.
Every time someone asks Birdie a technical question about the work, she deflects with humor and charm. And I notice Mac lurking near the coffee table, his eyes constantly drifting to Birdie's table. Watching. Protective.
At one o'clock, I'm packing up my box when a shadow falls across my table.
"Ready?" Mac stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable but determined.
"I don't actually have much," I admit. "Just this box."
He picks it up like it weighs nothing. "Your car?"
"Around back."
We walk in silence through the church hallway and out to the small parking lot. The March air is crisp, the sky bright blue. When we reach my ancient Subaru, he loads the box carefully into the back.
"Thanks," I say, suddenly nervous. "You didn't have to—"
"Wanted to." He closes the hatchback, then turns to face me. We're alone in the parking lot, the church muffling the sounds from inside. "That afghan. You liked it."
"I loved it. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
His throat works. "If someone... if someone could make another one. Different colors maybe. Would you want it?"
My heart pounds. "Someone?"
"Hypothetically."
We're standing close now, closer than necessary. I can see the silver in his beard, the tiny scar through his left eyebrow.
"Hypothetically," I say softly, "I would treasure it. And I'd want to know who made it. Because that kind of work... it says something about the person who created it."
He's quiet for a long moment, those pale eyes searching my face. "Your shop closes at six?"
"Yes."
"Can I come by? After?"
"To talk about hypothetical afghans?"
"To talk." His voice drops lower. "About things I don't usually talk about."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to move away, and tucks a curl behind my ear. His fingertip grazes my cheek, and that simple touch sends heat flooding through me.
"Six o'clock," he says, then turns and walks toward his truck.
I stand in the parking lot for a full minute after he drives away, my cheek tingling where he touched me.