one
Isla
Thebellabovethedoor 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, withsilver 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.
