"For real," I agree.
When we pull apart, he's smiling. That rare, real smile that makes my chest ache.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "Let's go find your meddling housemate a sandwich."
"She's going to be impossible, you know. Living with me. Probably rearrange all my furniture."
"Probably." I grin at him. "And you'll let her, because you love her."
"Yeah." He squeezes my hand. "I will."
six
Isla
Thebellchimes,andI look up from reorganizing the yarn wall to see Mac filling my doorway, looking harassed in a way that makes me want to laugh and kiss him at the same time.
"She's driving me insane," he says by way of greeting.
"Good afternoon to you too." I grin at him. "Let me guess. Birdie?"
"I took her heating pad away for ten minutes to make her tea, and when I came back, she'd somehow found her crochet hooks." He runs a hand through his hair. "With a sprained arm."
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine. Smug, actually." He crosses to the counter, and I notice the exhaustion around his eyes. Two weeks of living with a stubborn eighty-five-year-old is clearly taking its toll. "I swear, if she had to crochet with her toes, she'd do it."
I laugh, then round the counter and pull him into a kiss. He makes a desperate sound and hauls me closer, his hands gripping my hips like he's drowning and I'm air.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Missed you," he says roughly. "So fucking much."
"It's only been two weeks."
"Two weeks of falling into bed exhausted the second Birdie's asleep. Two weeks of no privacy, no time alone, no—" He stops, his jaw tight with frustration.
I get it. He's been staying at his cabin to take care of Birdie, and between his work and her needs, we've barely had five minutes alone. A few stolen kisses when he drops by the shop. A phone call late at night when he's too wound up to sleep. But nothing more.
My body has been aching for him.
I hand him the yarn, and when our fingers brush, heat shoots through me. Two weeks. It's been two weeks since I've had him inside me, and every cell in my body is screaming for him.
"You know," I say, my voice coming out huskier than intended, "I've been thinking."
"About?" His eyes darken like he knows exactly what I've been thinking about.
"Your work. The pieces you make." I force myself to focus on the actual words. "They're incredible, Mac. Museum quality. And people should know that."
His jaw tightens. "We talked about this."
"I know. But hear me out." I take a breath, very aware of how close he's standing. "What if we sold them here? In my shop? Under your name. Properly displayed, with information about the charity."
"Isla—"
"Business has been slow," I continue, my heart racing. "March is always dead. But your work could change that. People would come from all over to see it. And you wouldn't have to hide anymore."
"I'm not hiding." But his jaw is tight.
