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.
two
Mac
I’vespentthreeyearsin Silver Ridge. Three years of keeping my head down, doing my work, staying invisible. And one woman with dark curls and a warm smile nearly unravels me in under ten minutes.
