"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—"
