"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.
four
Mac
Isitinmytruck outside Mountain Treasures, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
The sign in the window says CLOSED, but I can see her through the glass, moving around inside. Dark curls pulled back, that soft sweater she was wearing this morning, those curves that have been haunting me for days.
I'm about to tell her my biggest secret. The thing I've hidden for three years. The thing that makes me vulnerable in ways combat never did.
And I have no fucking idea why I'm doing it.
Except I do. Because when she looked at that afghan this morning, she saw it. The way Birdie does, but different. Birdie sees what it means for my healing. Isla saw what it means about who I am.
I get out of the truck before I can talk myself out of this.
The door chimes when I push it open, and she turns, her face lighting up in a way that makes my chest tight.
"You came," she says, like she wasn't sure I would.
"Said I would."
She locks the door behind me and flips the sign to CLOSED. The click of the lock feels significant somehow. Just us now. No one else.
"Do you want coffee? Tea?"
"Isla." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "I need to tell you something."
