Page 91 of High Hopes

“Ms. Mahler,” I say, startled.

“Please,” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Call me Claire.”

“Claire,” I correct, fumbling slightly. My brain is already bracing for some mention of my dad, but she doesn’t go there. Instead, she tilts her head, her green eyes sharp and curious.

“You’re friends with Bridget Collins, right?”

“Yeah, actually,” I reply, surprised. “Birdie’s just outside, loading her pieces into my car.”

Her smile deepens, her eyes softening. “Good. Can you give her something for me?” She reaches into the pocket of her blazer and pulls out a sleek white business card, extending it toward me.

I hesitate for a second before taking it, glancing down at the embossed letters.Claire Mahler, Ceramicist.

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“More than okay,” she says, her tone deliberate yet warm. “I’d like her to call me when she has a moment. I have a proposition for her.”

My heart skips a beat, the significance of her words sinking in. “A proposition?” I echo, trying to keep my eagerness in check. “I can grab her now if you want. She’d love to talk to you.”

Claire shakes her head with an elegant flick of her hand. “I’d rather not put her on the spot. I suspect she’s had enough surprises lately. Just let her know I’m very interested in her work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say automatically before grimacing at myself. “I mean, Claire.”

She chuckles softly, already turning back toward the storage area. “Thank you, Liam. And tell Birdie she has remarkable talent. Truly.”

I stand there for a moment, staring down at the card in my hand like it’s solid gold. When I finally make my way back to the car, Birdie looks up from her phone, her brow furrowing at the look on my face.

“What?” she asks, sitting up straighter.

I slide into my seat, pull the door shut, and hold out the card. “Claire Mahler wants you to call her.”

Birdie’s eyes widen, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes the card. “What? Why?”

“She didn’t say,” I admit, grinning now. “Just that she has a proposition for you and that she thinks you’re a fantastic artist.”

Birdie stares at the card like it might dissolve in her hands, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to process the words. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face—small at first, then growing until it lights up her entire expression.

“Liam,” she breathes, her voice shaky with disbelief. “This—this is—”

“Yeah,” I say, cutting her off with a grin. “It’s a big deal. And you deserve it.”

She looks over at me, her eyes shining, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. Then, before I can react, she leans across the console and throws her arms around my neck, the awkward angle doing nothing to diminish the warmth of her embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“For what?” I ask, laughing softly as I hug her back, my hand resting lightly on her arm for balance. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You always show up,” she says simply, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile softer now but no less radiant. “That means everything.”

My chest tightens, and I give her a crooked smile. “Always,” I promise.

She settles back into her seat, still clutching the card like it’s her ticket to another world, and I start the car. As we pull out of the parking lot, I can’t stop glancing at her—the way her excitement glows quietly beside me, like a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Gorgeous and so unapologetically herself.

32

BIRDIE

The voicemail was excruciating.Three minutes of me trying to sound breezy and confident, stumbling through my name, and then immediately second-guessing if I should’ve started with “Hi, this is Bridget Collins” instead of just “Birdie.” Or maybe, “Hey, it’s me. The girl who nearly puked on your shoes at the Montrose opening.” Too late now.

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