Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I scurry over to answer it. It’s Clementine and she strides in, the picture of preppy in her argyle sweater vest over a white top and trendy jeans, with cute white sneakers. Her blonde hair cascades in waves. She holds up a small canvas bag. “Who’s a goddess?”
“You are. And I am not worthy.” I pretend to genuflect.
“Please, your adoration is not necessary, though it is much appreciated,” she says, faux regally.
“It is necessary, since I’m seriously impressed you found it.”
“I’m a knitter. And a finder. It’s what I do.”
I peek inside the bag and shimmy my shoulders at the skein of magenta chenille inside. “You’re the best. Do you play pickleball?” I ask, hoping to enlist her in our friend group game.
She shudders. “I’m not a sports fan. But I love a game of poker if you ever want a round.”
“I bet I’d like poker. Can we start with penny bets?”
She crinkles her nose, doubtful. “Maybe a dollar?”
“I’m in.”
She leaves and soon after I leave too, repeating the words from Russ to Harriet when she was struggling to fit in—Don’t let them get you down.
With that sentiment propelling me, I leave the bakery with cookies and something else. Something Dottie wanted badly—the specialty yarn Clementine tracked down.
I pull open the door to A Good Yarn, steeling myself. This might flop, but I have to try. I can’t let the knitting club get me down.
They aren’t here, but I didn’t expect them to be. The owner is, with her head bent over a book, and her short, gray-streaked bob hitting her chin.
“Hello,” I say.
Setting her book down, she gives me a friendly but quizzical look. “What can I help you with?”
“When I was here the other week, Dottie said she was looking for a type of yarn, and I think you said you didn’t have it. Magenta chenille. But a friend of mine who’s a knitter tracked some down. And I thought I would bring it to you in case you want to…”
She makes grabby hands. “Sell it to her?”
“Yes.”
“Damn right I do,” she says, “but what do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Just maybe tell Dottie I found it for her?”
Her smile is a deal signed. “Done,” she says, eyeing the yarn again, then me. “You’re industrious.”
“I am.”
I also want to prove the ladies at the knitting club wrong. They’ll take more time than the guys in the town square, but I can show them I listened. “And here are some cookies for you.”
The store owner tugs the box to her in a sort of mine gesture, then thanks me.
I leave, and I don’t feel like such an outsider anymore.
Especially the next day when I head to the pickleball court for my lesson. After all, I have a fake date coming up soon. And I plan to win.
32
DOUBLE-USE SCRUNCHIE
MABEL
Corbin strides over to me along the side of the court, holding a paddle and a small pink gift bag. He’s pleased, judging from the size of his grin. I let myself enjoy the view of him as he moves, loose and easy in basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt that hugs his pecs.
“Corbin,” I half chide as he passes the net, then stops in front of me, offering me the bag. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did, Mabel. I definitely did.”
My heart jumps as I reach for it. “I told you that you didn’t have to.”
“And I didn’t listen.” He’s unrepentant in his gift-giving. “I told you I was going to get you an apology gift.”
“You don’t owe me an apology. It’s fine. We cleared the air. Just like we said we would.”
“We said we’d handle things like adults.” He taps his chest. “This adult likes to apologize to you with gifts. Now just open it.”
As I peer inside, it’s my turn to smile. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Wear it,” he says.
“So bossy.”
“Damn right I am. Want to let me put it on you?”
So much.
I fish out the lilac scrunchie from the bag and give it right back to him. “Do your thing, you bossy man.”
“I will.”
I turn around as a charge of anticipation races down my body.
The clink of his paddle hitting the court registers as he moves behind me, combing his fingers through my hair, pulling it up. I lean into the tug as he arranges my strands into a high, neat ponytail.
He takes his time roping his fingers through my hair, adjusting it, tweaking it, then dropping my hair and doing it all again. “Sorry. Need a second try,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
I don’t feel sorry either.
My stomach flips as he runs those fingers through my hair once more, then loops the scrunchie and steps back to admire his work. “Perfect. Now let’s play ball.”
Once I turn around, I give a flick of my hair just for fun. “You’re so good at giving gifts that we just might have to fight again.”