Ian: Reason #674 that we don’t need straight men.
Luke: Of course we need straight men. Otherwise, who would all the straight girls get with?
Ian:Lesbians, Luke. Jesus.
Luke:Oh, yeah. I see your point. Anyway, your pot holder’s ugly as hell. Don’t give Mom that for her birthday. She’ll say she loves it, but it’ll end up in the Goodwill pile.
He’s not wrong. My mother is one of the sweetest people I know, but when it comes to clutter, she’s ruthless. I remember my brothers and I made her a t-shirt for Mother’s Day one year. We used these stick-on letters that said World’s Best Mom and then we fingerpainted our handprints on the back. She sold it at a garage sale that summer.
“Ian, honey,” Linda’s voice shakes me from my thoughts. “We’ll see you here next week?”
“Hopefully,” I tell her. “We’re a bit short-staffed these days, so I might be serving you coffee instead of knitting, but I’ll do my best.”
“Hopefully you make a better cup of coffee than you do a scarf,” she says, patting my cheek.
Rough crowd.
The knitters shuffle out to their cars, and though the crowd dwindles, I find myself sticking around and hanging out. I help. It's what I like to do. Which is why, when it’s time to close, I practically shove Mel and Theo out the door.
“Ian, you’re being ridiculous,” Mel tells me.
“You’ve been here since one o’clock. It’s past time for you to go home. And Theo, you’re opening at six, so I need you to get some sleep. Seriously, it won’t take me long, and I’ll feel better if you both go and get some rest.”
They work retail, so they know when to protest and when to say thank you and run like hell.
I’m sweeping the hall that leads to the bathroom when I hear a jingle and realize I never locked the front door. There goes my Manager of the Year award.
I’m about to say, “Sorry, we’re closed,” until I see who it is.
Booker Zabek stands before me, even more beautiful than he looked earlier today. Though, sadly, he’s wearing a shirt. And I can tell by the expression on his face that something’s wrong.
“Crap. Are you closed? Sorry. My bad. I was driving back from dinner at my parents’, and I wasn’t quite ready to go home, so I thought I’d get a drink or something, but I didn’t realize how late it is. I’ll head out. Sorry.”
“Booker,” I call as he turns to go. “It’s fine. Stay for a bit. I’ll lock the door and finish closing while you drink your tea. Or smoothie? Your choice.”
“Um…what’s a good drink for someone who’s a complete freaking mess in the head?”
“Tea,” I tell him. “Always tea.”
I pick a blueberry acai with notes of chamomile, one of my favorites. It’s not going to put him to sleep, but it will calm his nerves. And the boy looks like he could use some stress relief. My mind begs to wander down the road of mutual stress relief with Booker, but I won’t let it. Nope. Not going there.
“So you drove all the way to Annapolis and back?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s only about an hour. And the traffic wasn’t bad.”
“Good,” I say, nodding. “Was it a special occasion, or did you just decide to pass on Whit’s fried food?”
“I’d never willingly pass up one of Whit’s home-cooked meals, even if that one is not on my meal plan. I’d have gladly stayed and eaten and put in a few extra miles tomorrow. But I haven’t seen my family since Christmas, so I was summoned home for dinner.”
I place the steaming mug in front of him.
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for his wallet.
I wave him off. “It’s on the house.”
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary. I—”
“It really is,” I smile and tilt my head to the left. “I already closed out the register.”
