Page 5

5

ZOEY

The Wild Rabbit sits on a corner of Main Street, alight with a warm glow and inviting laughter that spills out the front door as a couple exits, hand in hand. Above the door hangs a sign with the name and a hand-painted bunny, balancing a serving tray with a frothy mug of beer.

This atmosphere makes sense for a crochet group. Still, I can’t help but wonder how the dynamic would be different if a group of women claimed half of The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday night to drink and stitch and gossip.

Would the atmosphere be tense? Or would the night end with the crocheters handing the bikers their asses at the pool tables?

I guess we’ll never know.

The bike rocks as Warner parks it along the curb and pushes out the kickstand.

The man is a good driver. After the helmet issue, I was worried. But he kept to the speed limit, used his signals, and made it an all-around smooth ride. That, combined with the vibration of the bike between my legs and the comforting heat radiating off his back, had my lady parts taking all sorts of notice.

Which is ridiculous. I’ve known the guy for maybe thirty minutes.

“You want to head inside? If not, we can go for a longer ride.” The biker smiles at me over his shoulder.

At his suggestion, I realize I’ve been silently admiring Warner’s driving skills while we sit on a now-dormant motorcycle.

“Another time,” I say as I dismount, even though I should be declining the invite with a firm but friendly refusal.

I’m attending Sip ’N’ Stitch to avoid my hermit tendencies. That does not mean I need to start flirting with a sexy man.

Maybe if I was a sex-’em-up-and-wave-goodbye kind of girl. A lot of times I wish I could be. Or my vagina wishes I could be. I’m certain I’ve heard her crying out a time or two …

Get some dick! Any dick will do!

But that’s a lie, and I know it. If I let anyone close, I’m bound to love them. That’s just the way it goes. I don’t seek people out because I’m fine on my own. But those who figure out a way into my life earn my love almost in spite of myself.

And Warner’s helpful ways and charming smile are strong indicators I could like him. Which means I could love him.

I did not come to Pine Falls to find love. I came here to figure out if I could survive without it.

This trip is for me and me alone.

Firmly resolved not to fall for the helpful biker, I turn to wave him good night, only to find him a step behind me.

“What are you doing?” The question comes out more abrupt than I meant it to. But abrupt is my default setting.

Warner doesn’t seem to mind as he gifts me with a cheeky grin. “You’re so determined to get to this Sip and Sew thing; no way can I leave without checking it out.”

“Sip ’N’ Stitch,” I correct. Then wait, staring at him.

“Sip ’N’ Stitch,” he amends, giving what I expect is supposed to be a humble nod. The affect is ruined by his twitching lips.

It would be easier to be annoyed with him if he wasn’t the perfect combination of sexy and adorable.

“All right. You can come in. But don’t embarrass me, Biker Boy. This is my only shot to make a first impression, and I’m already late.”

“Sure thing, Mystery Girl.”

Warner steps forward, placing his hand on my lower back as if he plans on guiding me into the bar. But the position strikes me as too much like the couple that I just saw leave, and I don’t need to give anyone, including myself, ideas. I speed my steps up until his hand falls away.

“How am I Mystery Girl if you know my name?” I pass through the door, holding it open long enough for him to catch the edge.

“A name is barely anything. There’s a lot more I plan on learning.”

“Well, I’m not holding lessons.”

“I’ll learn on the job.”

“Glad to know you think spending time with me is work.”

That gets him. He booms out a laugh that luckily fits in with this vibrant, crowded restaurant. The cheerful sound makes me want to join in, but I shove away the urge. For some reason, I get the sense that Warner is the one used to making people laugh, and I’ve somehow accomplished something by charming the comedian.

I make my way to the bar, leaning on it to get a bartender’s attention as I take in the many framed rabbit pictures hanging haphazardly between bottles of alcohol. There’s even a chalkboard with a list of Cottontail Cocktails.

Yeah, this place is very different from The Rabbit Hole.

A second away from ordering an Easter Bunny Bourbon, I stop myself.

Your limit is one.

Instead, I ask for a soda water with lime. As my drink is poured, Warner settles at my side.

“I think we’ve found your group.”

At his subtle nod, I glance toward the back corner.

Bingo .

A gathering of about eight women sits, chatting and drinking, around a table situated under a portrait of The Velveteen Rabbit . Each one holds a fabric craft. Their ages look to range from twenties to fifties, which also makes me giddy. A lot of times these types of groups are made up of only women my mom’s age, and I feel like the inexperienced baby of the club.

“Good eye. Thanks for the ride, Warner.” I slide cash to the barman as he sets down my glass. “His drink is on me.”

The biker raises his eyebrows as I toast him before navigating the crowd to the group I’ve been struggling to find all night. A couple of the women notice my approach and offer curious smiles.

Please don’t be annoyed that I’m late.

Once I’m on the perimeter, their conversations trickle off as each one studies me.

“Hello. I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m new to town, and I misread the flyer and ended up at the wrong place. Is it a problem if I join you all?” To prove my legitimacy, I reach into my bag, pulling out my half-finished hat.

I get a few more smiles, and one woman leans forward. “Of course you can join us. May I ask your name?”

“I’m Zoey. Zoey Gunner.”

There’s some murmuring from the group as eyes trace over my face.

“I’m Amy Spencer,” the woman offers with a warm smile that creases her tan cheeks. “You wouldn’t be related to Minnie Gunner, would you?”

“She was my grandmother.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Amy says. “You look so much like your mother. Is Selena in town with you?”

I shake my head. “Just me. I’m cleaning out Minnie’s cabin so we can put it up for sale.”

Amy nods with another sad smile. The other women start offering their names. They’re about halfway around the circle when I notice the welcoming smiles dropping from some of the faces. By the time we reach the last in the group, I’d say a third have changed their attitudes toward me.

I can’t fathom why until?—

“And I’m Warner!”

At the sound of his jolly proclamation, I realize the biker didn’t stay back at the bar. He’s standing directly behind me.

Warner followed me to my crafters meeting.

The ladies’ disquiet begins to make sense. My bet is, this group of crafters is not used to having guys from the local motorcycle club approaching them while they’re gathered here.

I’ve brought an interloper.

“Yes, Warner,” Amy says, “we know who you are. You’ve decided to join us for Sip ’N’ Stitch?” While some of the women look uncomfortable or downright hostile, Amy gives Warner an almost-maternal smile as she questions him. “May I ask what project you brought to work on?”

“Got my project right here.” His shoulder bumps mine, and I glance back at him with surprise.

Caught off guard, I find myself stammering, “I-I didn’t bring anything for you to work on.” I scowl at him. “I didn’t even know you until a half hour ago.”

Warner’s cheeky grin makes another appearance. “You’re my project. Goal is to be your best friend by the end of the night.”

The women in the group titter. That’s right. They titter, like a cluster of ladies in a Regency ballroom.

I sigh. Warner is a puppy. He’s just too enthusiastic and cute to deny.

“Fine.” I face the Sip ’N’ Stitch gals again. “If we’re quiet, would it be all right if we both joined you?”

“I don’t—” A particularly pinch-mouthed woman starts, but Amy cuts her off.

“Of course. This group is open to any who would like to join. Our only rules are to be respectful”—Amy’s eyes flit over to the woman who began what I think must have been a protest—“and to have fun. Please, pull up some chairs.”

Before I can search the surrounding tables, Warner is already sliding a seat against the back of my knees. I plop down on the cushion, and the women on either side of me shift their chairs until my new biker buddy has space to add his to the mix.

For a moment, awkward silence hangs over the group. Then, one woman asks another about a book she recently read, and the conversations all start up again, slowly at first, but gaining momentum.

The lady next to me, Cathy, compliments my crocheting, and I show her the progress I’ve made on my hat. Well, not my hat. I plan on giving it to one of my brothers. Probably Donovan, with his close-cropped hair. She shows me her cross-stitch, a beautiful cluster of colorful flowers, and I have no trouble complimenting her skillful needlework.

The exchange is polite but pleasant, and I feel like I’m making a successful effort to step out of my hermit cave.

Taking a sip of my drink requires juggling, and I find myself adjusting my legs again and again to keep my yarn in my lap. The setup isn’t optimal, making it hard to enjoy the sip aspect of this gathering.

Glancing to my left, where Warner sits, quiet and well-behaved, I can’t help the envy that spikes through me at the sight of his spacious lap. Under his jeans is a lovely set of muscular thighs. He’s basically got a sturdy shelf automatically built in.

If he wants to be my friend, then that means helping me out. Right?

I lean over to whisper in his ear, “Can you hold my balls?”

Warner chokes, doubling over to cough out some beer he breathed in. I slap his back a few times, wondering if this aggressive aid has ever really helped. Once his throat clears and he’s done wiping tears from his eyes, Warner gives me his full attention.

“Could you repeat that?”

“My balls keep rolling everywhere.” I indicate the yarn in my lap that even now teeters, just a second away from falling onto the floor. “Do you mind holding them? In your lap?”

The biker doesn’t hesitate. He plucks the yarn from me and settles it into the dip where his legs meet. As if he doesn’t care that he’s not only the lone man in our group, I’ve now asked him to be my yarn assistant.

Warner takes another swig of his beer and grins at me.

Damn. This man is dangerous.