Page 55 of That Conflicted Feeling

Nowthis is informationIcan work with.

Aroundthe tables, people are seated in front of piles of materials.Thereare twigs, various leaves and flowers, and implements that look like they’re designed for medieval dentistry.

“There’sa spot left,” saysPolly, pointing at the one empty chair. “Nothingsays community spirit likeRita’swreath-making class.”

“Areyou trying to make a fool of me again?Likewith the goat feeding?”

“Nope.”Sheshakes her head with an exaggerated innocence that makes me chuckle to myself. “ButifIwere, this would be way less likely to end up with you wearing my mom’s bathrobe.”

She’sdoing a fine job of flirting for someone who keeps telling me to stop.

“You’restill thinking about that, huh?”Iraise my eyebrows at her, then stride up toRitaWigginsand offer her my hand and my most dazzling smile.

“Ms.Wiggins.MaxDashwood.”

Rita’sface lights up as she takes my hand. “Niceto meet you.Areyou a friend ofPolly’s?Isaw you over there with her.You’retall and—”Hereyelashes flutter as she looks down. “Well, you’re tall.So, you stood out a bit.”

“Iam definitely a friend ofPolly’s.Amazingwoman.”

“Oh, she is.Theway she runs her shop and still manages to put her mom first.Amazing.Theway she stepped up after her father died.”Sheleans over the table toward me and lowers her voice. “Sucha sad business.”

“Yes, very sad.”Ipoint at the logos of greenery behind her. “Thoseare fabulous.Youmust be quite theYankeesfan.”

“Oh, they are my life.”Shetakes a big breath as if about to launch into a long, baseball-related ramble, when someone nudges her and points at their watch.

Ritaturns back to me. “Sorry, my dear,” she says, as ifImust be devastated not to hear her thoughts on whatever batting statistics she was planning to share. “Ihave to start the class.”

Icould win this woman’s vote right here. “Well,I’dlove to join in.Okay, ifItake the last spot?”

Shesmiles. “You’llcertainly change the demographic somewhat.”

Icast my eyes around the table.Allthe heads are female.Andgray, apart from one that’s the bleachiest of blondes. “Great,I’mall for standing out and bucking the trend.”

AsItake my seat,Pollygives me a thumbs up.Fora nanosecond,Ifeel guilty she thinksI’mdoing this for her.

Butmy instinct to win at business at all costs takes over asRitaclaps her hands.Shegets the attention of everyone around the tables and the growing crowd.Whoknew wreath-making was a spectator sport?

“Let’sget to it,” she announces. “Thisis a rapid round.I’mstarting the clock at five minutes.Let’sgo!”

Oh, sweetJesus.Sonot just wreath-making, butrapidwreath-making?Onthe upside,Iguess it meansIwon’t be stuck here for long.

“Startby taking the grape vines and twisting them into a circle.”

Grapevines?

Everyone’sgrabbing the long spindly twig things.Oh, they’re bendy.Okay.Acircle.Ican do that.

“Andsecure it with floral wire.”

GoodGod, these women are on a mission.Andthey have surgical-level skills.Theytwist and poke the vines, wrap bits of wire, and snip off the ends with the tool that looks like a tooth puller.

Adrop of blood appears on the end of my finger asItwist the wire to hold the vines in a circle.Jesus, this shit is sharp.Howare these women’s hands not shredded to ribbons?

Isuck on my finger and look over atPollywho winces on my behalf.

“Lookinggood,” our fearless leader says. “Max, for a neater finish, you might want to tuck in some of the ends.”

Iglance around the table.Theladies have all formed neat circles.Minelooks like it’s stuck its finger in a socket.