Chapter 5
Chapter Five
FREYA
“When am I going to get you over for dinner?” Valerie asks from a rack of pre-knit sweaters. I see her dark eyes watching me from between the hangers. She’s one of my regulars, and I swear her yarn habit is half the reason I’m in business.
“When are you going to come to the knitting circle?” I volley back.
I’ve been dodging her for weeks now. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with her, it’s that every time I think about going to her house and making small talk over a meal I probably won’t want to eat, I’m filled with inexplicable dread.
She peers around the side of the shelves, her brown eyes hard. “Freya, you know I adore you, but I think I’d rather crawl naked into a garbage disposal.” She says something similar every time I’ve pitched her on it. I just want some backup against Joyce.
I roll my eyes and slump back in my seat.
It’s been a quiet morning, so I’ve been working on shipping online orders, leaving the space around my desk a cluttered mess.
Back in Connecticut, I ran a smaller version of the business online, selling patterns and some hand-dyed yarn from my bedroom.
It’s still one of the most profitable parts of the store, but I really need to think about hiring some help.
“God, you and Elsie are as bad as each other,” I mutter.
They’ve been friends for years. I wondered if Elsie had sent her in on my first day open, when she swept like a storm, buying half my stock of merino before pulling up a stool and starting work on her project there and then.
She’s been showing up for me the same way Elsie did ever since. Unerring, insistent.
She laughs. “Oh no, if I left town, Joyce would throw a parade. She wouldn’t be pining like she does for Els.”
I frown at her. “I thought she and Elsie hated each other?”
“In a way I suppose? But I think they both liked the sparring.”
“Is that why Joyce hates the shop? She misses Elsie?”
“Probably, yeah.”
“Why doesn’t she just call her or something?”
She smirks. “God forbid someone might call Joyce Rossiter sentimental.”
How the hell am I still finding balls of yarn? I crawl out from under the table—the one that’s now been set up away from the shelves—holding what I really hope is the last one. I brush it off and stand, placing it back on the display just as the bell chimes over the door.
I glance up, my customer service smile firmly in place, but it falters when I see a large figure, backlit by the morning light. It’s only when he turns a fraction that I catch his profile and… great. It’s him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyebrows notching in a frown.
Is he for real? “What does it look like?” I know I shouldn’t be snapping at him, but if I can beat him to being the asshole, then we’ll be on more even footing.
He sighs, shoulders dropping. “Cleaning up my mess, I guess?”
“Something like that.” I give him my back, rounding the desk and planting myself behind it. I feel better having a physical barrier between us, more secure. He must notice, because he takes a half step back, though his eyes don’t leave me for a second.
I feel like I’m being studied. There’s something familiar about him, the curve of his lips and the way his brow tightens over dark brown eyes. I wonder if I’ve met him before, but I don’t think this is a face I’d forget in a hurry.
Something slides along the wooden surface between us and my gaze drops to see one of Becca’s to-go cups in his hand.
“It’s for you,” he grunts, his hand drawing back as he scratches his elbow through the green flannel he’s wearing.
My brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. “Okay?” I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here.
“It’s to say sorry.”
I rock back a little on my heels, trying to keep the surprise off my expression. He’s sorry? Why? In my experience, pissed-off men don’t usually apologize unless they want something.
“Right.”
He pulls in a long breath and lets it out through his nostrils. “I just wanted to come by and apologize for my behavior the other day. I was rude, and I feel terrible about it.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say, placating him on instinct.
“It’s not. I was having a shitty day and I took it out on you, which was really uncool.”
I eye him, looking for whatever hidden meaning there must be. What’s his game here? He’s just coming by to say sorry? Bullshit.
“There’s really no need,” I draw out. Maybe if I tell him what he wants to hear he’ll go.
“Will you just let me be sorry?” he huffs out impatiently, though I think I see a slight glimmer of teasing in his expression. “I get that the customer is always right or whatever, but you can let me be the asshole, okay?”
Against my better judgment, I give him a small smile, finding his manner surprisingly entertaining. “If you insist.”
“I insist.”
“Well, apology accepted. Please try not to destroy my decor any further.”
“I’ll do my best.” He smiles back, the first one I’ve seen from him. His whole face seems to soften, the sharp edges morphing into something boyish and lovely. “See you around, Freya.”
The chime of the bell signals his departure.
I look down at the hot drink. The buttery coffee aroma is nice, but I can’t drink the stuff without it kicking my already high levels of anxiety into the stratosphere.
I step back and all but fall into the leather chair, tapping my fingers against the armrest. One, two, three, four, thumb. Thumb, four, three, two, one.
He’s gone, it’s finished.
I don’t want to think about all the times before, when apologies and gestures were just a tool, when I had no choice but to accept them. It was so much easier than the alternative, the days of being ignored, of being made to feel like I was the one in the wrong.
You’re reading this wrong. There’s nothing to be upset about.
A knock breaks me out of my spiral. My head whips around to see the guy standing on the other side of the glass, frowning.
Is he capable of any other expression? He points a finger at the cup, where a trail of steam snakes up from the lip.
I look back at him to see him cock his head to the side like a confused puppy.
When I don’t respond he visibly huffs and walks back to the door, shouldering his way in.
“You don’t like it?” he asks, eating up the distance between us in long strides.
I lean back as he approaches. “Don’t like what?”
“The coffee,” he clarifies, his tone exasperated.
“Oh, I, um—” I flounder, wanting to end this conversation but not sure how to go about it.
He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, causing it to stick up ever so slightly. “Come on.” He nods over his shoulder.
“Where?” I squeak, a little alarmed at this stranger trying to order me out of the safety of my store.
“Across the street,” he replies, “I’ll get you something you like.”
“That’s really not—”
“Come on.” He’s already at the door, holding it open and waiting for me to go through.
I stand hesitantly, my movements uncertain as I put on my coat.
He’s less intimidating now that we’re on even footing, but years of stranger danger talks from my mother (going long into my teens) have made me cautious.
“You really don’t have to,” I say warily, shuffling toward him.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna murder you.
” He motions for me to come closer, quirking an eyebrow.
“Becca would notice me trying to get your corpse into my car.” My steps falter slightly at his deadpan delivery.
I’m better at deciphering people’s tone and expressions once I know them, but after only two conversations I’m still getting my bearings.
“You could just wait until she’s not looking?”
“Well, now that’s an idea,” he says, his eyes narrowing before he steps aside. “Come on, just a beverage, no murder involved.” As I cross through the door, he follows me out, waiting as I lock it behind us. “You know, you don’t make it easy for a guy to assuage his guilt.”
I expect him to be mad about it, but he’s smiling.
“If it was easy,” I say, relaxing a fraction at his teasing, “how would I know you meant it?”
“Sure,” he replies as we start down the sidewalk. He steps around the back of me until he’s walking along the roadside. “But maybe next time you can just tell me that you don’t like my olive branch.”
“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” I clarify. “It’s a very nice branch.”
“But?”
“But… I’m pretty on edge generally, and coffee tends to just ratchet up my anxiety.” I’m not sure why I’m sharing so much with a man whose name I don’t even know. The realization stops me in my tracks. “I don’t know who you are.” I frown up at him.
A flicker of something clouds his expression but he doesn’t speak, just nudges my elbow to keep me walking as we cross the road to Becca’s. “I’m Oscar.”
“Freya.”
“Nice to meet you.” I remember after he says it that he somehow already knew my name, but he’s a few steps ahead of me before I can question it.
We pass the parking space that had caused such problems on Wednesday, this time housing a Ford. I shoot it a quick glare. “Someone in your space again?” Oscar asks, quirking one of those thick eyebrows.
“I only need it on Wednesdays. This is just a cruel reminder that the store doesn’t come with one of its own.”
“For the library.”
“Yeah, I run a knitting circle there.”
“With Joyce?” he asks. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s familiar with her; she’s something of a Cedar Creek legend.
I sigh. “Yup.”
“Ouch,” he replies, his face half sympathy, half amusement as he pushes open the glass diner door and gestures me inside.
My back stiffens a fraction as we approach the counter, the overlapping sounds hitting me. I take a few deep breaths and try to adjust.