Chapter 11 #2
The guys pull up chairs. Elodie shifts to put her feet up on Cruz’s lap. Campbell and Durban are sitting so close, she’s practically on top of him. Then there’s me and Haven. Side by side, not touching.
A longing pulls at my chest. I’ve never been a part of a big group like this, and so far, I like it.
Edna’s talking, her hands flying and punctuating her words in between packing up her stuff.
She sees our part of the tasting room and waves.
“Don’t rush out on my account.” She hitches a tote bag over her shoulder, spilling over with yarn and the block blanket she’s making, as the rest of her group packs up.
“There’s Iverson. Bye, everyone!” Jamison races to the door, but she stops to look back at me. “Thanks for coming, Prescott. Don’t hold my lack of knitting skills against me.”
Touched that she thought of me before she left, I smile. “Only if you don’t hold a crooked dishcloth against me.”
She dashes off, and Edna crosses to our table.
“It was so nice to meet you, Prescott.” The corners of her eyes crinkle with her smile. “Will I see you next month?”
All eyes are on me, and my skin feels too tight.
“I don’t know,” I admit, and my cheeks flame. There’s no blending into the background in this moment. “Everything’s still up in the air.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” She rubs my shoulder in a way my grandma used to do. “If you never crochet another stitch, come anyway. The club is Hookers and Booze, not just Hookers, though the booze ain’t required either.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Now I want to still be here in a month .
She scoots over to Durban and Campbell. “You two will be on your honeymoon. Gonna make some scarves while you’re there?” She chortles at her own joke.
“Absolutely, Edna,” Campbell says with all the seriousness in the world, and Edna laughs harder.
She gives their shoulders a grandmotherly pat. “If either of you comes back with a completed project, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. You’re going to Tahiti, and it’s your honeymoon. The three B s are all you need to be doing.”
Durban and Campbell each give her a questioning look, and I’m as lost as them.
“Beach, booze, and banging.” Edna sticks a finger up for each B .
Her friends erupt into laughter as they file out.
Edna waves both her hands in the air as she heads toward the door. “If I can’t impart my wisdom on the younger folk, then what’s the point of getting old?”
“So you can keep doing the three B s,” Cruz replies.
Edna salutes and winks on the way out.
I keep crocheting, but a smile plays on my face.
Clem packs up next. “I’d better get going. I’ve got to do some work for the puppet show tomorrow, and I have an interview tonight.”
“Clem’s a writer,” Haven says quietly to me. “And she works at the library in town.”
In addition to being a tour guide at the distillery? I don’t really have one job, and she’s got three. “Oh, wow. That’s a lot.”
She shrugs. “I’m single.” A mischievous smile spreads over her face. “Plus, I never get to see my sister anymore. She’s seeing some guy, and he takes all her time.”
Elodie rolls her eyes. “I see you more than ever. ”
Clem grins. “I know—and it’s with that dreamy smile.”
Cruz raises his hand in the air like he’s in class. “Hope that’s my fault.”
Elodie nudges him, and the look they exchange should make steam rise between them. It’s putting a green ribbon around my heart.
Cruz pats his fiancée’s leg. “Should we get going? You’ve got those buns to knead.”
“Aw, hell,” Lane says from behind the bar. “I never know if he’s talking about dough anymore.”
Cruz’s eyes twinkle as he stands. “It’s rarely about the dough.”
He and Elodie pack up and leave. Campbell and Durban are right behind her.
Haven jumps up to help Lane clean off the tables and move them back into place. I tidy the baked goods that Elodie brought. The bar is lined with small boxes of cupcakes, cookies, and slices of sweet bread. I consolidate the treats into one container and try not to steal another cookie.
Haven appears next to me. “Go ahead and take that home.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Jamison snuck a tin home for Iverson.”
“But he owns the place.”
“So do I, and I want you to take some home.” He leans in, and I instinctively sway closer to him. “We also get a lot of samples here. Elodie refuses to sell any wares made with a Foster House spirit unless we try it and bless it.”
Well, when he puts it that way… I fold the lid over the leftover sweets. “Fine, you win.”
“I also owe you a drink.”
Lane drops a cloth in front of him. “Mind watching this place for me for a bit? I’ve gotta check on Hutch, and then I’ll be back.”
“That’s his neighbor,” Haven explains for me. “Go ahead.” He takes the cloth and wipes down the island. “Have a seat. Or do you have to get to Bootleg?”
“I’ve got some time.” Unlike the tasting room, Bootleg is open seven days a week.
He steps behind the counter. “I feel like this is cheating. I can’t really buy you a drink when it’s my company’s product.”
“But we get the place to ourselves.” I like the idea of that more and more, and from his small smile, he does too.
Why do I keep setting a boundary and then dancing on it? I’m not a good two-stepper.
“What would you like or do you want me to surprise you?” he asks.
Easy answer. “Surprise me.”
A lock of dark hair falls over his forehead as he selects a bottle of huckleberry vodka. When he drops to a squat, I almost bodysurf over the counter to see where he went. But he soon rises with a small round glass in his hand.
“That looks like a fishbowl.”
“I don’t know if there’s a fish small enough for this.”
The container is too small for a dish but a little large for a drink. “The fish doesn’t have to drive home, but I do.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll add more Sprite and pink lemonade. It’ll be more like a punch.”
He stays true to his word. I’m served a gorgeous pink drink with a brown sugar rim. It’s not even a boozy punch, and the huckleberry is faint but adds a dash of sweetness to an already sugary drink. I like it, and it’s taking everything in me not to lick the rim in front of him .
Just a taste.
I’m using the little stir straw to sip from, but I try to discreetly drag my tongue along a small portion of the rim. Haven’s gaze drops to my mouth, and his eyes go dark.
The need that courses through me steals my strength. I put the glass down before I drop it. “Brown sugar? That should make it too sweet.”
He peels his gaze off my mouth. “We add a pinch of salt to our brown sugar to cut through it.” His voice is gruff. Just from me licking a rim?
Yet there’s a quiver running under my skin, from head to toe. “Who came up with it?”
“Me.”
“You’re a mixologist?”
“No, I just put a Foster House spin on cocktails. I don’t come up with any of it myself.”
“We all put our own spin on art.” I take a drink from the glass so I can get more brown sugar. “Mmm.”
“Red, you sure know how to torture a man.” Before I can ask what he means, he draws his brows together. “What I do isn’t art. It’s just mixing drinks.”
“It’s not just anything. You really know what you’re doing. All of you guys do.” I lift my drink in a salute. “Especially you.”
A light pink dusts his cheeks, and he looks down.
Oh my god, he’s blushing. It’s adorable, and it’s sexy, and worse, it makes him attainable. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t,” he says quickly. “I’m just not usually complimented for doing my job.”
“I’m sure the girls who come in gush about you all the time. ”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You mean Edna and her crew? Actually, they do.”
I laugh. “I can imagine they get rowdy.” That’s not what I meant, and it’s not like I want to think about all the other options he has. I’m not supposed to be interested.
Which means I need to leave.
I push my half-full glass away. “This really is yummy, but I should get going. Papa’s waiting for me.”
Surprise flits across his face. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks for coming.”
“Thank you for coming.” I snap my fingers. “Wait—I gave you a ride.”
“Lane’s coming back. He’ll take me home.”
“No, I can wait.” Except the longer I stay, the larger my interest in all things Haven will grow.
“It’s fine. Gotta stay on your dad’s good side.”
“If you insist.” I gather my crochet bag. I’m never going to touch it again, or I’ll think about his big hands and the way he concentrates on his work. Lucky yarn. He puts his all into his work. So why not a relationship?
Seems a shame that someone like him should isolate himself the way he does. My situation is by circumstance. His is by choice.
I’m in territory that’s none of my business, but there are some things about him that are my business. “I’ve been going through your pictures, and I’ll get them to you in a couple of weeks.”
I can only do short batches of editing, or I start forming fantasies in my head starring the face staring back at me on the screen.
The thoughts get faster and stronger. Why can’t I see if Haven’s really interested?
Do I care if he isn’t, as long as I get to see what he’s offering? What’s wrong with a little fun ?
Then his soul-searching gaze into the camera becomes too much. The longing increases, and last night, I almost started crying.
I just miss Mom and Buford. That’s all.
I’m almost to the door, outrunning the cacophony of feelings he creates. I need to go home, take a cool shower, remember why I’m single and jobless, and go work for Papa.
“Just let me know when,” he calls.
I stop with my hand on the cool door handle. “What?”
He smiles, and his expression is so damn hopeful it burrows right into my chest and takes up residence next to my heart. “When you’re making that lasagna dinner.”