Speakeasy (True North #5)(26)

I shake my head. Rita knows the whole story. In addition to being my mentor and my landlord here at the office, she’s also my AA sponsor. We always attend the Thursday-night meeting together.

“See, I wondered if you guys were getting back together or something. Because you’ve had a faraway look in your eye these past three days. Kinda like this.” She lets her face go slack as her tongue hangs out of her mouth.

“I do not look like that,” I complain, picking up a used sticky note, balling it up, and tossing it at her.

Rita cackles. “But you do! Ever since that law school thing you’re acting weird. I didn’t hear you deny it, either. Did you get some make-up nookie, at least?”

“We’re not getting back together. And there hasn’t been any nookie. With her,” I add quickly.

Rita’s face lights up. “With who, then?”

“It’s nothing. Just, uh, a hookup. Someone I asked to be my date to that law school event.”

My friend’s face sobers quickly. “Why do I not know this already?”

“Maybe because it’s so embarrassing? And it’s not like it’s happening again. We just got, uh, a little carried away after the law school thing. Maybe I was trying to get Daniela out of my system.” Or maybe Alec is super-hot and his kiss made me temporarily insane.

“Do I know her?” Rita asks.

“Him.”

She makes a gleeful squeak.

“Are you asking me these questions as my helpful, nonjudgmental sponsor?” I prompt.

“Nah!” She throws the nail file down. “I’m asking as someone who lives vicariously through a single twenty-six-year-old. So who is this fine fellow that seduced you?”

I snort. “He didn’t have to seduce me. I pounced on him.” I’ve spent the last three days trying not to think about the feel of his hands on my body, or the heat of his kisses. It would be a nice memory, except it’s tinged with mortification.

We did it in his truck. I’m lucky the law school dean didn’t wander by that dark corner of the parking lot. It’s a good thing that Alec is one of those men who always parks far from the other cars so that nobody will scratch his baby.

“You’re killing me, here,” Rita complains. “Who is it?”

“Alec Rossi. He’s five years older than I am. He owns the Gin Mill.” Rita’s eyes widen at the mention of the bar. “Yeah, I know. Not exactly a great pick for me. It will never happen again. He’s sort of a family friend, I guess.”

“The guy who helped you move out of Daniela’s?”

“Yeah. Same guy.”

She looks thoughtful. “But you enjoyed yourself? And you were safe?”

“Of course.”

Rita shrugs. “Then why not? So long as there isn’t any alcohol involved, a little rebound lovin’ isn’t the worst idea.”

“I guess. But you know I’m going to run into him five times in the next two weeks. It’s the law of small-town hookups.” If I spot him in the grocery store, my face will turn bright red. Because every time I come upon him I’ll be remembering the time I…

“You should see your face right now,” Rita says with a giggle.

“Next topic, please.” I slap my laptop shut. “When I was moving out of Daniela’s house, I found my knitting stuff. And I realized I hadn’t been knitting in a long time because Daniela used to tease me about it.”

Rita nods, listening. But she doesn’t leap in and skewer Daniela, the way my family would.

“So I’m going to go blow some money on yarn now. Before the meeting.” Maybe a new knitting project will keep my mind occupied.

Rita puts her reading glasses on and looks at her computer screen again. “I’d go with the sex, instead. But that’s just me.”

“Later, Rita,” I say, going for my coat. “See you at the church?”

“Of course, chickie.”

The yarn shop in Montpelier beckons to me, and I spend a long time wandering the aisles. I ought to be saving all my money so I can rent an apartment for myself. But I finger the gorgeous yarns anyway, because splurging at the knitting store is still better than buying a screwtop bottle of wine and drinking it alone in my room.

That would only cost seven bucks, but it’s not worth it. Daniela doesn’t get to do that to me.

I admire a mohair that tickles my hand and an angora that’s meltingly soft. But that’s not what I’m looking for. Then I find some balls of cognac-colored merino wool. The strands are smooth but thick, and it’s priced for a closeout.

There are eighteen balls left. Enough for a sweater.

I buy them, trying not to look at the total on the credit card slip I’m signing. It’s a splurge, but not for me. I’m going to make Alec Rossi a sweater. It will be my way of saying thank you for all the help he gave me in my time of need. If by “time of need” you mean “period of temporary insanity.”

The color will look smashing with his big, dark eyes.





The week grinds to its inevitable conclusion. I knit with fervor over the weekend, because my family is driving me crazy.

They’re still worrying about me every hour on the hour. And it’s not like they don’t have better things to do. Griffin is busy bottling cider and preparing for the birth of his child. Dylan has barn repairs to make and finals to study for.