The Last Wingman (Wingmen Book 6), page 14
With every answer, my confusion grows, but I plow ahead. “So her dog outlived her? Was another friend taking care of him?”
“He’s been dead for a long time, even before she passed away.” Her puzzled expression must mirror my own.
Now we’re both confused. Classical music quietly plays in the shop, a soundtrack to our staring contest.
“Um, I’m a little lost here,” I finally admit.
She points at the laptop perched on the small dresser in the corner. Tucked next to a basket of yarn balls, it’s easy to miss. The end credits of a movie roll on the screen.
“This is about a dead fictional dog?”
“He wasn’t fictional.” She twists the tissue in her fingers. “Dash was Queen Victoria’s beloved companion.”
“Hold on—you’re crying about a dog who’s been dead over a hundred years?” Flabbergasted, I stand up before I tumble backward.
“I was watching Victoria. It’s a series.” She gestures at the laptop. “Victoria visited Lord Melbourne for the last time to say goodbye and had to pretend everything was perfectly fine even though they both knew he was dying.” Her chin wobbles. “When she returned to the palace, she found Dash dead on the carpet.”
“Do you need a hug?” I remember our conversation about the Langley bunnies and how she worried about them getting wet in the rain.
She hesitates then nods.
“Don’t be embarrassed for feeling sad.” I open my arms and wait.
“You don’t think I’m a stupid, silly girl for crying over a long-ago-dead dog?”
“No. Well, not the stupid or silly part. I grew up with a little sister, so I’ve been exposed to the tears and tides of emotion that come with being a girl. Nothing you could do would shock me.”
“Not even kissing you out of the blue.” She smiles.
“That did surprise me. Shock? No. Ruined my plans to win you over with the most epic first kiss ever? Yes.” Gesturing with my hands, I silently invite her to hug me.
“You’d thought about kissing me?” She stands but doesn’t step into my arms.
“For a long time, longer than I want to admit right now.” Closing the small gap between us, I wrap her in a hug. “Later. Right now, I’m consoling you over the loss of a Victorian dog.”
She slowly relaxes into the embrace, hugging me back. Our height difference means I can rest my chin on top of her head, so I do, gazing out the window at the water.
“I’m better now.” Her hold around my waist loosens. “You can let go.”
“What if I don’t want to let you go?” I murmur.
She gives me a squeeze. “Eventually, this hug will have to end. I have yarn to sell to the masses, and you have to return to whatever it is you do.”
My head jerks back. “Excuse me?”
“That came out harsher than I meant. I just don’t really know the details of your business. You seem to be around a lot.”
“Plural.” I step away, ending the embrace. “Businesses. I have several.”
“See? That’s what I mean.” Walking over to the dresser, she closes the laptop.
“You want me to list my businesses?” I scratch my throat, mentally noting that I need to trim my beard. “Coffee, mostly. The roasting business with Erik and the chain of coffee huts with my sister. The Space.” I pause before continuing, “And I have a minor stake in a green business with Falcon and several other partners.”
Even though cannabis is legal in several states, including Washington, my experience is that it’s best to avoid the topic because people are still uncomfortable with marijuana, and I never know on which side of the debate someone will fall.
June’s eyes widen. “You sell pot?”
From her expression, it’s clear she’s imagining me as a drug dealer.
“Personally? No. I invested in a grow op. Completely hands off on the day-to-day operations, unless they need help at harvest time.”
“So, you run a hangout spot for teens, but you also grow marijuana. You know it’s considered a gateway drug.” Her full lips draw together in judgment.
“Yes, so I’ve heard. Again, I don’t personally grow or sell cannabis in any form. Think of it more like buying Amazon or Apple stock. Buy low, sell high.” It’s a cheesy joke, but it usually lands. Today, it crashes and burns. “Get it?”
She remains frozen, without even a twitch of her lips to show she’s amused but resisting.
“Okay then.” Stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jacket and rocking on my heels, I blow out a long exhale. We’ve gone from hugging to an uncomfortable standoff. Even the air in the room feels colder.
June still clutches the laptop to her chest while she worries her bottom lip with her teeth.
I dip my head to meet her eyes. “June?”
“I’m processing.”
“Does this change your opinion of me?” I wasn’t expecting her to have such a strong reaction to my revelation. “Because it shouldn’t.”
Ducking around me, she places her computer on the desk. “I’m having a hard time reconciling the guy who entertains sick children and opens a space for teens with this side of you.”
“There’s no other side, just me.” I follow her to the counter. “Same Jonah. I’m multi-layered, like a cake, or a seven-layer dip.”
Her shoulders loosen. “You’re right. I’m judging you again without knowing all the facts.”
My stomach growls. “Apparently, I’m also hungry.”
Her frown fades a little. “Didn’t you have lunch?”
“Nope, or breakfast, other than coffee. I texted you earlier about getting food, but you never responded.” A thought occurs to me. “Want to grab something now?”
“Together?”
“That was kind of implied by the question. We can talk more about my investments and businesses if you’d like.” Sounds boring as fuck to me, but I’ll answer any questions she has.
“Another date? That’s twice this week.” She begins to thaw.
“I think Tuesday counts as a date, so technically, it’s three. I’m not being subtle about it.” Lifting my eyebrows, I shrug. My stomach growls again. “If you’re busy, we can just go across the street for early happy hour at Salt and Water for food. They have half-price appetizers.”
I wait as she mulls over the idea.
“I doubt anyone is going to need a last-minute yarn purchase at three-thirty on a sunny afternoon. Sales are better when it’s cold and rainy. Let me grab my coat and we can go.”
“Are you sure you want to close early?”
I watch as she goes through her closing routine, removing the cash drawer from the desk and placing it in the safe in the storage closet along with the laptop. Next, she turns off all the lights except the row above the front window display of an underwater scene for the whale festival. Green and blue scarves make up the kelp and water, and she’s hung the gray whales from the ceiling with fishing wire. The entire diorama is as adorable as the woman who made it.
The closing process takes only a few minutes, but I spend the time browsing her non-yarn merchandise.
“Ball sack.” Chuckling, I read the swirling text on a tote bag out loud. “You sell something that says ball sack?”
“Knitters have dirty minds and we love puns. We also need cute bags to carry our yarn and needles. That tote is a big seller.”
“I never knew there was such a large crossover between people who knit and those who love a good pun.”
“Huge. You should check out the card section.”
“I’m afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities.” I walk over to the standing rack anyway. “And I’m afraid I’ll never be able to look at you the same way again, especially after your hooker sign.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing.” She pulls on her yellow rain jacket. I’m pleased to see it has a hood.
“I like big balls and I cannot lie. Knit me baby one more line. Knit fast, die warm.” I keep reading as I spin the vertical rack. “All you knit is love. I’m sensing a musical theme.”
“Song titles are easy to turn into knitting puns.” She wraps a striped scarf around her neck and slings a green leather backpack over one shoulder.
Hanging on the wall next to the rack are several framed embroidery works. What first appear to be delicate florals with inspirational messages, instead contain more puns and snarky messages.
“I sell cross-stitch kits too. ‘Knit happens’ is our biggest seller, followed by that one.” She points to a framed piece depicting two balls of pink yarn beneath the words Knits out.
“Perverts.” I grin at her. “I feel personally deceived by all those sweet women at the farmers’ market selling baby booties and scarves.”
She giggles. “Better avoid the knitting circles, too. Things get pretty racy when you get a bunch of knitters together in a church rec room.”
“I’m going to show up one of these days. You think I’m joking, but I’m completely serious.”
A loud snort escapes. “That would be hysterical.” She dangles her keys on the end of a finger. “I’m all set if you are.”
Following her out of the shop, I wait for her to lock up. “Why would it be funny? Because guys aren’t supposed to knit? Or is it the thought of me specifically being there?”
“The latter.”
We only have to cross the street and walk up the block a few buildings to reach the restaurant, so I wait to clarify until we’ve hung up our coats on the rack near the door and we’re seated in the corner of the bar, near the window. It’s early and no one else is here. The nook feels cozy, and I’m happy it’s just us. The difference between the inside and outside temperatures has fogged up the glass, making the rest of the world disappear, like we’re the only two people left.
“Why shouldn’t I join the knitting circle?” I ask.
“You could. You’re not barred. Anyone can join.” She unravels her long scarf and places it inside the sleeve of her jacket. “We’ve had other men attend. I was once in a co-ed knitting group in Seattle. Unfortunately, it was dissolved because of some misguided episodes of mansplaining and an extramarital affair.”
“Maybe I should take up knitting.”
“You want to learn to knit?” Her eyes widen like they did when I told her about my investments. I’m not sure which bit of news shocks her more.
“Everyone keeps telling me I need new hobbies. Can I come to the group sometime?”
“It doesn’t seem like it would be your scene.” She backpedals from her early statement about all being welcome.
“I have a scene?”
“I assume you do, sipping tea and eating cookies with a bunch of women who knit isn’t it.”
“We’ve already established that I like cookies. As for the tea, I can bring my own coffee.”
She eyes me, doubtful.
“What if I told you it’s because I want to spend time with you? Learn about the things you like, discover what your equivalent of Medieval Madness is?” I reach for her hand, lacing my fingers in hers.
“We have open groups during the week. I suppose you could come to one of those.” Her offer lacks enthusiasm.
“I look forward to it.” Leaning over the corner of the bar, I brush my lips against hers.
“Keep your expectations low, please.” She casts me a wary look. “You’re probably not going to find it interesting. Mostly, it’s me and several senior ladies sitting around, Whidbey’s own Golden Girls and me.”
The more she tells me I won’t like it, the more I want to go just to prove her wrong.
“Is it knitting only? What if someone wanted to crochet or cross-stitch?”
“I mean, if you show up with a craft project involving yarn, you won’t be shunned. Embroidery is a whole different thing, though. Same with quilting. Most people love one or the other and stick with it.”
“Like rival craft gangs?”
“Kind of?” She snickers. “I’m imagining a standoff on First Street between a group of women holding crochet hooks and another group armed with knitting needles.”
“Doesn’t sound like a fair fight.”
“As my grandfather would say, nothing about life is fair.”
“Sounds like a wise man.”
“Wisdom comes from hard lessons.” She twists a thin gold ring on her right hand. “He had a lot of those, too.”
“I don’t think anyone gets through life without a few painful experiences.” I soften my voice. “I know I haven’t. The thing is not to become bitter.”
Her warm smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “How did we go from dueling craft gangs to philosophical musings about life?”
“No idea.” My expression matches hers. “Should we order food or explore the potential for bitterness further?”
“Food, please.”
We order a seafood tower. Turns out June loves oysters as much as I do, which at first sounds like a good thing, but in reality means I have to share them with her.
Our conversation drifts from topic to topic as we eat and talk. Currently, we’re discussing self-protection. Not sure how we ended up here. I didn’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs.
June traces a swirl of blue ink on my forearm with the tip of her index finger. Her light touch sends a shiver through my body, raising goose bumps along my skin. “We all have our own version of armor. You wear yours on your skin.”
“What about yours? Woven out of soft fibers?” I joke. She’s a temptress in a hand-knit sweater.
She drops an empty oyster shell onto the crushed ice. “No, mine is tougher because you can’t see it. Invisible barbs and thorns are more difficult to penetrate.”
“What happened to you, June?” My tone is light, but the question is serious.
“Nothing.” She focuses her attention on the discarded shells.
“Something happens to all of us. No one gets through childhood without a few scars, and I’m not talking about the ones we can see on our skin.”
“Really, nothing remarkable happened. I mostly kept to myself. People have never been my thing. Introvert, in case that wasn’t obvious. Over the years, I’ve made a handful of close friends. That’s plenty. Not everyone needs to be prom queen.”
“Did you go to your prom? I didn’t go to mine,” I admit.
Her eyes grow rounder. “You didn’t? I thought everyone went but me.”
“Eh. Wasn’t my scene.”
“Too cool for school dances?”
“Cool didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I wasn’t too cool. No one asked me,” she confesses.
“Obviously, you went to school with idiots. Most seventeen- and eighteen year-old-guys are. Why didn’t you go with friends?”
“They all had dates.” A frown appears and quickly disappears on her face.
“I don’t think we missed much.”
“I’ve always wondered,” she muses while stacking oyster shells into a little tower of their own.
“There’s a weekly dance at Bayview in the summer. You can get your question answered there, discover if prom is your missing piece like the Shel Silverstein book.”
She doesn’t react right away, but then softly says, “I love that book.”
“One of my favorites as a kid—another thing we have in common.” I pause. “We could go to the dance together, but we’d have to promise each other not to be wallflowers.”
Her nose scrunches up, forcing her to use her index finger to push her glasses into place. “This is beginning to sound like one of those ’80s teen movies. Nerdy girl gets a makeover, goes to the dance like a modern Cinderella, and meets her prince, who just so happens to be the guy who tortured her in math class. Everything is okay, though, because he’s really a sweet guy with family issues that make him act like a jerk.”
My eyebrows lift. “Not a fan?”
“Blech, no. Don’t even get me started on the rapey overtones of some of the so-called classics. I don’t care how good your swooped-back hair looks or how awesome your sideburns are or how well you rock a plaid shirt and drive a Porsche if you don’t respect your girlfriend enough to make sure she gets home safely from a party at your house.” Pink flushes her cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from anger. “Sorry. I get a little riled up.”
As I process her rant, I smile. She’s right about respect, but that’s not what makes me smile. The hair and the plaid describe me perfectly. The Porsche, not so much. “You make excellent points. May I add that not all guys who fit that description are assholes?”
The color on her face spreads and deepens as her mouth forms an O. “I didn’t mean you.”
“I know. I don’t own a Porsche. The only guy I know who owns one of those is Dan. I also didn’t grow up rich and entitled either.”
“That makes two of us. My family story is one of bad decisions and shrinking bank accounts.”
For some reason, I decide to share about my dad, something I never do, because to speak his name is like conjuring Beetlejuice. “My father screwed us and a lot of other people over, emotionally and financially. There’s probably not a person or business on the island who would be happy to see him.”
“Must’ve made things difficult for you when you wanted to start a business here.”
“He made life tough for both Ashley and me. That’s why we changed our names after he left, switched to my mom’s maiden name, not that the Kingstons were all that much better. They didn’t steal and embezzle, but all their fire and brimstone did grate on our young souls. I’m not entirely convinced I won’t burst into flames if I visit your church.”
“Only one way to find out.” She grins at me.
“Do you have a working fire extinguisher that’s up to code?” I match her expression.
“We’ll smother the flames of hell and damnation with the baby blankets.” She pretends to pat out fires on my arms and shoulders. “You do all these selfless acts, but you don’t let anyone see the real you.”
Uncomfortable with the idea of being vulnerable, I give my standard reply. “I don’t do what I do for attention to feed my ego or to brag to some stranger about all the ways I’m amazing.”
“What sins are you atoning for?” She pins me with an intense look. “Your own? Or your father’s? It almost seems like you’re doing penance.”
