Page 11 of When In Doubt

“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.