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Stepping closer, Atlas tilted his head, studying me far too intently. “Were you jealous?”
“Jealous? Me? Nah.” Even my scoff sounded fake, and I wasn’t surprised when Atlas frowned.
“I think you were. I’m not sure I get why though. Am I supposed to not talk to the customers?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I threw up my hands. “And you might not have been flirting back, but the customers definitely were. Hell, if you wanted it, I’m sure Jon the Silversmith would be game for a parking lot meetup after your shift.”
“A…oh.” Atlas’s eyes widened. “You thought I’d be down for that?”
“Wouldn’t you?” I hissed, a hurt, angry whisper.
“Because I kissed you?” Atlas had also whispered, but his tone had been far more befuddled. The man was going to make me go gray before thirty.
I made a frustrated noise. “Because you haven’t kissed me since!”
“Because I’m trying to do the right thing.” Atlas stepped closer, eyes trained on my mouth. This was dangerous territory. A dining room full of crafters, none of whom were paying us any attention, but we’d get noticed in a hurry if I planted one on Atlas like I wanted.
“Says you.” I fisted my hands to keep from reaching for him. “How about doing the wrong thing and seeing how that feels instead?”
Atlas inhaled sharply. And crowded room or not, I braced for an angry kiss.
“Zeb!” Still in kitchen whites, Nix sauntered up to the bar. “Quit bugging Atlas. The dinner food on the buffet needs clearing now that everyone’s moved on to dessert.”
“I wasn’t—” I sputtered, unsure exactly what Nix thought they’d seen.
“Eagles lost today. That’s all.” Atlas shrugged, a far better liar than I could ever hope to be. “I owe Zeb. Later.”
“Football? You guys were betting on football?” Nix blinked. “Does Zeb know the kicker from the quarterback?”
“Yep.” I nodded a bit too enthusiastically. “The kicker does the kicking.”
“Uh-huh.” Nix looked doubtful but wandered off in the direction of the buffet table.
Atlas put a hand on my arm when I turned to follow them. “Zeb—”
“Later. We’ll settle up.” Echoing his lie about owing me some sort of payback I had no intention of holding him to, I tried to brush by him.
“Wait.” His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe I was putting him off.
“Seriously, dude.” I shook my head. Lord, spare me self-righteous naval chiefs who were a little too used to having their orders followed. “Later.”
“No. Something’s wrong at the knitters’ table.” He pointed across the room before taking off at a sprint, leaving me no choice but to follow.
Eleven
ATLAS
“What’s wrong?” Zeb charged after me, and we reached the knitters’ table at approximately the same time.
“Mopsy choked.” I’d seen her coughing from across the room.
“I’m…okay.” Clutching her napkin, she was no longer choking, but I studied her closely. Something was off.
“Oh, Mopsy’s just being dramatic.” Muriel waved a hand, silver curls bouncing.
“Are you sure, Muriel?” Connie, the crocheter and apparent peacemaker of the group, leaned closer to Mopsy.
“Choked. On pie crust.” Mopsy’s speech was slurred, and I knew for a fact she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.
“Has that happened before?” I asked.
“Choking?” Muriel answered before Mopsy could. “Everyone does it when they eat too fast.”
I barely heard Muriel because my gaze was trained on Mopsy. Was one pupil bigger than the other? I couldn’t tell, but the way she opened and closed her mouth like she was struggling to speak worried me further.
“That wasn’t an ordinary choking.” I crouched to better look at Mopsy’s face. “Put your hands out.”
She did so, and the left had a very noticeable tremor.
“Got your phone?” I asked Zeb in a low voice before returning my attention to Mopsy. “What’s today’s date?”
“Date?” Mopsy frowned.
“Mopsy.” Muriel sounded way more concerned now. “How many stitches to the inch for a pair of house socks?”
“Stitches…itch. Itch.” Mopsy sounded close to tears, voice wavering, and I didn’t like the way her face sagged at all.
“It’s okay,” I soothed, taking one of her slim wrists to check her pulse. “Breathe for me. Nice and steady.”
“I’ve got my phone.” Zeb bent close to my ear, and for once, I wasn’t hyperaware of his nearness. “Want me to make the call?”
Whatever our argument earlier, Zeb had clearly set it aside and was following my train of thought. Good. I liked a sharp-minded person.
“Yep.” Straightening, I stepped to the side, motioning him to follow. “Call 9-1-1. Tell them we’ve got a suspected stroke. Facial weakness. Difficulty swallowing. Hand tremors. Trouble thinking. High pulse. Pale, clammy skin.”
While Zeb made the call, I searched the room for Gabe but didn’t see him. At least the knitters’ table was in the rear of the room, and others lingering over dessert didn’t appear to have noticed what was going on. I returned to Mopsy’s side, dread gathering in my stomach at how her eyes kept fluttering shut.
