For some reason that I could never figure out, my boss had a sixth sense for when I had after-work plans. I was just powering down my workstation, ready to boogie out the door, when Neal poked his head in my office.

“Tash, got a minute?”

I glanced at the clock. “Actually, I don’t.” My scrapbooking circle meeting was due to start in less than an hour, and I couldn’t stay late tonight because PJ and I were heading out to Martini Blues for our delayed post-Ava drink. In fact, PJ was driving me to Central Paper first, because my car’s Check Engine light had come on as I left for work this morning. Since I never took chances with my car, I’d driven straight to my favorite mechanic, and PJ had picked me up there, transferring all my craft supplies—not to mention the garment bag with my cocktail outfit—into his MINI Clubman.

“This’ll only take a second.” Then Neal sat down and proceeded to drone on about the plans for the company’s new community garden that was a key part of our new wellness initiative. I’ve told him many times that my crafting skills didn’t automatically translate to gardening expertise—maintaining the Christmas cactus in my apartment and the lone echeveria on my desk was the extent of my plant care experience. But since I was so good at my unofficial role as company cheerleader, the expectation was that I would promote the garden even if I wasn’t an active participant.

Whenever Neal claimed something would be quick, it always took three times as long for him to get to his point—and tonight, he didn’t seem to have one.

I drummed my fingers on my leg, hidden by my desk. Come on, Neal, get on with it. I caught a glimpse of PJ as he strolled past my open door and made a face at Neal’s back. Rescue is at hand.

Sure enough, thirty seconds later, my phone rang. “Pardon me, Neal, but I have to take this.” I picked up the handset. “This is Tash.”

“LaTashia Danielle Fredericka Van Buren, get your tushie out of there right this instant. You have things to do, and I am not missing our cocktail date because Neal insists on being tedious outside of business hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson, I’m sure those parts shipped this morning. I’ll go check on them and call you right back.”

PJ chuckled. “You’re welcome. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

I hung up and collected my purse. “I’m sorry, Neal. We’ll have to continue this tomorrow.”

I escaped before he asked why I had to follow up on the shipment personally. For a supposedly bright guy, Neal had some very peculiar ideas about how his company actually functioned.

PJ was leaning against the MINI’s rear barn doors, arms crossed. “Thank goodness.” He patted the roof of the car. “Moocher and I were getting worried. I was afraid I’d have to send in the company SWAT team if Neal held you hostage much longer.”

“The company doesn’t have a SWAT team,” I said as I maneuvered myself and my shoulder bag into Moocher’s front seat.

“Clearly you’ve never met the night custodial crew.”

When we pulled into Central Paper’s little off-street lot, its double handful of parking spaces were all taken, which meant the other ladies in the scrapbooking group were already here. “Darn Neal anyway,” I muttered. “You’ll have to park down the street.”

“Not a chance.” PJ turned on his hazard blinkers. “I’ll help you unload, but if you think I’m hanging around to be Ava’s muscle again, you are sorely mistaken.”

I peered around the lot. “I don’t see Ava’s car. Hmmm… she must be running late.”

“Good. I’ll grab your bags and deposit them at the door for you. You carry your lovely frock. That way I can make a grand escape to run a few errands before I pick you up without running the risk of getting sucked into the crafting abyss.”

“Sounds like a great plan to me.” Fortunately I travel lighter than Ava. We only needed one trip to get everything inside the front door. I waved at PJ and watched as Moocher pulled into traffic and zipped away.

On the one hand, I didn’t mind that the lot was full—there were only five people in the circle, so if the rest of the spots were taken, it meant that Graciela had a nice bunch of customers browsing the store. With luck, that would translate into a good sales night for her.

On the other hand, I wished my crafting friends hadn’t decided to be punctual for once. I liked to arrive first so I could help Graciela set up the tables and get my own projects organized before everybody else arrived to split my focus.

As I stood inside the front door, a familiar contentment warmed me from the inside. Yes, this was indeed my happy place. If only crafting could be my paying happy place. Someday.

Graciela was standing at the counter next to the cash register with several stacks of scrapbooking paper spread out in front of her. I recognized some of them—the tropical and woodland themed pages that Ava had snapped up at the show—but winced a little when I realized Graciela had shuffled them together with the Bo Bunny fall collection and plain cardstock. If Graciela had a flaw, it was in inventory control, particularly with individual pieces of paper and vellum. She’d probably lost more sales just because her customers couldn’t locate the patterns and seasonal print papers they were looking for than because of lack of traffic.

She glanced up, the wrinkles smoothing out between her eyebrows. “Good evening, mija. Your friends have already arrived.”

I caught my garment bag as it tried to slither off my arm. “Sorry I wasn’t here to help you prep tonight. I got delayed at the office.”

She waved my words away. “You don’t have to do everything. It did the others no harm to set up for once.”

I chuckled. “I suppose not. But I always like to get a head start.”

“More like the chance to get something done before they all demand your attention.”

Well, I couldn’t say she was wrong. “Thanks again for letting us work here.”

“Pfft.” She flapped her hands, shooing me toward the open space in the middle of the store where she let us conduct our crafting sessions. “You’re good for business. The customers see you, so busy, and they want to know more. And when you show them your beautiful work?” She fanned herself with both hands. “Aiee. My cash register melts with all the sales.”

I laughed. “I don’t think it’s quite that extreme, but I’m glad to help.”

“Then go. Make something gorgeous.” She flicked a paper pack. “Maybe with these papers so I don’t have to find space for them on the shelves.”

“I’ll do my best.” I left her scowling at her inventory once more and walked to the tables where the other ladies were setting up, hauling tonight’s project tote—black nylon with Scrap Diva embroidered in pink—along with my garment bag and basic kit. I was halfway to to my usual table when I realized I’d left Ava’s look-alike bag wedged in the back corner of Moocher. It wasn’t worth calling PJ and asking him to return to the store—aside from the inconvenience, he’d probably get drafted by Ava and never get to his errands.

Oh well.

“Evening everybody. Sorry I’m late.”

“Tash!” Evy Karim, an energetic sixty-year-old, jumped up from where she was unpacking her evening’s project and gave me a hug. “You’re allowed. Besides, I only got here a few minutes ago and Ava still hasn’t arrived.”

Virginia Stevens, the woman who’d been in the circle with me the longest, snorted but didn’t glance up from journaling. “It’s a good thing Ava’s not here, or you’d never hear the end of it, Tash. Don’t you know she’s the only one who’s allowed to be late?”

Nikki Papadopoulous, the youngest member of the group, just smiled at me shyly and bent her head over the Halloween wreath kit she was assembling.

Evy sat back down and continued arranging her workspace. I cringed a little when I got a good look at her supplies. Puke green and baby-poop brown. Seriously?

“Um, what are you working on tonight, Evy?”

She beamed up at me. Evy was a little deficient when it came to taste and skill, but she made up for it with enthusiasm and good nature. “The scrapbook for my daughter’s wedding.”

Oh, dear. Her daughter had gotten married in a formal Eastern Orthodox ceremony—puke and baby-poop would not complement the occasion. Luckily, Evy was also completely ego-free. I could suggest alternative papers—in fact, Graciela stocked some gold foil that would pick up the accents in the gorgeous church perfectly—and she’d be happy as a little crafting clam.

I sat down next to Evy and started unpacking my own project. “Nikki, did you enjoy yesterday’s class?”

Nikki’s head jerked up, and she scattered the contents of her wreath kit. “The class? Oh. Yes. It was good. I liked the card.”

“What about you, Evy?”

“Me? Oh, sure.” Evy smeared glue over the paper in an uneven swath. When she tried to position a crystal on it, though, it stuck to her finger, and she shook it until it flew off and landed on Virginia’s layout. “Sorry, Virginia,” she sang, then turned back to me. “But mine didn’t look much like yours when I was done. I must have done something wrong.”

Virginia removed Evy’s errant crystal with a pair of long-nosed tweezers. “At least you didn’t plunder Tash’s supplies to finish it like Ava did.”

I paused, my scrapbook half out of its tote. “You weren’t at the class, Virginia. How’d you find out that Ava borrowed an embellishment from me?”

“Borrowed?” Virginia snorted again. “Hardly. Evy told me all about it, and commandeered is what I’d call it.” She pointed the tweezers at me. “Do you remember those typewriter font stamps I told you about at last week’s session? The discontinued ones I finally found on Etsy?”

“Uh-huh.” I spread out the pictures from last year’s Icelandic vacation. “Did you get them? They sounded lovely.”

“No, I didn’t. Because little Miss Ava skedaddled out of here early and snapped them out from under me—and then flaunted them in front of me. I could have strangled her.” Virginia flung her tweezers onto the table. “She knew I wanted them. She heard me say so. She wouldn’t even have known about them if not for me, and she’ll probably never even use them. She’ll stick them in that overstocked room of hers and forget all about them.”

One of the customers had wandered over. She peered over Evy’s shoulder and then backed away, out of earshot, her eyes wide. Just as well. Graciela wouldn’t thank us for talking smack in the middle of her store during business hours.

Time to change the subject. I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m finally getting around to scrapping my Iceland trip.”

“Oooh.” Evy wiggled in her seat, scattering glitter from the small tube in her hand. “Do we get to see the pictures of your Viking?” She batted her eyelashes. “Bee-yorn?”

“Not tonight.” In fact, I was editing Bjorn out of my vacation scrapbook entirely. Some of the pictures he sent me were not safe for public viewing—even I didn’t want to view them. Ugh. Men could be so weird.

“If I convince my hubby to take me to Iceland for our anniversary,” Evy said, “do you think I could have a Viking fling too?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that put a crimp in your anniversary celebrations?”

Evy waved her hand in a pooh-pooh gesture. “He won’t mind. He’ll be too busy fishing.”

“Well, Bjorn is yesterday’s news.” Our very brief romance had started out so promising, too. He was tall, strong, had a great laugh. Unfortunately, some of the things he chose to laugh at did not align with my core values. I raised my wrist and did the princess wave so they could check out the sparkle. “Although I have to give him props for his apology gifts.”

Evy’s eyes rounded. “A diamond tennis bracelet?” she squeaked. “I definitely want my own Viking.”

“If I recall much about Vikings,” Virginia said, positioning some ribbon across the middle of her two-page spread with pinpoint accuracy, “they’d be more likely to give you a herring than diamonds.”

Evy wrinkled her nose. “Well, that’s no good. I can get that from my hubby. Maybe I’ll plan a staycation instead.” Her expression brightened. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up on my scrapbooking.”

“Heaven help us all,” Virginia murmured, low enough that Evy couldn’t hear. “That’s enough to turn anyone homicidal.”