What the hell was he doing here?
The question felt like a broken record these days, yet it was also the fitting theme to where he was in his life, which was limbo.
“Can I help you, sir?” a woman asked with a tap on Boone’s shoulder.
He spun, his clothes still damp from the night before, making the movement sluggish and uncomfortable.
“Boone!” the older woman exclaimed with a grin. “Well, I didn’t realize that was you. Haven’t seen you since you came back to town.” She raised her brows, making it clear her observation was laced with curiosity.
“Mrs. Davis,” Boone said with a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t expecting you to be open so early, nor did I realize you had a…um…a knitting section in the bookshop. I was just taking a walk and—”
“When are you boys going to stop addressing me like I’m your middle school teacher? We’re both adults here, and if you promise to call me Trudy from now on, I’ll fix you a cup of coffee on the house. You look like you need it.”
The small beagle she held under her arm nipped at her salt-and-pepper braid.
“I see Frederick is still chewing on all the things,” Boone said, scratching the dog behind his ear.
Trudy glanced down at her pooch and then kissed him on the snout.
“Poor old guy still doesn’t realize he has no teeth.” She shrugged. “As long as he’s enjoying himself, I pay him no mind. Now what do you say to that coffee?” She nudged Boone with her elbow. “It’s the reason I open an hour earlier than I used to. Got me one of those restaurant-grade espresso machines so that the ice cream parlor is also a coffee parlor. Pearl wasn’t too happy when I started doing it, until I made her a pint of my lemon poppy seed ice cream. That seemed to set things right, especially since it wasn’t as if her guests were leaving the inn to get their coffee elsewhere.” She sighed. “Did I miss your answer? Was that a yes?”
Boone laughed. Sometimes he forgot the small things he loved about this town—like Trudy Davis and her toothless dog.
“I would love a cup of coffee, Mrs.—I mean, Trudy.” He checked his watch. “Gotta be at the ranch in an hour to start tack room inventory, which is basically desk duty. Think I need to talk to the boys about letting me back on the horse.”
Trudy’s brows furrowed. “And why do they have you off the horse?”
“Shit,” he hissed, and Trudy shook her head ruefully.
“Come on upstairs, and you can tell me all about it over a cappuccino,” she offered.
“Just a black coffee is good,” he said.
Trudy gave him a knowing grin. “Suit yourself, but I think you’ll change your mind when you taste my cappuccino.”
Boone sighed and followed her out of Storyland’s unexpected knitting nook, around several bookshelves, and up the steps painted to look like book spines. When they reached the top, Boone’s eyes widened when he found his poker buddies from the night before—Sam, Ben, Colt, and Carter all sitting around a table. In front of each man sat a mug covered with foam, and in each of their hands were…knitting needles.
Boone looked behind him, waving his hand through the air.
“Did we just pass through some kind of portal into an alternate dimension?” he asked.
Trudy laughed, and the other men—until now oblivious of their arrival—looked up from their balls of yarn and metal sticks.
“Boone!” Colt called out. “I’d ask how the rest of your night went, but if I’m not mistaken, it looks like you’re wearing the same clothes you had on the last time I saw you. What do you think, Carter?”
“Shh!” Carter hissed, then counted to himself under his breath. “Knit one, purl one. Knit two, purl two. Knit one, purl one.”
A long, thin, scarf-looking thing draped over Ben’s lap onto the floor and had formed a small mountain of yarn. If it was, in fact, a scarf, it was a scarf fit for a giant.
“Okay,” Boone said. “Seriously. Where the hell am I, and how do I get back to my universe?”
Sam laughed and nodded for Boone to come over to the table. “Grab a seat, Murphy. Our club can always use a fifth.”
Boone blinked, then looked toward Trudy and Frederick as if they had some sort of explanation for him that would make sense.
“Go on now,” Trudy insisted. “I’ll get your cappuccino while the boys get you situated. Sam, give him the wooden needles I made you start on. Those are best for beginners.”
“You got it, Trudy,” Sam called over his shoulder as Trudy set Frederick down in his doggie bed and then slipped behind the ice cream/coffee parlor’s counter.
Boone walked in a daze to the round table that barely fit the four men and all their gear as it was, let alone the extra chair Colt slid between him and Ben. Once he sat down, the five of them were practically shoulder to shoulder, yet the other men simply adjusted their positions in their chairs so that no one’s elbow bumped another, and they continued as if Boone had never been there.
Boone, however, had no idea where to put his hands. On the table? On his lap? He settled for crossing his arms over his chest, yet tighter than was comfortable so as not to accidentally nudge Colt or Ben. His sweater hugged his damp T-shirt to his torso, and goose bumps rose up and down his arms.
Note to self: Next time you find yourself being undressed by your high school sweetheart, make sure your wet clothes—if your clothes are indeed wet—don’t end up in a ball on the floor where they will never get dry.
“What is that?” he finally asked Ben, his eyes trailing down the length of the blue-green yarn to where the creation pooled on the floor.
Ben counted a few more stitches before looking up. “It’s…nothing,” he said with a laugh.
“We don’t do this to make anything,” Colt added.
“Just to sort of Zen out,” Sam added.
“Zen out,” Boone repeated. He hadn’t really taken Casey’s suggestion to take up knitting seriously. But when he’d wandered into the bookshop, he’d somehow made a beeline straight for the knitting nook, as if he’d always known it was there. “So,” he continued, “you have poker night on Friday and—”
“Knitting club Saturday morning,” Carter interrupted, finishing Boone’s thought. “Pearl got me started soon after I became chief. Said it’s her favorite way to unwind after a busy spell at the inn. Of course I thought she was full of it until she sat me down one night after a stressful shift on call, and…well…here we are.” Carter shrugged, then nodded toward the other men at the table. “We’re terrible at it.”
“The worst,” Sam added.
“But what a way to start the morning,” Ben added, slamming his needles down on the table and then taking a healthy swig of his foamy beverage. When he set his mug down, his nose was covered with a dollop of foam.
“You…um…” Boone started, and Ben’s eyes widened.
“What?” Ben asked, with what Boone could tell was mock concern. “Is there something on my face?” He swiped at his clean chin and then at his foam-free cheek.
Boone rolled his eyes. “How long has this—I don’t know—club been meeting?”
“Eleven weeks,” the four of them said in unison.
“Eleven weeks, and I lived and worked down the street and never heard a word of this?” Boone asked.
Trudy slipped out from behind the counter and made her way over to the table. She placed two mugs in front of Boone, one with black coffee and the other a cappuccino.
“You’ve kept to yourself so much over the years,” Trudy noted, ruffling his hair like she did when he was a mischievous preteen. “It’s nice to see you out and about now that you’re back. Heard you turned quite a few heads at Midtown last night.”
Boone let out something akin to a growl and then snatched up the mug with nothing but black coffee. He took a sip and then shuddered, doing everything in his power not to spit what was in his mouth back into the mug.
He finally swallowed. “Hell, Mrs. Da—Trudy! What was that?”
“Language,” Trudy said, as did every other man at the table.
“Trudy doesn’t put up with swearing,” Sam added.
“It’s her place of business,” Ben added.
Colt picked up his foam-topped mug and offered Boone a gesture of cheers. “And we have to pay for the coffee if we let any curse words fly.” He took a sip. “Much better than the straight espresso, especially with the little bit of magic Trudy sprinkles on top.”
Trudy waved Colt off. “Aren’t you sweet? It’s just cocoa and cinnamon.” Then she turned her gaze to Boone. “That was your second and final freebie as far as language is concerned. I’m counting the one from downstairs too. Next time, all this”—she motioned to every mug on the table—“is on you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Boone said like a sulking teen who’d been called out for exactly the same thing.
Trudy laughed. “And to answer your question, the reason it’s so bitter is that I don’t brew coffee. It’s an espresso bar, so you can either take it straight or with milk and my little bit of magic. It’s up to you.”
They all stared at Boone, daring him to either swear or taste the cappuccino or both. He truly didn’t know. But somehow he felt like if he did choose the cappuccino, it would be the same thing as Neo choosing the red pill in The Matrix, that a whole new world was about to open up to him. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of that world if it meant blurring the lines between his work life and personal life. That was what his therapist was for, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to tell her at their next appointment.
Hey, Dr. Sharon. So I slept with my high school ex. Well, not slept, but everything but. And when I woke up this morning, she was gone. How fucked up is that?
His eyes widened, ready for Trudy’s admonishing, then realized he’d only cursed in his inner monologue. Boone scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw as the muscles in his shoulders tightened and he felt the ever-familiar pinch in his lower back.
“Screw it,” he finally said. “Wait, that word is okay, right?”
Trudy grinned. “I’ll allow it, Mr. Murphy.”
He blew out a long breath, then lifted the mug of cappuccino to his lips and took a sip. He closed his eyes and sighed as the not-quite-sweet yet not-quite-bitter liquid warmed him from the inside out. Then he licked the residual foam from his top lip, tasting what Colt had rightfully called Trudy’s little sprinkle of magic.
Well shit. The cappuccino was damned good. And he could still swear in his head, which was also pretty damned good.
He opened his eyes to find the whole table staring at him expectantly.
Boone sighed. “Fine,” he relented. “Give me the da—darned beginner sticks and show me what the heck I’m supposed to do.”
“Attaboy!” Ben said, clapping Boone on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”
And that was how Boone found himself—after waking up alone in Casey Walsh’s bed—in a bookshop, drinking cappuccino and knitting absolutely nothing with a group of men he’d planned to keep at arm’s length until he got his garage back and could do what he did best—fix cars, keep to himself, and make as little mess of his life as possible.