“Nothing. Just maybe tell Dottie I found it for her?”
Her smile is a deal signed. “Done,” she says, eyeing the yarn again, then me. “You’re industrious.”
“I am.”
I also want to prove the ladies at the knitting club wrong. They’ll take more time than the guys in the town square, but I can show them I listened. “And here are some cookies for you.”
The store owner tugs the box to her in a sort ofminegesture, then thanks me.
I leave, and I don’t feel like such an outsider anymore.
Especially the next day when I head to the pickleball court for my lesson. After all, I have a fake date coming up soon. And I plan to win.
32
DOUBLE-USE SCRUNCHIE
MABEL
Corbin strides over to me along the side of the court, holding a paddle and a small pink gift bag. He’s pleased, judging from the size of his grin. I let myself enjoy the view of him as he moves, loose and easy in basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt that hugs his pecs.
“Corbin,” I half chide as he passes the net, then stops in front of me, offering me the bag. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did, Mabel. I definitely did.”
My heart jumps as I reach for it. “I told you that you didn’t have to.”
“And I didn’t listen.” He’s unrepentant in his gift-giving. “I told you I was going to get you an apology gift.”
“You don’t owe me an apology. It’s fine. We cleared the air. Just like we said we would.”
“We said we’d handle things like adults.” He taps his chest. “This adult likes to apologize to you with gifts. Now just open it.”
As I peer inside, it’s my turn to smile. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Wear it,” he says.
“So bossy.”
“Damn right I am. Want to let me put it on you?”
So much.
I fish out the lilac scrunchie from the bag and give it right back to him. “Do your thing, you bossy man.”
“I will.”
I turn around as a charge of anticipation races down my body.
The clink of his paddle hitting the court registers as he moves behind me, combing his fingers through my hair, pulling it up. I lean into the tug as he arranges my strands into a high, neat ponytail.
He takes his time roping his fingers through my hair, adjusting it, tweaking it, then dropping my hair and doing it all again. “Sorry. Need a second try,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
I don’t feel sorry either.
My stomach flips as he runs those fingers through my hair once more, then loops the scrunchie and steps back to admire his work. “Perfect. Now let’s play ball.”
Once I turn around, I give a flick of my hair just for fun. “You’re so good at giving gifts that we just might have to fight again.”
