“Nice to see you, Milo.” Though I couldn’t remember him at all. Not that I’d been Mr. Popular or everyone’s friend back then. But high school had beenbefore. Some things just weren’t as clear all these years later.
Milo jerked his thumb at his companions. “And this is Zach and Earl. They have resting angry faces, but don’t believe it. They’re both softies.”
The big one with the beard, Earl, cracked a slight smile. The guy in the Harley-Davidson sweatshirt, who was apparently Zach, just rolled his eyes.
“We work at the motorcycle shop the next street over,” Milosaid. “Thought we’d stop by and say hello. You’re opening up a tattoo joint?”
“Yeah.” I hadn’t told that many people aside from Piper, Grace, and Callum, but word had a way of traveling. “A studio. Appointment-only kind of place.”
“High class,” Milo said.
“Not sure I can pull off high class, but we’ll see. Probably another month or so until I can open, but I’ve made a lot of progress. Any of you in the market for some ink?”
“Seems likely.” Milo grinned. “We’ve been trying to convince Earl to get his first.”
“I have a low pain tolerance,” the big, gruff man muttered.
Zach elbowed him. “He’s our delicate flower, this one.”
“See?” Milo said. “Softies.”
I hooked a thumb at the room behind me. “You’re welcome to come in and check out the space.”
“We’re not bugging you?” Milo asked.
“Nah, I could use a break from the monotony.”
Their appearance had been unexpected, but this was promising. My first potential clients.
The front room looked a thousand times better than the first time I’d walked in here, but there was still plenty to do before this place looked like an actual business.
Over the last few days, I’d been taking boxes of Mrs. Landry’s old stuff to donate or thrift. But I’d triple-checked all of it carefully. No sign of any jewelry.
No word from Piper about Danny either.
In truth, I was in a holding pattern. Slowly moving forward on the studio, but with my head unable to focus on much except Piper.
“This is the old Landry place, right?” Milo asked.
“Yep. I’m renting from Piper Carmichael.”
My belly swooped just from saying her name. I was ridiculous.
“According to Piper, the previous renter was a quilter whonever met a piece of fabric she didn’t want to keep,” I said. “I’ve got boxes of the stuff in the back bedroom, but not totally sure who might want it. I tried a thrift store, and they said they don’t take scrap fabric. Donation didn’t want it either.”
Earl perked up. “Fabric? Quilting cotton?”
I brushed a hand over my beard. “Uh, I guess? Lots of colors and patterns. Why?”
“Fat quarters?”
I stared at him. “No clue what that means. But if you know anyone who might be interested, feel free to take a look. I’d love to get rid of it all.”
“Uh oh,” Zach said. “Earl, don’t you already have a ton of fabric you haven’t used yet?”
“Motto of quilters everywhere,” Earl replied. “There’s no such thing as too much fabric.”
I pointed toward the hall. “Help yourself. Back bedroom, stack of boxes against the wall.”
