Page 34 of Single Chance

“Great location,” I said noncommittally. It sounded perfect…except for the roommate. I didn’t know Dakota, but even if she was a baby lover with the patience of a saint, I’d never feel comfortable bringing a baby home with a roommate.

“Would you like me to pass her your contact info?”

“Not yet,” I hedged.Think fast. “I’m hoping for no roommates. I’m up in the middle of the night a lot and would hate to bother someone.”

Magnolia laughed again. “Too bad I don’t have room for you in my apartment. We could be insomniacs together.”

“Right,” I said with a smile. “Do you live nearby?”

“Right upstairs.” She gestured above us. “But it’s tiny. Dotty, who owns this shop, uses part of the upstairs for storage.”

“Well, at least you don’t have a long commute.”

“Those are hard to find in Dragonfly Lake.”

Once she’d checked me out, I told her I’d let her know if I changed my mind about roommates and Dakota. “Thanks for telling me about her.”

“Of course. Enjoy your goodies.”

There were definitely good parts of living in a small town, I thought as I exited the Lily Pad. The people were friendly, and even strangers acted more like neighbors. I’d been fairly isolated for two years, so I treasured the connections.

There was also a downside of small-town living. My pregnancy wouldn’t stay secret or anonymous for long. If Chance meant what he’d said, our hookup would become common knowledge. I’d either need to prepare myself for that or get the hell out of town. I was leaning hard toward preparing for that, because as uncomfortable as it might be at first, I was falling for this place.

I took a right on the sidewalk and passed Lake Girl Boutique next. The clothes in the window were cute, but I wasn’t in clothes shopping mode.

I crossed to the next block, inhaling the sweet aromas coming from Sugar and fighting off temptation. I made it past the door like a champion and kept walking to the next shop—and froze in my tracks as I caught sight of…a llama? I thought it was a llama, but my llama identification skills were untried.

Whatever it was, it was coming straight toward me on the sidewalk, looking like it was on a mission. The door to the next store was within reach, so I yanked it open and hurried inside as the furry white beast got closer.

“Oh, there goes Esmerelda,” a voice said from somewhere inside the store.

I looked out the front window as the llama pranced past. With my mouth hanging open, I whipped my head around to find the woman who’d spoken.

“Good afternoon,” the older woman with blond-highlighted hair said as she walked toward me. “I see you nearly met our local llama on the run.”

“You know the llama?” I asked, glancing out the window again but seeing no trace of the animal now.

“Everyone knows Esmerelda. She belongs to Dr. Holloway, the veterinarian.” She laughed and shook her head. “I guarantee you she’s camped out in front of the bakery by now, waiting for that door to open. It’s the rainbow-sprinkled sugar cookies she’s after.”

“That’s relatable,” I said, still wrapping my head around coming face-to-face with a llama in a small town.

“Welcome to Fat Cat Yarn. I’m Loretta.”

“Rowan,” I said, finally taking in the racks and racks of yarn in every color. “Wow.”

The outer walls were floor-to-ceiling cubbies of yarn forming a rainbow of hues from one end to the other. The interior had more racks that were shoulder-high, filled by still more colors and types of yarn.

As I skimmed my gaze over the expanse of variegated skeins on the nearest rack, something brushed against my pants leg, startling me.

“Oh!” I pressed my hand to my heart when I spotted the chunky gray cat who’d sideswiped me on its way past. “Look at you.”

“That’s Purl. She doesn’t mean to be rude, but you caught her between her lunch and her afternoon nap in the window display.”

“Naps are important,” I said, watching the chubby cat waddle to the window and jump up on a cat perch.

“To Purl, naps are everything. Well, and tuna. Are you a knitter, my dear? Crochet?”

“Well…” I glanced around again, the colorful yarn awakening my creativity much in the same way the paper store had. “Calling me a knitter would be an exaggeration.” I stepped down the aisle in her direction, to a section of muted, variegated pastel-toned skeins that screamed baby blankets. “My grandmother taught me, but I never fully mastered it.” I smiled, running my fingersover the soft skeins, my chest aching as I remembered Gram’s infinite patience as she taught me, then sat next to me as I practiced, answering my questions or fixing my mistakes when I made them—and I made a lot of them.

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