Page 102 of Knocked Up in Alaska

Moving down the hall toward the living room, she saw him loitering there, still holding his flowers and champagne. She extended her hand. “Why don’t I take that? I have lots of experience popping corks.”

“Why don’t you?” He grinned and handed the bottle over.

…

“Dammit.” Ford cursed as he cast off the final bootie of the set he’d knitted for Shayla. Overall, the hat and booties had turned out pretty good. Nowhere as good as Wing’s sweater, but still…

“Here.” From the other side of the bar, Wing held out a hand. The crowd had thinned down to locals as most of the cruise ship day trippers had caught the shore boat back to the ship. “Let me do it. You’re going to mess up.”

“I’m not messing up. I know what I’m doing.”

“Doesn’t look like it. Why are you futzing with the knot? Tie it off.” He pointed to the long skein connecting the bootie to the ball of yarn sitting on the bar. “Cut the cord and call it done.” He picked up the scissors and prepared to make the cut.

“Don’t!” Ford angled away. “I’m leaving it attached.” His raised voice and sudden movement caught Mia’s attention at the other end of the bar, where she sat batting her lashes at Louis. She raised her brows. He gave her the I’ve-got-my-eyes-on-you look. She rolled hers and resumed torturing his employee.

Wing gave him a skeptical look. “Why?”

“Because”—he freed the bootie from the needle and held it up—“that’s the way I want it.”

“I don’t understand you, man.”

“You don’t need to understand.” He placed the bootie with its trail of yarn into the brown paper to-go bag with the mate and the matching hat. “Lilah needs to understand.”

“Understand what? That you can’t work scissors?”

“That I’m sorry.”

“She’s going to get ‘I’m sorry’ out of a bootie with a big old sloppy trail of yarn attached?”

He picked up that bag and place it under the bar. “That’s the plan.”

“You need a better plan, man. I recommend—”

Ford held up a hand because his phone vibrated in his pocket. He slid it out and absently noted sneaky Bridget had changed his background to the photo of Lilah, Shayla, and him, but the number flashing across the screen had thoughts of giving her shit for it straight out of his head. Lilah was calling. His blood rushed as he hit the accept button and brought the phone to his ear. “Lilah?”

Nothing. Dead air. Butt dial? “Lilah?” he said again, louder. Still no response. No sound at all. Shrugging, he ended the call and left his phone on the bar. He’d never gotten an accidental call from her, but in general, it was a common enough thing. No reason for his pulse to skip.

“You want to apologize to a woman,” Wing went on, “you need flowers. Florist flowers, not some wild-growing whatevers you pick from the roadside—trust me, I learned that the hard way—and, if you really fucked up, better add jewelry.”

“Wing?”

“Yeah?”

“Appreciate the advice”—guy I would never take advice from—“but I got this.”

Wing’s expression conveyed all kinds of doubt. “All I’m saying is…”

Ford’s phone vibrated on the bar. Lilah’s number lit the screen again. This time, in the seconds it took him to hit accept and say, “Lilah?” his gut clenched. Again, she didn’t answer. Again, no sound at all came from the other end of the line. “Lilah,” he repeated, louder, while something urgent fired his blood.

Wing silently mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

He disconnected. “I don’t know. Something. She should be home by this time of night. I’m going to drive over and check on her. Mike,” he called and waited until the short-order chef’s round face appeared in the window to the kitchen before saying, “I need you to close.” At Mike’s salute, he shouted down the bar, “Mia, Louis, we’re rolling—”

“I’ll take her home,” Wing volunteered. “I’ll take ’em both. Go.”

“He’ll want to walk her to the door. Give that about thirty seconds and then lay on the horn or you’ll be waiting all night.”

“Hey, I was a teenager once, too. I know how it works. Go.”

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