Page 19 of Knocked Up in Alaska

Chapter Six

Victory was sweet.

Lilah delivered a lunch order to a couple from Portland, well aware Team XX’s paintball triumph boosted her friendly smile an extra degree. Unexpected and sweet, since she truly hadn’t expected to win the bet.

Another sweet thing? Four decidedly manly men seated at the big, round table by the back wall, clearly intimidated by the prospect of knitting baby stuff. Even in Alaska she didn’t need five baby blankets, so they’d included other projects. Izzy had filled a hat with five folded slips of paper. Two for blankets, two for hat and bootie sets, and one for an adorable cable-knit sweater.

With her tables under control, she smoothed her light yellow Tipsy Goose T-shirt over her stretchy jeans and wandered over to see who picked what.

Mad, Wing, Archer, and Trace sat at the round table, staring at the upturned hat in the center as if it was filled with live grenades rather than knitting projects. Everyone had cleaned up and changed clothes, except Wing, who still wore his paint-splattered jeans as a kind of protest, pointing at his lap and insisting, “This is what treachery looks like,” whenever Ford came within earshot.

Bridget sat between Archer and Trace, with a bag from Watkins’s General Store on her lap containing the needles, yarn, and patterns for each project. Izzy sat on Trace’s other side, negotiating the drawing order. Apparently, everybody wanted to pull a blanket.

Trace pointed at Wing. “You’re last.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you and your big mouth got us into this.”

Wing stood and pointed at his paint-splattered fly. “Come on, boss. I’m not the reason we lost. I say the turncoat draws last.”

Ford ambled over and placed drink orders around the table. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what order I draw. It’s irrelevant. First person has equal odds of pulling a blanket as a hat-and-bootie deal. Depending on how it goes, the last to draw might be guaranteed a blanket.”

“Or the sweater,” Mad pointed out. “That sweater looks freaking complicated.”

Ford shrugged. “I know how to tie a cleat hitch. I know how to sew on a button. Most importantly, I know how to follow a fucking set of instructions. I have confidence in my ability to master the rudimentaries of knitting.”

Trace solved the problem of who drew first by reaching into the hat. “Since I scored first shot for Team XY, I’m first.” He unfolded the paper, then pumped his big first. “Read it and weep, suckers.” Tossing the paper down on the table like Blackjack, he added, “Blanket,” then sat back and folded his arms.

Bridget produced a set of needles, a fuzzy skein of bluish-purple yarn, and a color printout of a baby blanket with some printed instructions on the back. “Go crazy,” she said and slid them over to her brother.

Mad dragged the hat toward himself, closed his eyes, and drew. Pulling the little square close to his chest, he opened one eye and unfolded the paper. Then he dropped his head back and went limp like he’d been shot. “Fuck me. Hat and booties.”

Bridget held up the instruction page and waved it over his face like a fan. “Man up, Mad.” Tossing it to the table, she added needles and yarn to the stack in front of him. “Knit yourself a set of balls while you’re at it.”

“Ha. Ha.” He held up the printout, tapped a finger to the picture. “This is not the kind of bootie I specialize in.”

“Diversify,” Izzy advised. “Women love a man with unexpected talents.” So saying, she pushed the hat to Ford. “Might as well draw while you’re here.”

Lilah watched his face as he reached into the hat, withdrew a folded paper, read it, and then slipped it into the pocket of his Tipsy Goose T-shirt. “Thanks.” His expression gave away nothing.

“Oh, fuck that, man,” Wing protested. “What’d you draw?”

“That’s my business.”

“That’s cold,” the younger man complained. “Very cold. I hope you got the sweater.”

Archer pulled a paper from the hat, read it, then flipped it around so the rest of the table could see. “I don’t know what Ford got, but I’m knitting a blanket. A yellow blanket,” he added when Bridget tossed a ball of yellow yarn to him.

“It’s my favorite color,” Lilah felt compelled to say.

“When I’m done with this”—he held up the yarn—“it’s going to be your favorite blanket.”

“Oh, please,” Trace snorted. “My blanket is going to make yours look like a rag.”

Archer’s brow lifted. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

Trace braced his forearms on the table and leaned in. “A thousand bucks says my blanket turns out better than yours. Loser pays it into baby’s first bank account.”

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