Page 20 of Knocked Up in Alaska

“Oh, no.” Lilah shook her head. “That’s not nece—”

“Deal,” Archer said over her objection and extended his hand to his future brother-in-law. The two men shook as if she’d never spoken.

“Who’s going to judge?” Bridget asked.

“Lilah, of course,” Trace answered and winked at her.

“I couldn’t,” she insisted, feeling her stress level shoot into the red at the notion of choosing who coughed up a thousand dollars for her child. “They’re all going to be equally beautiful in my eyes.” Or equally ugly, judging by the enthusiasm her knitters had for their projects, but it was the thought that counted.

“We’ll find an impartial judge,” Izzy said and sent her an assuring smile. “Where do you think you’re going, Wing?”

The mechanic froze in the process of easing his chair away from the table. “Uh, bathroom?” Obviously hoping that ensured his escape, he stood.

Bridget took the last slip of paper from the hat and held it out to him. “Face your fate first.” She hefted her bag and shook it. “I don’t want you disappearing without your supplies.”

He closed his eyes, said a quiet prayer under his breath that sounded to Lilah like, “Oh, heavenly father, not the sweater…not the sweater,” and took the slip of paper from Bridget. Before he unfolded it, he aimed a hard look at Ford. Ford merely shrugged.

“Treachery,” Wing said and pointed at his paint-stained jeans. “What did I draw?”

The subtle smile Lilah found so enthralling formed on Ford’s lips. He rubbed his hands over his forearms like someone wearing a warm, cozy…

“Motherfucker.” Wing tossed the slip of paper to the table, face up, so Izzy’s tidy script could be easily read by everyone. Sweater.

“Ha!” Bridget removed a cap-and-bootie instruction sheet from her bag, along with a set of needles and a ball of variegated yarn in soft purple and light gray shades, set them aside for Ford, and handed the bag to Wing. “Time to get in touch with your manly crafty gene.”

Wing looked in the bag, closed it, and appealed to the table. “I don’t have a manly crafty gene. I’m a mechanic, for Christ’s sake, I’m not fucking…Grandma Moses.”

“Grandma Moses was a painter,” Archer said, “and I doubt she wants you fucking her, particularly since she’s dead.”

“Okay. Fine.” He flung out his arms. “I’m not Grandma Knits-Shit.”

“You are now,” Ford said and patted his shoulder. “We all are. Come back tonight, around nine, and we’ll get this knitting circle started.”

“Seriously?” Wing looked around the table. “You guys will help me?”

“We don’t know what we’re doing, either,” Ford pointed out, “but I found a YouTube channel that ought to help. Natazia Knits.”

“She any good?”

“Good enough to knit herself a really tiny bikini, which is what she wears while she walks viewers through the basics. Granted, she only speaks Russian, but her expertise is really…ah…in your face. It transcends the language barrier.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Bridget scoffed and got to her feet. To Izzy, she said, “Sounds like it’s girl’s night in the hot tub?”

“Sounds like. Lilah?”

Yes, she had family. Really great family. Suddenly choked up at the generosity of the people around her, all she could do at first was nod. When she freed her voice, she said, “I’ll bring the brownie.”

…

Ford built himself a pint of porter, then came around the bar and headed to the table where Archer, Mad, Trace, and Wing sat, staring at the tablet propped up at the far end. As he took his seat, he noted the varying degrees of success his fellow members of Team XY were having casting on. He could summarize it collectively with two words—very little.

“Fuck! Rewind that again,” Mad demanded when his attempt to loop his pastel green yarn around his needle failed. “I missed what she did.”

“I have a tip for you,” Trace said as he tapped the screen to back up the video, apparently not for the first time.

“What’s the tip?”

“Stop staring at her tits and start watching her hands.”

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