Page 83 of Flint’s Strike

Jean glances down at her watch, then back at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you touch your phone in six years of coming here.”

“Never had a reason before. I did tonight.”

Five more stitches, and I switch to the surface-of-the-sun yellow.

“Eliot, when I taught fourth grade, my students would pass notes and whisper secrets across the aisle all the time. You know what I used to say to them?” Betty asks, working three strands of her peach yarn at once.

“No, ma’am. But I reckon you’re gonna tell me.”

“Anything more important than what you’re doing right now is important enough to be shared with the class.”

“Y’all can see what I’m doing right now. It’s a half-drop repeat. You were here when Marlene showed me how to do it.”

Marlene huffs. “You don’t smile when you work on half-drop repeats. You cursed up a storm trying to learn them.”

I keep my mouth shut. She’s right. Again. I hate half-drop repeats, but they don’t waste yarn at the color changes, and a kid will probably love the pattern.

“Eliot Flint. Who is she?” Marlene demands.

I almost drop a stitch. The pause is brief—only a half second—but it’s enough for the ladies to notice.

“Look at him,” Jean says and picks up a chocolate chip cookie. “He’s the color of a tomato.”

“I am not.”

Betty chuckles. “Your ears are.”

I reach for my ear before I can stop myself, which only confirms they’ve hit the nail on the fucking head.

“Fine.” A sigh heaves my shoulders, and I set the needles down. “I’m seein’ someone. It’s new, I don’t know where it’s goin’, and I ain’t talkin’ about it.”

Jean’s laugh violates at least one noise ordinance. Add in Marlene’s, and the host of the restaurant next door probably thinks someone’s being murdered in here.

With a wide grin, Marlene slides the plate of cookies closer to me. “How new?”

“A week. Not even.”

With the tone she used to talk me into this yarn, Marlene keeps prodding. “Who is she? What does she do?”

If I don’t put a stop to this right quick, these ladies will have me handing over Parker’s name, phone number, address, and rank before the end of the night. By next week, Marlene will have run a thorough background check, and Jean will show up with color swatches and cake samples all lined up for a wedding.

But if I give them nothing, I’ll have to pack up and leave. Now. Without trying Ruth’s caramel apple bars.

“She’s a Texas Ranger. And that’s all you’re gettin’.”

“A Ranger…” Betty presses a hand to her chest. “Does she carry a gun?”

“I’m fixin’ to leave if all y’all don’t stop pushing. And when I come back, it’ll be with a stash of navy blue yarn from Knitty Fiber. You’ll never see how this blanket turns out. Or know what I do with it.”

Betty cackles. “He’s got you there, Marlene. Leave the poor boy alone.”

Marlene clucks her tongue, snatches up her needles, and goes back to turning the heel of a pink and purple striped sock. “Knitty Fiber? Really, Eliot?”

“Yup.”

“Fine. I’ll mind my own business. For now.”

We settle back into our usual rhythm, Ruth complaining about her arthritis, Jean fawning over her grandson’s kindergarten graduation photos, and Betty adding yet more rows to the world’s longest scarf.