Alec chuckles. “No, you’re the family’s only lawyer, right? If you want to be a hot mess, you gotta try a little harder than that.”

This makes me smile, because I like Alec’s take on the situation better than mine. Unfortunately, he’s wrong. While I might be the only Shipley with a graduate degree, I’m also the only alcoholic. Sometimes they treat me like I’ve contracted a novel and potentially fatal disease.

I suppose they’re right.

“It will be awkward.” I sigh, picturing all the sympathetic looks I’m about to receive. Poor May. She’s lost her way again. “You know, I think I jumped into living with Daniela too soon mostly because I didn’t want to be under their microscope anymore.” My family can be hard to take.

“So now you’re back under it?”

“Yeah.”

“Look on the bright side.” He reaches across the cab to nudge me with a warm hand. “Free food and rent!”

The man has a point. Nobody ever starved at Shipley Farm.

Though, as the dark miles roll by, I can’t stop myself from replaying the ugly scene in Alec’s bar. “Maybe it sounds weird to fixate on this,” I grumble. “But I can’t believe she was wearing that sweater. If you were going out for a date with the Other Woman, would you wear a sweater your live-in girlfriend made? I spent a hundred hours on that thing, and at least two hundred bucks. It was angora!”

“Good thing it wasn’t cashmere.”

“Right? Jesus. That would have been four hundred bucks worth of yarn.”

“Really?”

“Totally. It actually costs more to knit a sweater than to buy one.”

Alec turns his head to give me a quick glance. “Then why knit them? Serious question.”

“Because you can make whatever you want. But also out of love. A handmade thing is better than a store-bought thing.”

“Not always,” Alec points out. “If you ate my cooking you might not agree.”

“Fair enough.” I smile at his handsome profile. “This is going to sound stupid.”

“Try me. I say stupid shit all day long.”

“There’s this old wives’ tale that you’re not supposed to knit a sweater for the man in your life. They say that if you knit him a sweater, he’ll never marry you.”

“Ouch.” Alec’s handsome profile frowns. “I hope you don’t believe that. This thing wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t the sweater that did it,” I say quickly. “Of course not. The funny thing is, though, that the wives’ tale refers to a man. I made a joke that it didn’t matter if I gave Daniela a sweater because wives’ tales don’t cover lesbians.”

Alec laughs, filling the cab with a warm, happy sound. My life is falling apart right now, but Alec is still easy to talk to. It must be a gift that bartenders have. Like priests. Sitting at his bar chatting him up sounds like a good time.

Too bad I don’t go to bars anymore.

Before I’m ready, we’re rolling up the driveway of my family’s farmhouse. That’s when I notice that the driveway is packed with vehicles. “Oh, hell.”