His sandy-blond hair was short all over with a slight crinkle. It was usually longer—shaggier and less kempt—the crinkle tending to curls. But he’d cut it for the wedding and kept it that way, and she couldn’t decide which way she liked it better. Short was hot in a first responder, Action Man, yes ma’am kind of way. Longer was hot in a Greek god, you-know-nothing-Jon-Snow kind of way.

On another man it might have looked girly. But on this guy it worked because, basically, he was all hot. Especially his mouth. Just looking at that mouth made her ears warm. And when he smiled, it was punctuated on either side by two perfect dimples.

Not that he was smiling now.

He tended to be more contained around her, circumspect and polite—teeth-achingly polite—whenever she pushed through his doors. Also, a little guarded. Despite that, he, of all Arlo’s friends, had been the one to treat her most like a fully-grown adult with complete agency over her life. Especially that first difficult year, when she’d sat herself down on his barstool—a little too often—looking for some alcoholic fortification.

He’d poured but hadn’t pushed, as if he understood there were many ways to slay demons.

Which made the fact she had a…crush on him even more sad and pathetic. They were never going to happen. He was one of her brother’s closest friends. That made him so far out of her orbit he might as well have been Pluto. The man just didn’t look at her like that.

Tinder. She really needed to go on Tinder.

Della started the de-layering process, dragging off the bright pink pussy hat that had been knitted for her by Mrs. Winchester from the old folks’ home. Della had tried to tell the skilled knitter that the hats were more about protest than warmth, but she’d insisted, and Della hadn’t had the heart not to wear it to and from work every day.

No wonder her head felt like a block of ice by the time she’d walked home.

She stuffed the hat in her coat pocket, along with the thick lamb’s wool–lined gloves. Her scarf was next. It had been knitted by another one of the oldies, a Mr. Curran, who only knew how to knit one, purl one but was prolific with it because he appreciated how the activity kept his arthritic old hands warmed up.