That gets him. He booms out a laugh that luckily fits in with this vibrant, crowded restaurant. The cheerful sound makes me want to join in, but I shove away the urge. For some reason, I get the sense that Warner is the one used to making people laugh, and I’ve somehow accomplished something by charming the comedian.

I make my way to the bar, leaning on it to get a bartender’s attention as I take in the many framed rabbit pictures hanging haphazardly between bottles of alcohol. There’s even a chalkboard with a list of Cottontail Cocktails.

Yeah, this place is very different from The Rabbit Hole.

A second away from ordering an Easter Bunny Bourbon, I stop myself.

Your limit is one.

Instead, I ask for a soda water with lime. As my drink is poured, Warner settles at my side.

“I think we’ve found your group.”

At his subtle nod, I glance toward the back corner.

Bingo.

A gathering of about eight women sits, chatting and drinking, around a table situated under a portrait of The Velveteen Rabbit. Each one holds a fabric craft. Their ages look to range from twenties to fifties, which also makes me giddy. A lot of times these types of groups are made up of only women my mom’s age, and I feel like the inexperienced baby of the club.

“Good eye. Thanks for the ride, Warner.” I slide cash to the barman as he sets down my glass. “His drink is on me.”

The biker raises his eyebrows as I toast him before navigating the crowd to the group I’ve been struggling to find all night. A couple of the women notice my approach and offer curious smiles.

Please don’t be annoyed that I’m late.

Once I’m on the perimeter, their conversations trickle off as each one studies me.

“Hello. I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m new to town, and I misread the flyer and ended up at the wrong place. Is it a problem if I join you all?” To prove my legitimacy, I reach into my bag, pulling out my half-finished hat.

I get a few more smiles, and one woman leans forward. “Of course you can join us. May I ask your name?”

“I’m Zoey. Zoey Gunner.”

There’s some murmuring from the group as eyes trace over my face.

“I’m Amy Spencer,” the woman offers with a warm smile that creases her tan cheeks. “You wouldn’t be related to Minnie Gunner, would you?”

“She was my grandmother.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Amy says. “You look so much like your mother. Is Selena in town with you?”

I shake my head. “Just me. I’m cleaning out Minnie’s cabin so we can put it up for sale.”