She nods. “I saw the flyer at the library. Sip ’N’ Stitch at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday evening.” She holds up her yarn. “But I guess they canceled tonight’s meeting. Unless you all …” Her busy fingers take a break as she waves to indicate the group of bikers behind me.

I bite my lip until I have my grin under control. “Unless we all …”

“Do any of you crochet? Or knit?”

The hopeful rise of her brows sets off an excited buzz in my chest. I shake my head.

“Needlepoint?”

“Sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong place.”

Her face drops, a frown twisting her lips. “But the flyer … here, can you hold this?”

The craft she’s been working on gets shoved into my hands before she dives into her bag.

I sit patiently, grinning all the while.

She is blatantly uncaring that she’s not only making some kind of scarf in the middle of a biker bar, but that she also just asked one of said bikers to hold her project while she hunts through her purse.

Who is this woman?

“Ha! Got it.” She pulls out a phone and swipes her thumb across the screen. “I took a picture of the flyer. Look.”

Tilting the device so I can see, she zooms in on a neon-blue flyer.

“See? Sip ’N’ Stitch. Every Wednesday. Seven p.m. at the …”

When she pauses, I finish for her, “Wild Rabbit.”

“Damn,” she whispers, glaring at her phone. “Double damn.”

The curses are sweet on her lips. They make me want to hear more dirty words from her mouth.

After a weary sigh, she downs the last of her bourbon and retrieves her yarn creation from me, only to stow it into her bag.

“Are you leaving?” I can’t stifle the tinge of disappointment in my voice.

“Two rabbit bars? In the same town? Is there some theme I don’t know about?” she mutters to herself, ignoring my question and laying cash down beside her empty glass before typing something on her phone.

“That might help with tourism. Make everything in town revolve around rabbits. We could have a whole festival. Maybe a running of the rabbits. Fill the streets with them.” My jokes come out fast and desperate.

Because she’s leaving. I want to get her to laugh. Get her to stay.

She pauses, raising her eyes from her phone, awarding me with her full attention and a brief smile.

Only the expression seems sad. Which might as well be an energy drink for my curiosity.

“Thanks for … sitting in my vicinity, I guess. Have a good night, Biker Boy.”

Biker Boy?

She doesn’t know my name.

I never told her my name.

And she hasn’t given me hers.

This is not how this ends.

As she heads toward the exit, my instincts demand I do something. Anything.