by Elise Faber
Click-click.
Click-click.
Thump. Thump.
She glanced over, saw that he’d come up next to her. Fine, she’d already felt him closing the distance between then, the tingling awareness at the base of her neck, the way the tips of her fingers went itchy, wanting to touch.
But . . . seeing was almost as great as the feelings he evoked.
Almost.
She shook her head at herself, knowing it was a mistake to feed what was quickly becoming a need for this man—to see, to yearn to touch, to—
Enough.
Because it was a need she couldn’t act on for a multitude of reasons.
And still, she let her gaze drift over to take in the strong shoulders and arms, the flat stomach and narrow hips, the muscled legs, the—
Pink sparkling bag he clutched in his hand.
More fear disappearing. More longing shifting in to take its place. Maybe he wasn’t dangerous. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe he would see her as more than her past and her present.
And those maybes had her murmuring, “Doesn’t exactly go with your outfit.”
He grinned. “As I said, my sister may look sweet and innocent”—he held up the bag—“but she has a mean streak.”
“I happen to think that pink goes quite nicely with your complexion.”
“A compliment.” He waggled his brows. “I’ll take it. Though,” he added as they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the shop, “I hope I’ll get the same compliment on my yarn. It’s somehow even more pink—”
His words cut off.
Probably because she’d stopped, disappointment coursing through her at the sight of the mannequin in the window.
It was wearing a different sweater.
The purple was gone.
She’d been planning on asking Misty once more that evening if she could purchase it. Just once more. She wasn’t going to force the girl. It was just . . .
Pretty and she’d wanted it and—
Silly, huh?
“What is it?” Rob asked, his voice close enough to her ear to make her jump, even though it wasn’t particularly loud.
Proximity.
Attraction.
Danger.
He straightened, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched him glance from her to the direction of her stare before she felt his gaze return to her face. “I—”
She blinked, forced herself to smile. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I was woolgathering.”
“Been known to do that myself a time or two,” he said cheerfully.
Almost too cheerfully, considering she was suddenly feeling very grumpy about the sweater, even as she knew she was being ridiculous and telling herself it was just a sweater.
It was just . . . she’d even brought a signed script, hoping to tempt Misty, since it had one of the actors from her shop’s namesake.
Bribery.
Yup, she was down to bribery.
But—
It’s my precious.
Or at least that was what her inner Gollum kept saying. She’d dreamed about the damned sweater last night, imagining what it would feel like on her skin, how warm it would make her.
Wow.
Telling her inner ring-hoarding—or perhaps sweater-hoarding was more apt—brain to chill, she smiled at Rob and reached for the door.
He beat her there, tugging it open, the bell chiming, and marking their entrance to the circle of five women sitting in wooden chairs, a round, scarred table in the middle of them, a scattering of yarn and needles in front of them.
But that chaos and color and ten eyes on her wasn’t what stole her focus.
No, that was the man next to her. The man who held the door, so she had to walk past him, forcing her to move close to him. To smell him. To feel him and the warmth of his body.
To want him.
Shuddering, she forced her gait to stay even.
But even then, he noticed her reaction.
“Cold?” he murmured, still very close, still filling up her senses.
No, she wasn’t cold. Not in the least. In fact, she was quite hot, sweltering even, heat sliding through her limbs and coiling in her center.
“Hmm. Maybe next time you should wear a sweater.”
Sweater.
He was telling her to wear a sweater.
And reminding her of the sweater.
Her Gollum-urges prickled.
Ugh.
Annoyed at herself, unreasonably annoyed at him, she glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe you should mind your fucking business,” she said so sweetly it was completely full of saccharine.
The man just smiled and shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
Then he moved to the table and took a chair.
The last empty one.
Seriously?
She glared.
He smiled and shrugged again.
She barely resisted the foot stomping. Again.
“Come, sit down,” Misty called. “We have plenty of room.” With that, she stood and dragged another chair into the circle, forcing the other women to shift and scoot as they made space for the new addition.
Next to Rob.
Sophie’s gaze caught Misty’s, and she lifted a brow.
Misty just smiled innocently, and since she didn’t know the other woman well enough to know if it was truly an innocent action or if she were hiding her mischievousness beneath the surface of all that supposed goodness, Soph stifled a sigh and took her spot.
Next to Rob.
Even more unreasonably annoyed, she barely managed to portray calmness as she unpacked her knitting supplies. Hell, she didn’t even really know why she was furious.
Certainly not about the sweater.
Nor the chair.
It was just . . . this man was sandpaper rubbing against her skin, exfoliating her nerves, bringing them to painful attention, making her want things she couldn’t want, and—
Taking a knitting class, presumably because he wanted to be near her.
Which was sweet and—
Dangerous.
Definitely dangerous.
“Okay,” Misty said, “now that we’re all settled in, let’s get started.” Then she had everyone unfold their copy of the pattern and taught them how to read it.
Concentrating fiercely despite her awareness of Rob, she found that it wasn’t too difficult, especially with Misty’s cheat sheet of symbols and techniques for how to count stitches.
But despite her best intentions, it wasn’t long before Soph was in over her head. Misty had instructed them how to cast on—which was basically step one of the knitting project and the term to get the yarn on the needles—and now they were supposed to be practicing the technique as she moved around the room.
Except, Soph was a mess.
Or maybe her yarn was.
Or perhaps they both were.
“Dammit,” she muttered, yanking the yarn off, knowing that she’d have to wait until Misty made another round and showed her the method for a third time.
“Psst.”
Slanting her eyes to the left, to Rob, to the manly mass of muscle that was probably the sole reason she was having a hell of a time concentrating, she hissed, “What?”
“Want help?”
Setting her yarn and needles down. “How could you possibly help—”
Her words faltered because the blasted man had already cast on and had a good six rows of scarf hanging from his needles.
She clenched her jaw.
He shrugged, that casual lift and drop of his shoulders she decided she’d already seen enough of for a lifetime.
“I thought you wanted to learn how to knit a scarf.”
So help her God, if he shrugged, she’d take this knitting needle and—
The man must have recognized the precariousness of his situation because he smiled. “Maybe I meant I needed to know how to knit this scarf.” A beat as she continued to glare. “Do you want help or not?”
&n
bsp; Wanted?
No.
Needed? Her stare flicked between his project and her own.
Obviously, yes. If she was ever going to get this scarf going, she needed someone’s help, and since Misty was currently helping a brunette with round turquoise glasses and consternation on her face, while another woman with pale blond hair and eyes to match was next up for assistance, Soph knew her options were limited.
Receive help from this man, who unnerved her in the most uncomfortable—okay, also delicious and dangerous way—or to get his help.
But she didn’t wanna.
For better or worse, he took her reluctance as acceptance.
“Here,” he said, sliding his chair closer to hers and lightly grasping her hands in his. “You hold the needle like this—” His fingers shifted hers, the roughened pads making her shiver and he glanced down at her. “Cold?”
She shook her head, her gaze drawn to the lower corner of his mouth, to a tiny white scar that marked it like a tally mark, to the glimpse of a dimple on his cheek.
“Now,” he murmured, that voice soft but moving like liquid heat over her skin, as though she were dipping one leg then another then sliding her entire body into a steaming bath. “You bring the yarn over like this”—a pause, his tiger’s eyes meeting hers and holding—“with me so far?”
Forcing herself to concentrate, she focused on the movement of his hands, his fingers feeding the yarn up and over, bringing the needles through, guiding her own hands along with his.
“That’s it,” he said after a few minutes, releasing her. “Now, you’ve got it.”
She kept going, knitting another stitch and then another, this time without his help.
Were they the neatest stitches she’d ever seen? No.
Were they as neat as the ones he’d guided her through? Also no.
But they were made by her own hands, and before long, she had the first piece of a scarf. That she was going to make.
Pride—probably way too much for the pittance of stitches that were actually on her needle—bloomed through her, filling her with something akin to helium, making her feel as though she could float up to the ceiling and stay there, casually coasting above the room, grinning down at everyone, and chanting, “I made this! I made this!”
Pushing the thought aside and biting back a smile at her ridiculousness tugging up the corners of her mouth, she returned to the task at hand—knitting this damned scarf.
And Rob sat next to her, pink needles working on the pink yarn, occasionally murmuring a direction when she paused to glare down at her work of . . . art? Not precisely, but even as lumpy and uneven as it was, at least it had pretty colors and would keep her neck warm—
Hopefully, she thought, tugging out a few stitches when she realized she was about to leave a gaping hole in the length.
“What made you want to be an actress?” he asked, drawing her attention from the tangled yarn.
She lifted a brow. “Small talk now?”
A shrug, his fingers moving smoothly enough that she knew there was no way the man should be in a beginning knitting class. “I was recently informed that you’re kind of a big deal.”
“And what?” she asked, feeling a curl of bitterness. “Now, you’re all of a sudden interested in me?”
His mouth quirked. “Nope.”
Just nope.
And pop there went her ego, deflated like a balloon, her out-of-body experience, her ceiling floating and hissing away as she drifted back down to reality.
Nope.
N. O. P. E. Nope.
Cool.
“I fell into acting, decided I liked it enough to move to L.A.,” she said to fill the silence, or maybe to cover up the sound of all that ego pfting away into space. “Then after quite a few years of being a working actress, I got that lucky break like so many people dream of.”
“Wow.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes, going to buy a cup of tea can change a person’s life.”
He froze for long enough that she went over what she’d said, trying to discern what had put such a stark expression on his face. Then his shoulders dipped. “One small moment, a chance encounter.” A nod. “Yes, sometimes they can absolutely make the biggest changes in people’s lives.”
Her breath caught. “What was the change in yours?” she found herself asking.
Then immediately clamping her teeth together to contain her groan.
She was such a dumbass.
Soph opened her mouth, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but Rob spoke first, and he surprised her. “Overalls,” he said softly, staring down at the beginnings of the pink scarf on his pink needles.
“What?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to hers. “Overalls changed my life.” A small smile. “Or at least an idiotic boy grabbing onto the straps and hauling Carmella, hauling my late wife around.” He grinned. “When she was in kindergarten, that was. But regardless, it allowed me to sweep in and save the day.”
“What did you do to the idiotic boy?”
A shrug. “Stole his favorite ball and threw it onto the roof of the school.”
She giggled. “Devious.”
“Not really,” he said. “Truthfully, I didn’t even think. I was just so pissed that I yanked the ball from his grip and yeeted it right up onto that roof.” He paused, straightened a portion of her yarn that had gotten tangled. “Probably for the best that I chose that instead of pushing or hitting him. Not only was he a giant baby—as most bullies are wont to be—but he was the biggest tattletale in school.”
“I hate bullies,” she said. “So, it sounds like he got what he deserved.”
“That’s what I tried to tell the other kids, when they realized I’d gotten rid of our class’s only good four-square ball.” His expression was filled with amusement. “But that was another one of those moments that change a life.”
“How?”
“Carmella stood up for me.” A beat. “And brought in a new room ball, courtesy of her allowance.”
Sophie laughed. “How old were you guys?”
“Five? Maybe six?”
“And you stayed friends?”
“Best friends,” he said. “And then boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“And eventually husband and wife.” She nodded. “How amazingly lucky for you both to have found each other so early.”
He opened his mouth, paused, then sighed. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”
She fumbled with her needles and yarn, trying not to drop both, then managed to find his hand and squeeze it lightly. “Sorry if I—”
Flipping his palm over, he tangled his fingers with hers. “No, don’t apologize. It’s nice to be able to talk about her without hurting so much.”
“I’m glad.”
They sat there for a moment, hands laced together, eyes locked, and . . . Sophie forgot how to breathe, or maybe it was just her heart malfunctioning as it pounded beneath her rib cage.
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
His lips parted. “Do—”
“All right, everyone.” Misty’s voice broke in on whatever Rob had been about to say, and she would have given her lumpy scarf to hear the rest of his statement.
But then he pulled back slightly, and she returned her hands to her lap.
“That’s it for class today,” Misty went on. “Please, stay after if you have any further questions. Thursday, we’ll go into detail about the middle section of the scarf, which is a different stitch.” She chuckled. “So, your homework—or mission, should you choose to accept it—is to finish the top block. Thanks, everyone!”
A beat of quiet as goodbyes and gratitude were exchanged and the class cleared out, one or two of the other students hanging around afterward to talk with Misty.
Soph felt Rob’s gaze on her as she packed away her things, a heated and almost tangible thing, but still unnerving. Mostly because she liked it so much. To like a man, to trul
y like him, or even more frightening, to love him was dangerous and too risky for her blood.
She didn’t think she would ever marry, didn’t think she was capable of tying herself to someone that way.
Not after what she’d escaped.
So no, no husband, no kids, nothing more than friends, and even those who got close to her had to survive an odious quest to penetrate her walls, only the most persistent and rigorous making their way to the prized possession of her friendship.
Ha.
Prized possession.
Now that was her Hollywood ego talking.
She was no gift, no gem, no glorious treasure at the end of a long, arduous journey. She could play nice on the surface, give a great interview, but Soph was too closed-down inside to be truly available.
“Do you want to go grab ice cream?” he asked.
Stark interest in Rob’s eyes. He hadn’t moved, other than to stow his knitting in that sparkly bag.
Yes, she wanted to get ice cream. She wanted whipped cream and cherries, chocolate syrup and nuts, and maybe if she was lucky, sliced bananas. But his interest, more than anything else, was going to make her turn him down.
Because he deserved someone who was available.
He deserved someone better than her.
And that wasn’t some self-pitying bullshit. Soph knew what she was, knew she was valuable as a human being. She worked hard, donated to charities, tried to do the best with what she was given.
But in this manner of abilities, in the skill of being open enough to be in a true relationship with someone, to be vulnerable and allow a man into her heart, she had only been given dredges.
She simply couldn’t ever be what Rob—a good, kind man, who’d already survived too much grief—deserved.
So, she couldn’t allow ties to form.
Distance. STAT.
Not looking at him, she lifted her bag, tucking it over her shoulder and pushing her chair back from the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I actually have . . . a call I need to jump onto tonight.”
Disappointment edging into his expression, that tiny scar at the corner of his mouth flashing bright white when his lips pressed flat. “Of course.”
And, stupid woman that was, she found herself saying, “Maybe on Thursday?”
That mouth relaxed, becoming lush and kissable again, his eyes bright, and she knew she was in trouble. As dangerous as the charming, knitting man was, she so preferred to see him like this, rather than sad and disappointed and dragged through the wringer, and—
