How to Knit a Love Song

by Rachael Herron

  Abigail nodded and picked up her knitting. She couldn’t believe she’d sat here, her hands not moving, for this long. Knitting would save her. It always did. Knit through everything.

  “What are you making?” asked the perfect Betty.

  “A sweater. I’m just finishing it up.”

  “It’s big.”

  “It’s a man’s sweater.”

  “Is it for Cade?”

  “No!”

  “I thought, as a thank-you or something.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Betty stopped spinning, tucking the spindle under her leg, as the other women did when they stopped. God, she was a quick learner.

  “Is it okay for me to be here? It’s okay if it’s not, tell me and I’ll go find Cade.”

  Abigail shook her head. “It’s my fault. I’m in a bad mood, and I’m taking it out on you, I’m sorry.” She really had to pull herself together. She wasn’t being fair to anyone right now.

  Janet said, “I bullied her into the party, rolled myself in here and threw it all together. She’s been working so hard to get the shop up and running. Just ignore her crankiness. That’s what I do. Although, darling”—she turned to Abigail—“this is rather unlike you. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you in such a bad mood.”

  “Great. I’m sorry. Just a lot still to do.”

  “I can help,” offered Betty. “I work with a homeless people’s poetry project on Sundays, but I have most Saturdays free, and I’d love to give you a hand, since I wasn’t able to help today.”

  She really was sweet. Abigail smiled, and this time it was genuine. “I’m almost done, thanks, but I’d love it if you came by or took a class sometime.”

  “If Cade and I are still dating, I’d love to. I hear he doesn’t usually date for long.”

  “If at all,” said Abigail.

  “And no matter how you and Cade are doing,” added Janet, “you’re coming, and that’s all we’ll hear of it. We’ll get you spinning on a wheel next.”

  Cade entered the room. “Well, look at you. Are you converted yet?”

  “I’m one of them now, look.” Betty held up her spindle and showed off her single to him. He nodded, looking pained.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you want to stay for a glass of champagne? I could spin a little longer.”

  “Well, I’d love to have a drink in my own house, but the space is all taken up right now.”

  “Look at this, at the sweater that Abigail’s making. Isn’t that gorgeous? Hold it up, Abigail.”

  Abigail did, reluctantly. If only the two of them would leave, this party would settle down to normal again. She was conscious of twenty other pairs of eyes watching this exchange.

  The sweater she’d been working on was her own design—she wanted a good, sturdy, attractive men’s sweater to hang in the shop. She’d used her own handspun that she’d made last year from a Rambouillet fleece. She’d dyed the skeins a deep russet. Then she’d designed a traditional Guernsey, using the measurements of a friend down south and incorporating several old patterns in the top third. She liked the unconventional zigzag motif she’d lined down the arms, which kept it from being staid. The sweater was almost done—she was about to pick up and knit the neckline, but she hadn’t started it yet.

  “Look,” said Betty. “You could try it on, Cade. She’s not done, but it doesn’t look like it would hurt anything, would it, Abigail?”

  “No, I don’t need to do that.” Cade started backing out of the room.

  “No, I don’t think it would fit him.” Abigail dropped it back into her lap.

  “I think that’s a smashing idea,” said Janet. “Girls!” She clapped her hands. “Don’t you think the handsome rancher should try on the Gansey?”

  To a loud chorus of encouragement—boy, the other women had certainly been enjoying the champagne and wine—Cade was cajoled back into the room.

  After several more moments of protestation, he looked at Abigail and said, “We’re not getting out of this one, are we?”

  “I don’t think so, cowboy.”

  “Take it off! Take it off!” yelled the women.

  “It’s a sweater. It goes over.”

  “Oh, darling, not over that sweater you’re already wearing,” said Janet.

  “But I don’t have anything on underneath.”

  It was true, Abigail wouldn’t recommend wearing the Guernsey over the obviously store-bought dress sweater he was wearing. He was dressed for a date, she noticed. Okay, she’d noticed it as soon as he’d come back into the room, wearing that charcoal sweater and matte-black dress pants. He smelled good, too, a light scent of masculine soap mixed with leather.

  It wasn’t fair that she thought like this about him. She didn’t want to.

  So what she really didn’t need was for him to strip down right here.

  The chant continued, “Take it off! Take it off!”

  One woman named Louise who had been quiet earlier, scuttling around with her head down while they were cleaning, was standing on a low table, swinging her sock-in-progress around her head. Abigail saw another woman swigging right from the champagne bottle—she spluttered a bit when she saw Abigail notice her.

  Someone did a drum roll on the table with their fists.

  Everyone in the room was giggling or hollering, everyone except Cade and Abigail.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Cade, but he reached for the hem of his sweater.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said as she adjusted some longer yarn ends that she hadn’t sewn in yet.

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  He took off his sweater, and the crowd went wild.

  And really, she knew why they were going crazy. Look at him, all abs, tightly defined muscles arranged in the traditional six-pack, curving up to a broad chest lightly covered in dark brown hair. His arms were also defined, large biceps, strong deltoids.

  “He looks like a model,” stage-whispered Louise from up on the table.

  “Give me the sweater, for the love of God,” Cade said.

  “She’s right, darling,” said Janet. “You do look like a model. Take your time. Don’t hurry on our account.”

  “Why am I doing this again?” he asked as he pulled the sweater over his head.

  “Gah! Not like that!” Abigail jumped to help him pull it on. “I haven’t sewn the underarm seams, and I don’t want you ripping anything out.”

  Betty answered his question. “You’re doing this for the good of all of us. We like what we’re seeing. Plus, Abigail should see it on a live male’s body.”

  What, did she think that Abigail had no access to a man’s torso? Okay, she didn’t. But she didn’t need one, not to simply make a sweater. She could feel herself flushing red.

  Cade, too, was bright red. He almost matched the russet of the sweater, which looked wonderful on him.

  The sweater looked as if it were made for him.

  She swore to herself it hadn’t been. Sure, she’d only started to work on it about a month ago, about the same time she’d moved here. She had dyed the wool long before meeting him.

  If Cade’s body type had flashed through her mind as she’d been knitting and designing, was that really her fault? He was the closest male around, after all. It was natural.

  Louise, now sitting on the table, a glass in either hand, said, “He should never, ever take that off.”

  “Unless it’s when he’s parking his boots under my bed….” Abigail wasn’t sure which woman said that, but it set off a tornado of sexual comments and innuendoes. Cade turned even redder and he pulled at the neck of the sweater.

  “Get this off of me,” he growled at Abigail.

  “Don’t pull like that.” She lifted the hem and pulled it, her hands accidentally grazing his sides as it went up. She felt him shiver under her fingers.

  Their eyes met. A sudden heat went through Abigail, and for one moment there were just the two of them in the room.
His eyes spoke of fire and passion and reflected her own passion back to her, as if he caught it and amplified it, sending it back doubled. She had to tell herself to breathe.

  She worked the neckline over his head. He was naked from the waist up again. During that moment when the sweater was in front of his face, their eye connection was broken.

  She tried to catch hold of herself, of her racing heart.

  For God’s sake, they were in a room full of women, could she at least prevent herself from behaving like a teenager? All giddy and red and blushing. Were her hands shaking?

  As he reached for his original sweater, she thought she saw his hands shaking, too.

  “Wouldn’t you love a sweater like that, huh? What would you do for a sweater like that?” said someone from the back of the parlor.

  Another woman called out, “I know how to knit, baby. I’ll make you a sweater. I’ll help you put it on. And take it off.”

  Cade shook his head, as if to clear it, and said again, with finality in his voice, “We’re going. Betty. Come on.”

  Betty didn’t even look at him. She raised a finger and said, “Just a minute. I want to ask about this part.” She leaned over to the two women seated on the piano bench and held out her spindle.

  Cade cleared his throat and glared. He looked menacing. Betty didn’t seem to care, or even to notice.

  Abigail realized that she might have really gone a little too far this time. Having a party in his house, without asking, might have been a little much.

  Which, really, was why she had done it. A light feeling entered her lungs, and she realized she was close to laughter. Panicked laughter, sure. Bubbling giggles rose desperately in her chest.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders again, keeping her expression airy. She looked up at him again.

  “Cade, your face is almost purple. Don’t forget to breathe, okay?” She looked at him closer, honestly getting worried. Was he breathing at all?

  “Are you okay?” Her hand went out to touch his arm, but his hand snaked out and caught hers, instead.

  “Kitchen, now,” he said, his teeth gritted together.

  “I’m coming. Don’t pull me.”

  “Now.”

  He walked in front of her, faster than she could follow. She could feel the intent interest behind her, from the women packing the parlor, but didn’t turn to meet any of their gazes. Janet would smooth things over in there, would quell the gossiping tongues. She was good at that. If she wasn’t starting even better gossip, that is.

  He was good to follow, she decided, as they entered the kitchen. Apparently, her libido was still lit from that quick gaze in the parlor, because his backside held just about as much fascination as his naked chest had held.

  My God, she needed to get hold of herself. Or get laid.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Remember, a woman’s knitting needles are sharp, and her eyesight is sharper.

  —E.C.

  He’d never been treated as such an object in his life, and he’d participated in a wet tee shirt contest in college. The girls had screamed at him then, but tonight had been different. Cade honestly thought that if he would have fit in their knitting bags, they would have scooped him up and run with him right out of the house.

  Crazy knitters.

  And the craziest of all of them was right on his heels.

  Good. He didn’t necessarily need the whole world to hear him go off on her about the party, but he was mad enough that if she hadn’t followed him, he wouldn’t have cared.

  “We need to go back to what I was saying,” he said and turned around, leaning against the sink.

  “I don’t actually remember what that was.” She tried to hide a giggling sound behind her hand.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, my God, did you see their faces? They wanted you to keep going!” She leaned forward, giggling, her hair falling in her face. It made her look about eighteen years old. “If only they’d had one-dollar bills, you could have cleaned up. Bought a tractor or something with your g-string money.”

  It was too late, she was full-blown in the middle of a giggle fit. He knew the signs, and he’d have to wait it out.

  He stood in one place, not moving an inch; even though his hip was leaning at an uncomfortable angle against the cabinet door, to move would have been to invite more hilarity. And sure enough, she kept it up for a while, subsiding slowly, after huffing and snorting and hiccupping.

  She looked funny enough to make him smile. It lifted his heart to see her like this.

  He banished the thought and plastered the stern look back on his face.

  This was serious, goddammit. None of this was okay. He wouldn’t allow a retail store on his property, even though it wasn’t, technically, his property anymore. He’d told her no. He’d made it clear.

  Then, not only did she go and have a grand-opening party, she pulled it off here. In his house, which she owned no part of. None at all.

  It was enough to make a man…Damn it. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do right now that didn’t involve her getting closer to him, and that wasn’t acceptable. That was absolutely the last thing he wanted.

  He would put more space between them, that was it. He needed to be able to breathe, and she was so close to him.

  She wasn’t laughing anymore. She was looking up at him, expecting him, he was sure, to light into her about the party. To lambaste her with remarks that would hopefully have the effect of making her sorry she chose to have the party here, sorry that she even ever came here. Sorry enough to pack up her things and leave her dream behind.

  But that would mean leaving him behind, too, wouldn’t it?

  That wasn’t what he wanted.

  God, what did he want?

  He wanted space. He would have to back up. But the sink was behind him. All right, he’d move to the other side of her, around her.

  Why didn’t she say anything? Why was she standing there, looking at him, so beautiful? His heart felt funny, so odd that it was almost painful.

  Screw it. When it came right down to it, even with everything he wanted to say to her, none of that mattered. Not when their eyes were locked like this, not when she was melting into him from four paces away.

  There was only one thing he wanted.

  He stepped forward. She jumped. Her mouth opened as if to speak, and then his own mouth was on hers, where it belonged. He should have done this at the start. Shouldn’t have wasted his time trying to make her jealous, bring Betty here. What had he been thinking? This was what he wanted.

  She gasped against his mouth, and he touched the inside of her mouth with his tongue. Then more. He needed more, and he couldn’t have more, not right here in the middle of the kitchen with two dozen women in the next room, all armed with sharp and pointy sticks.

  The pantry. It was behind her and to the left. He maneuvered her as best he could; she gasped again, but it wasn’t because of his kiss. He remembered her ankle too late.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, keeping his mouth as close as he could to hers without actually kissing her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then hold on to me for a second.”

  He put his arms around her waist and lifted, raising her slightly off the ground. He pressed her fully against his length at the same time. He moved forward, kicking the swinging pantry door open with the toe of his foot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Here, I’m putting you down.” He did it as gently as he could, but as her feet touched the ground, something stabbed him in the stomach.

  “Ow! What the hell?” He reached in front of him. “Are you carrying a skewer in your pants?”

  “Oh, crap,” she said. “It’s a double-point knitting needle. Size one. That can do some real damage—are you okay?”

  “I think I’m okay, I’m not sure. Am I bleeding?”

  The pantry was so small they had to stand ag
ainst each other. She seemed to want to be as close to him as he wanted to be to her, and he didn’t want to lose that—didn’t want to spook her.

  “Here,” he said, taking her hand and placing it under the hem of his sweater. “Feel for me, see if I’m okay.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. He wanted to bite her lip in the same spot.

  She drew her hand across his belly. “Here?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I don’t think it broke the skin. I’m so sorry…” she started.

  “Maybe you should check lower.”

  “Did the needle get you…”

  “Maybe it did.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose we’re better safe than sorry.” She grinned at him, a cheeky grin that made his heart jump.

  “How about here?” Abigail’s fingers were at the top of his waistband.

  “Hmm. Kind of sore. But I think it’s just a little lower. You may have to…”

  “Under your belt, you mean? I suppose I’d better check. You don’t want to bleed to death because I haven’t done my job.”

  She unbuckled his belt and undid the button and fly on his pants. But she didn’t even graze the front of him, the rock-hard part of him that he so desperately wanted her to touch. She knew exactly what she was doing, and he loved it.

  Now her fingers slipped a little into the top of his boxers. “No, I think you’re good here, too. I think you’ll live.”

  His voice, when he spoke, was low and raspy. “No, maybe a little bit lower. Please, Abigail. I need you to check.”

  “Oh, here? That what you mean?”

  Her hand was suddenly around him, all the way, cupping and stroking him. He gripped the shelf behind him. He prayed it would hold him.

  “How are you doing right here, huh? What if I do this?”

  He moaned.

  “You don’t appear damaged at all. I’m so relieved.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. But I might be dying.” He had a hard time getting out the words.

  “Really? You feel pretty strong to me, like you’re doing okay.”

  He dropped his head and ground his mouth against hers.