by Unknown
“Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll see what we can do about this. I’m Charlotte, by the way. You already know our Ronnie, I take it, but this is Melanie and Susan and Louella and Grace, and my darling niece, Jenna.”
She went around the group, introducing everyone, and Ronnie was pleased to note that none of her friends offered more than narrowed eyes and semi-polite nods in response. Even Jenna and Grace, who already knew Dylan and were (or had been) involved with two of his best friends, remained stoically silent.
God, she loved female loyalty. Dylan might think he was going to get some help with his knitting here, but she suspected they’d succeed in driving him away in a matter of hours. Two meetings tops.
“Dylan Stone,” he offered, moving to take a seat right beside her.
Of course.
She ignored him completely, concentrating on the arm of her sweater, needles and yarn blurring together, fingers dancing. Charlotte’s voice droned in her ears, going on about the Knit Wits and knitting in general, while in her head, Ronnie imagined losing control of her needles and sending one flying in Dylan’s direction. With her luck, though, it would probably just bounce off his thick skull or his firm bicep.
She dragged her attention back to the real world in time to hear Charlotte say, “. . . why I think you’d do well with a bit of one-on-one instruction.”
Hmph. She’d have to have a little talk with Charlotte about being too friendly, especially to the enemy. Not that he’d have any luck finding private tutoring from this group. They all knew who he was, knew about the columns and competition, and would rather chew glass than help Dylan win a wager against her.
Even if he did manage to find someone else to help him learn to knit—thanks to Charlotte and her big mouth (second only to her big heart)—Ronnie still wasn’t worried. There was no way he’d learn to knit well enough in only a month to complete a decent project, no matter how simple.
And if he started to get close enough to make her nervous, there was always lighter fluid and a match.
“There!” Charlotte announced, finally getting to the end of the ball of mangled yarn. A pile of the loose blue strands lay on the floor at her feet, and she quickly began to coil it back up.
“Now, which one of you ladies would like to get this young man started again? I’m afraid my hands are starting to bother me. Arthritis, you know.” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Ronnie, how about you, dear? You’re nearly finished with that row, and you’re so very talented with the needles.”
Ronnie’s fingers stilled and her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Was Charlotte insane? Was the old woman finally losing her marbles? What was she thinking, not only helping Dylan, but now trying to get Ronnie to help him, too?
And if Charlotte had arthritis in even one of her pudgy knuckles, Ronnie was a duck-billed platypus.
The woman was up to something, and Ronnie didn’t like it. She gave Charlotte her meanest glare, but the evil, mop-headed little troll merely smiled, dropped the ball of yarn into Ronnie’s lap, and returned to her chair on the other side of the circle.
Ronnie knew she looked like a crazy person. Her lips were moving as she muttered beneath her breath—every garbled thought and vile curse that came to mind.
“What’s the matter?” Dylan asked after several long seconds when she neither responded to Charlotte’s suggestion nor jumped up to give him a hand. “Afraid I’ll bite? Or afraid I won’t?”
His grin, and the whiskey-smooth tone of his voice, might have affected other women, but the pump of her blood and pound of her heart were signs of her annoyance, not signs that he was in any way attractive or charming. Please!
“Only in your wildest imaginings, Stone.”
His smile widened, flashing rows of gleaming white teeth. “How did you know, Chasen?”
Rolling her eyes, she made a sound between a gag and a groan and pushed to her feet.
“Fine.” She stabbed the caps back on the points of her needles and shoved everything back into her bag. “Don’t expect me to be too accommodating, though. After all, I’m the one who wants you to fall flat on your face.”
“Huh. In my dreams, you always seem to want me flat on my back.”
It was her turn to twitch, and she quickly slapped a hand over her right eye to keep him from noticing. With the other hand, she grabbed his needles from his lap and held the pointy ends to his jugular.
“Do not tempt me,” she bit out, enjoying the image of using his own knitting needles to make Dylan-kabobs.
For long seconds, he held his tongue, waiting until his life no longer hung in the balance. But the minute she lowered the needles from his throat and took a seat closer to him on his other side, he couldn’t seem to resist muttering, “That’s not what you said in the dream, either.”
The rest of the group may not have heard his remark, but they certainly heard his yelp when she drove the needles sharply into the side of his thigh. All heads turned in their direction—if they hadn’t been already—but Ronnie merely smiled sweetly and played dumb. As dumb as she could, anyway, with everyone in the room already aware of the animosity she held toward Dylan.
For the next half hour, without leaning into it very much at all, she worked with Dylan to teach him the basics of knitting. Casting on and the simple knit stitch, but that was about it. She wasn’t about to help him learn anything to aid his success in this latest challenge.
And it delighted her to see that he wasn’t doing so well at catching on to even the easiest steps. He would either pull the yarn too tight or leave it too loose; yarn under when he should yarn over; purl when he should knit. She didn’t always correct his mistakes, either, because . . . well, that would defeat the purpose of their competition, now, wouldn’t it?
But she’d been as nice as could be expected under the circumstances and had gotten through the evening without any more sideways glances or chastisements from Charlotte. The woman was positively gifted at making her feel like a misbehaving six-year-old, even if her actions and attitude were entirely warranted.
When, though, had Dylan started smelling so darn good? Like fresh pine needles and woodsy musk and sex on a stick.
She’d also never noticed before how big and rough his hands were—in an extremely attractive way. They looked as though they could make a layup shot or stroke a woman to orgasm with equal finesse.
It was disturbing, to say the least. Especially when she found herself leaning closer and closer to “guide” him along, taking deep, lung-filling sniffs of him in the process.
Of course, it wasn’t him, not really. Just whatever aftershave or cologne he’d chosen to wear today. That was the only explanation she could think of for the little zing of electricity that seemed to pass between them whenever they touched.
If she could find out what brand it was, then she could pick up a bottle for herself and whiff her way to sensual pleasure all by herself, without ever again getting within ten feet of Dylan Stone.
Yes, that’s what she would do. Because any cologne that could make a woman’s nipples go hard beneath her top and have her squirming in her seat was definitely worth the twenty bucks, whether she had a man to wear it for her or not.
About ten minutes after their meetings usually broke up, Melanie stuffed her knitting on top of her overloaded handbag and stood. “Well, I wish I could stick around, but I’ve got to get home and pack lunches for my kids’ field trip tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to the Box with us?” Grace asked, following Melanie’s lead and beginning to gather her things.
“Not this time,” Melanie said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Next week, though, God willing.”
The light drizzle from earlier had let up by the time they all made their way out of The Yarn Barn, leaving behind only a few puddles and a dampness to the air. As though by tacit agreement, they ignored Dylan completely on their way out, leaving him at the curb as they headed for their cars.
It was too much to hope that
she could be done with him for the night. Two seconds after she walked into The Penalty Box with Grace and Jenna, Dylan showed up, too, making his way to the table Zack and Gage already occupied.
Grace made a beeline for the same table, throwing her arms around Zack’s neck for a long, slow kiss. He pulled her onto his knee and they talked in low whispers for a few minutes.
They looked like Get-a-Room Barbie and Ken, blond heads bent close, long limbs twined together like vines of climbing ivy.
Normally, public displays of affection didn’t bother Ronnie; she’d been known to participate in them a time or two herself. But she wasn’t in the mood to watch the lovey-dovey, ooey-gooey stuff at the moment. Not when the only man in her life was giving her both a bleeding ulcer and an all-over body rash.
Jenna, she noticed, was equally uncomfortable. She turned away from the guys’ table almost immediately and headed for an empty booth at the back of the room. But then, that could have been less because of Zack and Grace and more because of Gage.
It wasn’t easy being part of a group where two of the members used to be a happy, loving couple, but were now divorced. Anytime they were together, the room filled with tension and Ronnie felt as if she were walking through shards of broken glass in open-toed shoes.
For all that, though, she imagined it had to be a hundred times worse for Jenna. Yes, her friend had been the one to initiate the divorce proceedings, but Ronnie got the distinct feeling leaving Gage hadn’t been what she’d wanted at all—and that she was still in love with him. She didn’t talk about it, tried not to show it, but some things a woman just wasn’t able to hide.
The one time Gage had come into the bar with another woman while they were there . . . a bleached-blond, silicone-boobed tramp, no less . . . Jenna had turned green around the gills and taken off like her hair was on fire.
Ronnie didn’t think Gage was entirely indifferent, either. He’d never been the most exuberant man she’d ever met—more the strong-and-silent or walk-softly-and-carry-a-big-gun type—but he’d definitely become more quiet and subdued since the breakup. When he didn’t think anyone else was looking, she’d caught him staring more than once in his ex-wife’s direction with an expression of longing and regret on his chiseled face.
With a sigh, Ronnie followed Jenna to the rear of the bar and slid into the booth beside her. She might have asked her friend how she was doing, if she maybe wanted to go somewhere else for drinks instead of sitting here within spitting distance of her ex . . . but she knew the response she would get, since they’d had that conversation before.
To Jenna, going somewhere else and avoiding Gage would be the same as acknowledging she still had feelings for him or that she was still smarting from the divorce. And quiet, even-tempered Jenna would rather walk naked through Metro Park than admit to either.
“What do you feel like drinking tonight?” Ronnie asked. “Margaritas again, or just beer?”
“How about a couple of Cosmopolitans?” Grace suggested, sweeping up with a wide smile on her face. “I could go for something sexy and fruity.”
Jenna nodded, sending her short, black pixie cut flying. “That sounds good. I’ll take two.”
Grace flopped down on the bench seat on the other side of Jenna. “Me, too.”
Ronnie laughed. “I’ll go place our orders, but let’s go slowly, ladies. I’m not up for being a designated driver tonight, and I don’t feel like calling cabs for everyone.”
Getting to her feet, she made her way around tables and chairs to the bar. The place was crowded and loud, much like every other night, keeping Turk busy behind the bar.
A Rob Thomas song was playing on the digital jukebox in the far corner, and she found herself tapping a toe and humming along while she studied the assortment of liquor bottles lining the mirrored shelves in front of her.
They could have flagged down a server and waited for her to bring their drinks, but Ronnie didn’t mind squeezing in at the bar and waiting to catch Turk’s attention. He was a good-looking man, and though flirting had never gotten her anywhere—honest to God, she didn’t think the man’s expression would change if she lit his crotch on fire—she enjoyed taking a few seconds to get a nice eyeful.
It was that ass again. Son of a bitch.
Dylan swallowed hard, wishing the waitress would come with his beer already. He could use a tall, cold one to wet his dry throat and lower his internal temperature a few degrees.
On either side of him at the wide round table, Gage and Zack were arguing about the Rockets’ last game. It hadn’t gone well, and Gage was giving Zack some pointers on how the team might win next time around. To which Zack was suggesting Gage do one of two things—get out on the ice and put his stick where his mouth was, or do something to himself that Dylan was pretty sure was anatomically impossible.
Dylan had watched Monday night’s game and was as disappointed in the loss as the others, but at the moment his full attention was locked on Ronnie’s hips and rear and long, long legs where she stood at the bar, shimmying in time with the music that filled the room.
No matter where he went, he couldn’t seem to get away from her tight, heart-shaped ass. It was beginning to haunt his dreams, and that was just downright scary.
He shifted in his seat, aware of the sudden tightening of his jeans in the area of his zipper.
Along with Ronnie’s behind dancing through his dreams on a regular basis these days, the other thing he did not need was to start getting turned on by his archrival. She was a ball-busting shrew who shouldn’t be able to attract any man unless he lived under a bridge somewhere, threatening to eat little billy goats as they passed.
But erections didn’t lie, and his was like a divining rod pointing straight in Ronnie Chasen’s direction.
Tired of waiting for his beer to arrive, he pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ll be back,” he said by way of explanation to his two friends, who were still arguing heatedly over Monday night’s game and getting no closer to a truce.
He sidled up beside Ronnie, bumping into her as he made room for himself at the crowded bar. She turned to see who’d jostled her and her expression transformed from calm and unlined, almost happy, to scowling.
“Can’t you find anyone else to annoy, Stone?”
“Do I annoy you, Chasen?”
“Only as much as a pebble in my shoe, a thorn in my side, a boil on my butt . . .”
He let his gaze slide down, figuring her mention of that portion of her curvaceous anatomy was as good as an invitation to look his fill.
“And a nice butt it is, too. If you’ve got any boils on it at the moment, I hope you get them lanced before they scar an otherwise perfect canvas.”
While he was preoccupied ogling her behind, she placed three fingers of her right hand flat to the side of his jaw and applied just enough pressure to pull his gaze upward again. The heat of that touch burned against his skin and made his chest go tight.
“Don’t you worry about my butt,” she told him in a tone just this side of arctic. “And keep your eyes up, or I’ll be tempted to poke them out.”
As much as he knew it would piss her off, he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Only Ronnie could dress him down like a parochial school nun and still send blood pumping hot and thick to his groin. Coming from any other woman, those words, in that cold, sharp tone of voice, would have shut him down in an instant and threatened to shrivel his tea bags.
“You gonna do that poking with your knitting needles?” he asked, thinking back to earlier when she’d both held a pair to his throat and stabbed him in the thigh. The two spots on his upper leg still throbbed.
“With whatever’s handy,” she murmured distractedly, catching the bartender’s attention and waving him over to take her order. When Turk approached, she ordered a round of Cosmos and pointed to the back booth where her friends were waiting.
She turned to leave, but before she could move away, Dylan caught her arm. Her dark brows
arched, and she looked pointedly at where his fingers curled around her elbow.
Risking another poke with whatever she might be able to find near the bar, he didn’t let go. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“Did it hurt?”
He made a face, one side of his mouth lifting in an unamused quirk. “Ha ha. Seriously, though, I think your friend Charlotte is right. I could use some one-on-one tutoring for this knitting thing.”
“So what do you want me to do?” she asked on a half laugh. “Recommend somebody?”
“No, I thought maybe you’d be willing to do it.”
At that, her eyes went wide and the tension drained out of the arm he was holding. “You’re joking, right? Why in God’s name would I be willing to help you learn to knit at all, let alone one-on-one? In case you’ve forgotten, this is a competition. You challenge me to something, then I challenge you to something, and we both sit back and pray the other will fail miserably and crawl away to a cave somewhere to die of shame.”
She had a point, and until she’d touched his face, sending spear-points of awareness rocketing through his system, the idea had never even occurred to him. Until he’d grabbed her arm and gotten a second dose of that electricity, he hadn’t known what he planned to say, let alone this.
It didn’t make a lot of sense, and there was certainly nothing in it for her, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. The more determined he was to convince her to go along with it.
“Oh, I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d consider it a challenge within a challenge. We can make a little side bet.”
Her full red lips, shiny with a layer of gloss, pursed doubtfully. “Such as?”
“You believe there’s no way I’ll ever learn to knit, otherwise you wouldn’t have made it part of the competition, right? Well, I think I can learn, though I admit to needing a bit more help getting started than I first expected. So I’ll bet you . . . I don’t know, another one of my trophies that you can’t teach me to knit. You don’t have to do a great job, and you don’t have to stick with it long. And provided I don’t complete a full knitting project in the month’s time, you’ll still win the original challenge.”