Zach followed, glad they’d have a chance to talk in comparative privacy.
* * *
Jen took three bites of her salad, then dug out her knitting. She had fifteen minutes to make a difference in the progress of the avocado. The pit, where she’d begun, was a perfect little golf ball, already stuffed. She’d picked up stitches all around the pit and shaded the ‘flesh’ of the fruit itself, knitting an oval shape. Then she’d changed to the dark green, and done the flesh in moss stitch, picking up stitches on the other side and working from the bottom up. There probably was a better way to have done it, but it didn’t look half bad. She’d started to stuff it, and planned to make a seam between the flesh and the skin along one edge.
“What’s that?” Zach spoke from behind her and Jen nearly jumped out of her own skin—which was not knitted in dark green in moss stitch.
“What’s what?” she said, making an unsuccessful attempt to stuff the knitted avocado back into her bag.
Zach leaned in the doorway of the break room, so avidly interested that Jen knew his attention couldn’t be easily diverted. “That thing in the top of your bag. The green thing.”
Jen immediately pushed it further into the bag. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s something green, like a ball. Do you carry tennis balls around with you?”
“No. It’s not a tennis ball.”
“Then what is it?”
Jen gave him a look that should have told him to disappear, but he held his ground.
“Come on, I’m curious.” He smiled a little, making her heart go thump. The break room was a very small space, and seemed suddenly very full of a handsome confident hunk. “Is it a secret?” he teased.
Jen doubted that showing him the avocado would persuade him that insanity didn’t run in her family. On the other hand, it might be interesting to see what he thought of it.
She didn’t expect much. She reached into her bag and put the avocado, still with three needles sticking out of it, on the table. Then she took a bite of salad, as if she carried such things around all the time.
Because she pretty much did.
Zach frowned at it. “It looks like a voodoo doll. Sort of.”
“You might as well know that it’s a knitted avocado,” Jen said with some pride.
Zach blinked. “A knitted avocado?”
Jen nodded.
Zach stepped closer, which brought him close enough to touch. He bent and peered at the avocado, apparently uncertain whether he should touch it. “So it is,” he acknowledged, flicking an amused glance her way. “With a knitted pit. What exactly do you have against avocados?”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks like a voodoo doll, like a way of remotely inflicting pain on, um, an avocado.”
“But it’s not. It’s just a knitted avocado.”
“Ah,” Zach seemed to be trying to look as if this made sense and failed.
“I knit it as if it’s cut in half,” Jen agreed. “I like how knitting the flesh in moss stitch made it look pebbly.” She picked up the avocado, unable to resist touching it. She turned it in her hand and frowned, considering her own workmanship. “I’m glad I did it that way, although it was a bit of a pain.”
Zach braced his hands on the table. “Wait—you knitted this avocado?”
Jen sat a bit straighter, prepared for him to question her sanity. She met his gaze squarely and found only curiosity in his eyes. “Yes.”
Zach seemed to be at a loss for words. He frowned, as if contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Jen fought a smile, impressed that he recovered so quickly. “And why, exactly, would someone knit an avocado?”
“Just because.”
“And here I thought you were a pragmatic person.”
“You said there was a lot you didn’t know about me.”
“And I should say it again. A knitted avocado.”
“Be prepared, that’s my motto,” Jen said, hearing her tone lighten. “I mean, if you needed a knitted avocado, wouldn’t you want to have one already?”
“Good point.” Zach nodded solemnly. “But why would one need a knitted avocado?”
“You never know.”
“But you’re ready. For anything.”
“Exactly.”
He pulled out the other chair and sat down, his knee bumping against hers in the small space. Goose pimples paraded over Jen’s skin, at just that casual contact. She could smell that he wore some kind of after shave—it was light and sexy—and also that he didn’t smoke. Worked for her.
In fact, it worked a little too well for her.
He smiled at her. “So, what does one do with a knitted avocado?”
“Nothing. Admire it.” Jen made a show of admiring her handiwork.
Zach chuckled. “Nice shading around the pit,” he said, touching the avocado with one fingertip. “Very realistic.”
“Thank you. I did that six times to get it right.”
“Six times!”
Jen nodded with pride.
Zach leaned closer. Jen was glad she’d stopped eating before he got here: her throat was so dry that she couldn’t have swallowed anything.
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she did need some wild sex.
She looked into Zach’s dancing green eyes, thought about wild sex with him, and her circuits shorted.
It was awfully warm in the break room.
He braced an elbow on the table and came even closer. “So, is it possible to need a knitted avocado and be unaware of that fact?”
Jen considered this for a moment. She frowned a little bit when she answered him, her tone equally solemn. “I think it’s likely that few people fully comprehend their need for knitted fruits and vegetables.”
Zach laughed. It was an honest deep laugh, one that came right from his gut and pleased Jen enormously. “That was plural. Fruits and vegetables. You’ve made more?”
Jen sighed, knowing that the only way out was to confess the fullness of her addiction. Actually, she was surprised to realize that she was having fun. “It started with a knitted cherry.”
“Just one?”
“Well, after making one, the sense of accomplishment is lost. I moved on to a strawberry.” She cast him a conspiratorial glance. “The little seeds were a challenge, you know.”
“I’ll bet. How did you do them?”
Even though he was teasing her, she saw that he was intrigued. “With little beads.”
“Brilliant.”
“I thought so.”
He plucked the avocado out of her hands, turning it to admire it. And he was admiring it, much to Jen’s surprise. “Then?”
“Then an orange.”
He gave her a mock frown. “That can’t have been hard, not after the strawberry.”
“No, it was more of a restorative break.”
“Not a gimme?”
“No. I did it in half, as if it was cut crosswise.”
“So you’d see the segments.”
“Right. Then I felt I was ready for the bananas.”
“More than one?”
She gave him a pitying look. “Did you ever buy just one banana?”
His lips quirked again. “No. Never. But then, I’ve never bought one cherry before either.”
“Picky, picky. It’s a small bunch, just four, with shading. The ones on the left are more green and the ones on the right have a few brown spots.”
“And the ones in the middle are yellow, in order to provide a restorative break,” Zach guessed.
Jen watched him for a moment, then folded her arms across her chest. “Great. Now you think I’m a nut.”
“No, no, not nutty.” Zach paused for a beat. “Fruity, maybe.”
Jen almost laughed at that.
Zach spun the avocado in his hand. “Or just possibly, you’re bananas.”
Jen groaned but Zach continued. “But not nutty. At least not so far, right?”
“That was so bad,” Jen
said.
“You set me up perfectly. You had to have seen it coming.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then you’re losing your touch.” He winked at her and she caught her breath.
“So, why knit fruit?”
“Because it’s manageable.”
“What does that mean?”
Jen paused, unsure what to say. The truth was out of the question. “It’s small; it’s portable; you can see the end of the project right from the beginning,” she said finally. “It’s not a huge commitment in time and materials, but it’s fun.”
“But they’re getting bigger,” Zach observed and she was struck again that he paid attention to detail. “Are you knitting faster?”
“A little bit.” Jen shrugged. She tried to take the avocado back, feeling suddenly protective of it. Zach held it firmly, forcing her to slip her fingers beneath his. He watched her, his eyes gleaming, and she liked the feel of his hand over hers. “And getting a bit more daring, too,” she said quickly.
“An avocado is daring?”
Jen seized the avocado and jammed it into her bag, certain she’d confided in him enough for the moment. “You don’t want to know what else I knit.”
“When you look mysterious like that, I sure do.”
“Your loss. I’m not telling.”
He leaned back in his chair, considering her with a warmth that made Jen all tingly. “At least we’re getting closer to establishing just what kind of nitwit you are—or is that knit wit with a k?”
“Oooo, that’s bad.”
“Let’s see,” he mused, undeterred. “Would the flavor of choice be Daring Cherry? Strawberry Shortcake? Agent Orange? Bananarama?”
“You forgot the avocado.”
“It’s a toughie. Give me a minute.”
“You’re out of time because so am I. I’ve got to get back to my section.”
“You didn’t eat your dinner yet.”
“Oh well.”
He looked concerned. “But I kept you from eating. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say goodnight to you before I left.”
He was leaving already?
Jen fought against her disappointment, knowing it was stupid.
“Roxanne is waiting?” she asked archly.
“Actually, yes.” He stood then. “Sorry about your dinner.”
“It wasn’t that good of a salad.”
“You need to eat something.”
Jen shook a finger at him as she stood up. “Do not start sounding like my mother.”
“Fair enough.” Zach grinned. He was standing in the doorway and when Jen picked up her bag, found him standing right in front of her. They were close together, close enough to give a person in need of physical intimacy some interesting ideas.
Murray needed to make a bigger break room.
One with better ventilation.
“See you tomorrow, then?” His gaze dropped to her lips and lingered. Jen knew what he was thinking and was a bit disconcerted to find herself thinking much the same thing.
What did he taste like?
How would he kiss?
It was hard to believe that he’d be as hasty about it as Steve had been. No, Jen could imagine that Zach lingered over pleasure.
That was the beauty of having a trust fund and no financial worries, she reminded herself. A wealthy person could take his time savoring whatever he wanted to savor. He’d have no deadlines, no obligations, no responsibilities.
Except to Roxanne.
She reminded herself vehemently that she and Zach had nothing in common, and no future beyond dinner the next day. She shouldn’t have needed reminding, but that was just lust working against her.
Because she’d have to be dead to not feel any yearning when a hunk like Zach leaned closer for a kiss.
And she wasn’t dead. That, after all, was the point.
“Good night, Jen,” he said softly and bent his head with purpose.
Jen took a step back, planting a finger in the middle of his chest. “Hey, don’t get ahead of things here. You haven’t been approved by my grandmother yet.” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it sounded desperate even to her own ears.
Zach caught her hand in his. “Right.” He smiled at her as he put a kiss in her palm. She fought the urge to shiver and tried to give him a daunting glare. He didn’t appear to be daunted. “The knitted avocado made me forget myself.”
“My section…”
“Right. See you tomorrow.” Zach stood back and Jen strode past him, forgetting her dinner plate in the break room for the first time ever. All she could think of was putting distance between an annoyingly attractive man and herself.
She told herself that she always walked that quickly.
* * *
It wasn’t until the end of her shift that she realized that evening had lost its fizz when Zach left Mulligan’s.
And incredibly, he hadn’t thought her knitted avocado was a really dumb thing. Steve would have told her that she was wasting her time, but then, Steve had thought every waking moment should be spent pursuing money.
What did Zach pursue?
What did he want?
Jen had a moment’s fear that he wasn’t as predictable as she’d thought, that he wasn’t the kind of guy she’d thought he was, but managed to dismiss it.
He was just being polite. That was it.
Besides, in twenty-four hours, she’d never see him again. She reminded herself that that was a good thing, then forced herself to think about something else.
Anything other than how much she liked talking to Zach Coxwell.
* * *
Jen was nervous. She didn’t have Cin’s breezy ease with deception and barely slept the night before Thanksgiving.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d thought Zach was going to kiss her in the break room, nothing to do with her own unexpected yearning that he do so, and absolutely nothing to do with her disappointment that he hadn’t. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with her curiosity about Roxanne.
She was using Zach, plain and simple.
She was not going to get emotionally involved.
She wasn’t even attracted to him.
This didn’t sound plausible in the middle of the night and only seemed less so in the morning. Once she met her mother in the kitchen and began gathering the appetizers, Jen faced the truth.
This could go quite badly. Her family, after all, would be in fine form.
And they were weird. One look at the contributions they had made and Jen knew that Zach might go into culture shock. Would there even be a turkey? She wasn’t sure. Sometimes Gran cooked one just for spite.
Jen hoped this would be one of those years, but this year, that hope wasn’t just because she loved turkey herself. Jen had been vegan for years—albeit with secret hankerings and the occasional indulgence in a hot turkey dinner where her mother couldn’t witness the deed—but had begun to eat chicken and fish to combat the pernicious anemia she developed during her chemo treatment.
A hint of the day’s forthcoming adventures came in the car, when Jen shared a ride with her mother and Natalie’s latest paramour, Gerry. She was wedged into the back seat of her mother’s ancient Honda with their contributions to the meal, while Natalie drove.
This left Gerry free to pontificate. He was one of those people who couldn’t talk without using his hands, so it was better for the life expectancy of all of them to not let him drive. Gerry was a difficult man for Jen to like, even though she knew his heart was good and that he treated her mother well.
He was just so intolerant of everyone who wasn’t like him. Jen couldn’t understand her mother’s attraction to him—beyond the physical, and even that was questionable as Gerry was a tall reedy man with thinning hair—as tolerance had been one of the anthems of their household for as long as she could remember.
“Look at this gasoline alley,” Gerry began not five minutes after they got rolling. “It’s got to be the u
gliest street in Massachusetts, and what do they do, but add more to it…” He launched into a tirade about urban sprawl once they were all trapped in the car, a lecture that didn’t bode well for the day ahead.
Jen tried to ignore him. She was kind of glad that there was another big box bookstore opening on this street—it was close enough that she’d be able to walk, and she did like having a coffee while she read a new knitting magazine, maybe cast on a new project.
“You’re just warming up for the festivities,” Natalie accused, her tone teasing.
The only sign of her concern was that she took a corner a bit too fast. Jen was glad she’d made the hummus extra thick: it didn’t seem to have moved in the bowl, despite the g-force exerted on it. The tabouleh was holding its own; the baba ghanouj, however, had sloshed over the side of its container. Jen had packed the mini pita breads all around the perimeter to brace the bowls but it hadn’t been enough.
She’d deal with the spill after they arrived.
“Warming up for what?” Gerry demanded.
Natalie sighed. “I know you don’t approve of my mother’s lifestyle choices, but maybe for the sake of harmony on a holiday, we should be a little more understanding today.”
“But, Natalie, you know it’s tolerance of the status quo that leads to indifference…”
“One day, Gerry. Just one day. She’s my mother. Jen’s bringing a date. Let’s just all have a nice meal together, without any serious discussions about world peace or financial disparity between the first and third worlds.”
“But…”
“Gerry, it’s going to be hard enough for my mother that we won’t eat her turkey. It’s a festive day for her, as well.”
“I’ll eat her turkey,” Jen volunteered. “I didn’t know she was making one.” The special plate at Mulligan’s couldn’t begin to compare to her grandmother’s turkey dinner. Homemade stuffing with sausage. Giblet gravy. These were delights long abolished from Natalie’s vegetarian kitchen, gastronomical pleasures that had attained mythic status for mostly-vegan Jen.
Natalie flashed Jen a smile in the rear view mirror. “Just for you. She knows you love it and she’s glad to have the excuse to make one.”
Gerry, predictably, turned in his seat to challenge Jen. “Do you know how those birds are raised?”
“No,” Jen said firmly. “And I don’t want to know.”
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