14. Brody
The high-pitched whine of cicadas drilled into my eardrums as I leaned against the white picket fence of Mr. and Mrs. Woodcock’s place. I hadn’t been there for ages. The last time would’ve been Halloween, maybe fifteen years ago. Coop and I had set off some fireworks in their drainpipe. After being caught in the act, we had to pick up litter in the town square for a week.
I rechecked my watch. Ro must be running late. She hadn’t messaged me today, and I wasn’t in the habit of hanging on street corners waiting for girls. But as she came around the corner on Daisy Three, the edges of my mouth curled. For this girl, I’d make an exception.
With a grin, Ro applied her squeaky brakes and stopped in front of me. She slipped off her bike, cocking her leg over the crossbar. Leaning its frame against her hip, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, dark braids. A healthy slug of floral shampoo tickled at my nostrils, and I breathed it in.
“You made it,” she said, surveying me with a sweep of her brown eyes. “Where did you tell Coop you were going?”
She knew I wouldn’t admit to her brother why I missed dinner. “I said I had a phone meeting. Needed some privacy.”
She chuckled. “Privacy is the last thing you’ll get tonight. The minute the group realizes they’re in the presence of greatness, they’ll all be fighting to sit next to you.” Ro tucked her helmet into the basket at the front of her handlebars. She pulled out her bag, shouldering it in one swift motion.
At the slight curve of her lips, I couldn’t resist teasing her. “I thought you were responsible for me this evening? I’m a virgin. Remember? That makes me vulnerable. Open to suggestions. What if I get performance anxiety in front of a crowd?”
Instead of the flirty look that most women would throw me, Ro puffed out air. “You’d never have performance anxiety. You’re too cocky for your own good.”
She wasn’t wrong. I swallowed down a million smutty comebacks as I followed Ro down the driveway toward the old house. The building was just as I remembered, although someone had replaced the drainpipe we’d obliterated. The green and white painted timber was the same. As was the ivy clinging to its surface.
“So tell me again, why are we meeting here? I mean, it’s someone’s house. Are we casing the joint? Do the Woodcocks own some kind of rare yarn?” I sucked in a theatrical breath. “Maybe they have a collection of golden crochet hooks inside. We could sell them to the highest bidder and run off to Mexico together.”
With a roll of her eyes, Ro propped her bike against the wall just before the steps to the front door. “This is the HQ of the Dirty Hookers.”
“You don’t meet at the wool shop?” Tuft Swallow had a haberdashery called The Knotty Nester. The owner, Ruth Barfoffen, spent hours knitting clothes for the trees in the town square.
“Nope. A house is far more in keeping with the spirit of the group.”
“How d’ya mean? Keep your friends close, and your crochet hooks closer?”
“No Brody, more that we’re like a family.”
“Closeknit?”
Ro groaned at my terrible joke, and her eyes sparkled in the porch lamplight above us.
“I’m worried about how your wooly family will welcome a stranger. Will Mrs. Woodcock frisk me on my way in?” I lifted one corner of my mouth. “Will you?”
Ro sighed, her tank top stretching across her breasts as she took in a breath and let it out. “I know crafting isn’t your scene, but remember why you’re here, and please be polite. I don’t want to be thrown out of the group for inviting a troublemaker.”
I threw my palms up in submission. “I promise I’ll play nicely. So, does Mrs. Woodcock lead this group, too? I should have guessed. That woman practically runs the town. Always has.”
Ro let out a low, throaty giggle, its sound going straight to my jocks. I wetted my bottom lip with my tongue.
“You were right when you said nothing ever changes in Tuft Swallow.” Her freckled nose wrinkled, and my breath ran a little shallower.
“Some things have,” I murmured.
As I spoke the words, I reached out and ran my fingers along her forearm. I don’t know what possessed me. It was the wrong thing to say. The worst thing to do. A momentary lapse of judgment. And I shouldn’t have touched her, but the way Ro’s eyes burned into mine, wide and alive, I was ready to throw caution to the wind and take up cross-stitch if it meant I could touch her again.
A low grunt rang out in the air between us, and a rugged man built like GI Joe pushed past, heading up the steps to the front door. Ro and I looked at each other, and her lips quirked a little. An uncomfortable burn sparked in my chest.
“Have you dated him?” Damn, I sounded like a jealous boyfriend. I’d already asked the same question about Finn and Nick. Ro was at liberty to date whoever she wanted.
She tipped her head to one side before shaking it, dismissing my ridiculous inquiry. “I don’t even know his real name. We call him Winston’s Hot Daddy. Comes every week. Makes the most adorable sweaters.”
“He wears sweaters?”
“No, they’re for Winston.”
“The goat?”
“The Mayor, you mean. We elected him last year after a nasty campaign. We all figured he’d do a better job than the human candidates.”
I stared at Ro. What the hell was she talking about?
She rolled her eyes at me. “That guy is his owner. Winston’s Hot Daddy.” She spelled out the words like I was a kindergartner.
I snickered into my chest. He may be “hot,” but I wondered if he’d happily dig into his pockets to buy a new manger for Jesus?
I followed Ro up the steps and onto Mrs. Woodcock’s enormous porch. The glow from the lamps above bathed the wooden platform in light, and patchwork quilts covered an array of chairs and benches. The hot daddy GI Joe guy had already settled in. He whistled tunelessly as he pulled handfuls of roughly spun yarn from a bag.
Another woman grinned and waved a hand at Ro. She had an arm full of pretty tattoos and a blue streak in her hair. She had a giant blanket spread on her lap made of turquoise and orange squares. I turned to find a chair, but Ro stopped me, gripping my wrist. The warmth of her fingers infused my skin.
“Rowena!” A voice came from inside the house before the screen over the front door opened. Mrs. Woodcock reversed out onto the porch, carrying a tray of glasses. The sight of her buttoned-up floral dress transported me back in time, and I shifted my feet as if I’d broken one of her garden ornaments or ruined one of the town festivals. It’d happened before.
“Mrs. Woodcock.” Ro’s face lit up when she saw our hostess. She moved to take the tray from the old lady, but I beat her to it. “I brought someone new along tonight. To learn to crochet.”
Our hostess swung her steely eyes toward me and gave me a full top-to-toe assessment. The corners of her mouth tilted up when she made it back up to my face.
“Well, I never. Young Brody Flockhart has returned to Tuft Swallow.”
I opened my mouth to point out that I wasn’t exactly young anymore, but before I could speak, she turned to Ro.
“This is a delightful surprise. You should have told me, Rowena. I knew Brody was staying with you, but I didn’t know he had an interest in yarn work.”
Maggie must’ve told Mrs. Woodcock about my visit, but she wouldn’t have known about the deal between me and Ro. About the roller derby, or the gloves.
“I didn’t know you were bringing a date,” she continued.
Ro’s eyes widened, and she looked on the verge of choking, her cheeks reddening.
“It’s not a date,” I said, earning a quick glance and what I judged as a grateful smile from Ro.
She let out a breath. “No. Not a date. Not at all. Never.”
Mrs. Woodcock smiled. “Well, then you must be looking for something or someone to keep you busy until you return to the big time. I’m sure Rowena can help you with that.” The old lady lifted her brow, and damn if I didn’t feel mycheeks heat. What was she insinuating?
Ro nodded. “Yes, Brody needs a project. To occupy his mind. I thought of crochet.”
Mrs. Woodcock’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes. Idle minds and hands are the devil’s workshop, and I know what a prankster you can be, young man. Rowena, why don’t you get yourself set up while Brody helps me with the lemonade?”
With a half-smile, Ro took a seat on a small bench on one side of the porch. I followed Mrs. Woodcock to a table set against the wall. It already held a jug of icy lemonade and a plate of cookies. I placed the tray down with a clink and moved off to join Ro, but the old lady put a wizened hand on my forearm. “It’s lovely to see you. And with Rowena, too. Sometimes I worry about that girl. So sweet. So na?ve. Tell me, are you making yourself at home at Maggie’s place?”
The skin on the back of my neck prickled. In lightning-quick time, our conversation had moved from worrying about a sweet, innocent girl to whether I had my feet well and truly under the table at Maggie’s. Potentially making myself a little too comfortable. Did she mean with Ro? I know I had a reputation, but I was hardly Ted Bundy.
“I’m mostly trying not to get in the way. I have a lot of things on my mind at the moment.”
She sighed, examining my face. “Of course you do. I’ve read all about your injury, but I’m sure you’ll be back on the ice soon.” Mrs. Woodcock leveled her gaze at me. “But just remember, when you return to the big time, there’s still a lot to love about your hometown. A lot of warmth for you here. People who think of you often. Who care about you, very much.”
I blinked. Who was she talking about? Since my folks moved away, the Swans were the only people I had an actual connection with. Cooper, Maggie, and… Ro? No, she couldn’t be talking about Ro. We’d hardly spoken in five years. We weren’t even close anymore. But the idea of my best friend’s sister thinking of me at all wrapped around me like a warm hug.
I drew my brows together before glancing back at Ro. She sat cross-legged on the bench, her yarn in neat bundles, chatting to the lady with the blue in her hair. She had a crochet hook tucked into one of her long braids and an array of little brown crochet spheres scattered around her on the cushions. I had to smile. She hadn’t been joking about her owls looking more like potatoes.
Mrs. Woodcock gently squeezed my arm, and I looked back at her smiling face. “As I say, a lot of warmth. Now, let’s get you organized.”
I followed her to the seats, the crickets in the grass accompanying the beat of our steps. A few latecomers had arrived now, and judging by their sheepish smiles and waved greetings, they’d recognized me.
“Thank you, Brody,” Mrs. Woodcock said before placing a hand on the small of my back. “Everyone, I want you to say hello to our newest Dirty Hooker. Some of you may know him as Denver Snow Storm’s ‘Flock’ Flockhart, but we know him as plain old Brody when he’s here in Tuft Swallow. He’s one of the town’s brightest success stories.”
I fought a laugh. Or its most oversized ego. I wasn’t sure everyone saw my on-ice swagger as success.
“Brody will join us tonight, courtesy of Rowena.” All heads swung to Ro, and her cheeks fired pink. The corners of my mouth lifted. The color suited her. “Okay, Hookers, let’s get to work.”
I moved to join Ro on her bench, but Mrs. Woodcock took my hand and led me to the opposite side of the porch, sitting me down in the chair next to hers. The wicker creaked as I settled into its cushions. She handed me a crochet hook and tied a slipknot in a length of neon green yarn. “I’m going to teach you the basics, then you can join your friend.”
I glanced up again, but Ro wasn’t looking at us. Instead, she had her tongue clamped between her teeth as she set about working with a large ball of crimson wool. The skin of her long thighs glowed in the soft lamplight. I’d much rather she’d teach me the basics.
“Brody! Pay attention.”
“Sorry. I was just seeing what everyone else was working on.”
She huffed a little laugh. “So I noticed, but while I’m teaching you a basic chain stitch, I want your attention on me.” Her eyes had a bright glow as they roamed over my face. She lifted a silver eyebrow, and I considered myself well and truly busted for sneaking a peek at my housemate.
After the longest forty-five minutes of my life, Mrs. Woodcock declared that I had practiced enough in the art of basic crochet to be set free from her tutelage. More than once during my crash course, I’d looked up to find Ro watching me. Her mouth twitched at the corners as I battled not to use every curse word under the sun when my yarn fell off the hook and unraveled.
I thanked Mrs. Woodcock and gathered my materials, heading to join Ro on her bench. When I reached it, however, there wasn’t much room. She still sat cross-legged in the same spot, deep in concentration. Her collection of brown balls had multiplied and was now threatening to spill over onto the rug.
“I didn’t know crochet potatoes were so popular.” Ro’s head snapped up, but her frown turned into a big grin, and my heart all but melted on the spot.
“You’re alive then?”
Instead of turfing the balls off the bench, I grabbed a beanbag from the corner and brought it close to the seat before sinking into it at her feet. The polystyrene pebbles shifted and jostled under me as I settled. “Barely. Old Mrs. Woodcock is brutal. I swear she might’ve stabbed me in the back of my hand with her hook if I’d dropped any more stitches.”
I nodded toward Ro’s heap of brown balls. “How are the mutant owls going?”
“I can’t decide whether I should rebrand them as crochet root vegetables or hang up my hook and call it quits.”
“I’d offer to help, but I can only do straight lines at the moment. Between us, we could join forces. Make them into a ball and chain?”
Her giggle tinkled in the muggy air, bathing me in warmth. I could listen to it all night. Instead, I struggled on with the scraggy string of stitches I’d started.
After a few minutes of working together in silence, I missed yet another stitch and threw my hook down into my lap. “I thought you said crochet was therapeutic. It’s stressful. Are you sure you definitely want gloves? Couldn’t I just make you a long string instead? It could come in useful. Tie your hair back. Lace up your skates.”
Ro narrowed her eyes for a beat. “No. You promised me gloves. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain so far.”
And she had. Ro had worked hard. Left the house early to practice her skating in the park. Visited Odd Duck’s gym a few times on her own. “Fine. But I need my fingers to grip my hockey stick. I don’t want to have worn them out with all this picking and pulling.”
“And I need fingers to the work outside at the Plume. We have harsh winters. I require gloves.”
I couldn’t resist the challenge in her eyes. “So, you need me to keep you warm? I’m sure I can arrange something.”
A corner of her mouth quivered, and I gave her the benefit of what one sports commentator had described as my show-stopping smile. She didn’t return it, though.
“Tell me about life on a hockey team.” The lady with the blue streak asked from across the porch. She was knitting a bright orange sweater with mismatched arm lengths.
“Brody, this is Callie. Callie, Brody. Callie’s a teacher at the school.”
I nodded a greeting, then stretched my legs out straight and threw my arms behind my head, leaning back. “Well, what can I say? It’s a charmed life. I have a butler, a PA, and a masseuse. All I have to do is turn up twice a week and play a couple of hockey games. Wave to some fans.”
The woman leaned forward in her chair as if she would cross-examine me.
“He’s only joking, Callie.” Ro looked down at me. “He works hard, and I know he’s at the rink most days.”
“You’ve been checking, Small Fry? Hired a PI? Keeping tabs on me?”
Ro sent her eyes heavenward. “Don’t flatter yourself. Being best friends with your ultimate super fan has its advantages.”
“I won’t say I’m not disappointed. You really haven’t scoured the internet for news of me? And there I was, thinking you’d been saving yourself for the day I returned to Tuft Swallow.”
A glow crept over her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows. I sat back up. Was she pissed at me?
Hot GI Joe Goat Daddy, or whatever Ro had called him, shifted in the corner, laying down his knitting. A thick “humph” escaped his lips. “I heard you keep yourself plenty busy when you’re off the ice, too. I wanna hear aboutthat, Flock Boy.” He chuckled, and Mrs. Woodcock’s head bobbed up.
Even though Ro didn’t look at me, the air crackled between us, and I chewed on my bottom lip, considering my words.
“I’ll admit I’ve had my fun. Dated some women. Maybe broken a few hearts.” One elderly lady with lilac-rinsed hair gasped, and Callie giggled. “But I confess, I lost my heart to a woman years ago.”
It was as if all the crickets went on strike and stopped simultaneously. I’d heard of pregnant pauses before, but this one was expecting octuplets. The only thing I heard was the gentlest intake of breath from Ro.
“Really, tell me more?” Hot GI Joe wasn’t giving up.
“I don’t want to give the lady’s name away, but she’s very special. Always looked out for me. Been there for me when it mattered. Even though our circumstances aren’t ideal, I struggle to keep my feelings to myself when I”m near her.”
“Won’t you tell us who it is?” asked Callie as if I was retelling Romeo and Juliet.
I gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose one day, I must confess. Why not here? Tonight on this porch. Amongst friends.” I dared to look up at Ro. Her chest rose and fell a little faster than I remembered, and she’d clamped her lips tight. What I wouldn’t give to kiss them. To soften her brow and have her smile again.
“Look, I’m sorry if this puts you in an uncomfortable position, Mrs. Woodcock, but I have to say, if you ever decide you’d had enough of life with your husband, I’m yours. I can mow lawns, cook, and I’ll even take up cornhole if I have to. And, of course, practice my crochet.”
Almost everyone, including Mrs. Woodcock, giggled. I’d always known how to play to a crowd. Only Ro remained silent, her face unreadable. She’d unwound her legs, and I gently pressed my shoulder against one of her thighs, the need to touch her, to have contact with her, overwhelming. At first, she met my gesture with nothing, only silence. Stillness. But eventually, the softest pressure nudged back against me, and I thought my heart might explode.
The surrounding conversation had moved on, with chatter about a shortage of green wool and the havoc it would create for the town’s St Patrick’s Day pet parade. Ro had returned to her owls, and I struggled to keep my mind on my hopeless crochet chain. She was so close, her warmth pulsing through my T-shirt, and as the scent of her perfume nestled into my nose, there was no way I could concentrate.
“Ro. Can you look at my stitches? I think they’re loose.”
She glanced at the chain in my hands, put her work to the side, and bent down. Violets. She smelled of violets, and as she leaned in, one soft braid brushed my cheek. I gripped my hook tighter, fighting the urge to reach up, wind it around my fingers, and gently pull her in to kiss me.
The sound of a throat clearing took my attention, and I glanced up to see Winston’s Hot Daddy’s piercing blue eyes on me. One of his brows quirked to the sky. I gave him a disarming smile and shifted on the beanbag with a crunch. He wasn’t the only one looking at us, though. As I glanced around, at least three other Hookers were watching. It was like being on a first date with your family. As if Ro had her own team of bodyguards looking out for her. Keeping her safe from the Flock Boy.
I loved them for it. The thought that she’d always have folk protecting her lit a glow in my chest, but damn, I wished it was my job.
“We should go,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “My leg’s kinda sore from sitting on the beanbag. I need to stretch it.” It wasn’t a lie, but what I truly wanted was Ro, all to myself.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. You could’ve had my seat.”
“No. You needed the space for your family of mutant balls.”
She chuckled and gathered the spheres up, stuffing them into her bag. I held out my yarn and hook toward her like I was offering my firstborn to a deity.
“No way, buddy. If you don’t take responsibility for your own yarn, those gloves may never get made.” She stood and looked at me.
“Where am I supposed to keep it? I patted myself down to emphasize my point. “I’m traveling light.”
“In your pocket. It’s what they’re for.”
I grinned at her, compressing my yarn into a tight ball before stuffing the wool and my hook into a pocket. Once satisfied I’d sufficiently wedged them into my jeans, I held up a hand. “Help an injured man up?” I didn’t relish the thought of getting out of the beanbag unassisted. And with a crochet hook so near to my package.
After three attempts and a little snickering from Winston’s Hot Army Daddy, Ro hauled me from the bowels of the beanbag. I put my hands on my hips and glanced down. The wool I’d crammed into my jeans had behaved just as I’d hoped, giving me an impressive lump at my groin.
Ro looked down, too, at my straining zipper. You couldn’t miss the bulge. “Oh, good lord,” she said, holding her palm up. “There’s nothing like making your point. Come on, I haven’t got all night.”
I dug into my pocket, feigning innocence. “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to weigh you down. Besides, the yarn might be warm by now.” I winked, and Ro rolled her eyes before popping my cargo into her bag.
“You’re always so dramatic.” She turned back to the rest of the folk on the porch. “I’m afraid Brody has a sore leg. We’re going to have to call it a night.”
I faced our hostess. “Thanks for having us, Mrs. Woodcock, and for your instruction. Remember, if you ever tire of your husband, you know where to find me.” I gave her a grin, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.
“You always were one to put a smile on an old lady’s face. Thank you for coming, Brody, but just make sure you look after Ro. Get her home safely.”
I glanced at Ro. She was elbow-deep in her bag, digging for something. A loose strand of hair fell over her face, and I practically glued my hands to my sides to stop myself from brushing it away.
“I will.” I just wasn’t sure in what way yet. “Ready?” She nodded, pulling her hand out from the depths of her tote.
We waved and said goodbye to the other Hookers before heading back down the front step. I swear half a dozen stares branded into my back. At the bottom, Ro stowed her bag in Daisy Three’s basket and pulled her away from the wall, wheeling her down the path to the street. “I suppose I should offer you the wheels with your leg and all.”
Even with all my bravado and joker tendencies, there was no way I’d expect Ro to walk. “No, I’m fine. It’s just stiff. It’ll loosen up.”
She glanced down at my leg and the subtle limp an hour in a beanbag had left me with. “I have a better idea.” She stopped, and I followed suit, the soft breeze ruffling through my hair. “I can ride us both home.”
“No, you can’t.”
Ro’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“The two of us won’t fit if you’re in the saddle. And I don’t think my leg will hold up if I stand on the axle at the back. I’m not exactly lightweight.”
She looked at the rear wheel, then raked her eyes slowly over me, and damn if my traitorous body didn’t respond with a stirring at my fly. “I can see that, Brody.” Her words were hushed and throaty. The stirring in my jeans increased.
“I’ll drive,” I said.
She looked as if I asked her the square root of pi. “How’s that going to work? Where will I go if you’re too big for me to pedal?”
“Sit on the crossbar.”
“Sorry?”
“You have a man’s bike with a high crossbar. Unless you’ve developed some BMX skills recently, I’d say it’s our best bet.”
Ro’s brow creased. “Won’t that be uncomfortable?”
It certainly wouldn’t be for me. Ro nestled between my arms sounded just perfect.
“Let’s try it.” I moved toward Daisy Three and took the handlebars. Ro stepped back, and I threw my good leg over the crossbar to sit on the saddle. I shoved as far back as possible and patted the metal between my legs.
With a wavering smile, Ro shifted from foot to foot at my side as if she were deciding on the best way to climb on. After a long beat, she committed and hopped on, wobbling a little as she rode sidesaddle. The scent of violets overtook my senses, sending my head into a spin. “Lean back into me. I promise I won’t let you fall.” I was already well on my way.
She did, gently at first, but soon, when she realized I was trying to help, she relaxed into my chest. Having Ro so close, the heat of her body against mine was so right, so natural. “Put one hand around my waist.” My words tumbled out. Hurried and mumbled. I held my breath as I waited for her to comply. When she did, a shiver of something electric jolted through me, and my heart raced at the touch of her fingers against my ribs.
I gripped the handlebars and looked down at Ro, tucked between my arms. Damn, if I didn’t want to freeze time and stay here forever. I had the only woman I wanted held close in my grasp, and Lord only knew how I’d survive the journey back to Maggie’s.