Chapter 5
NETTIE
“I cannot believe it’s Sunday already…”
Nettie’s breath left her in a long sigh, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of an entire week with it.
The words slipped from her lips in a whisper, almost a prayer, almost a plea.
If the universe was listening, maybe it could hear her weariness and offer mercy: a faster week, or better yet, a longer weekend.
A pause button. Just one chance to breathe, to catch up, to steal a few more quiet hours for herself.
It was her own fault, of course. She’d stacked her proverbial plate too high—setting goals that she knew she’d obsessively chase until her fingers ached.
A part of her told herself it was because she wanted to prove something, but to whom?
To herself? To her peers at work? Or maybe, in some strange way, to her grandmother’s memory.
Nettie sometimes felt that if she worked hard enough, did enough, created enough, her grandmother would look down and nod in approval as if love from the great beyond could still be earned.
Her feet carried her slowly along the wide wall of yarn—endless shelves, stacked high with skeins that gleamed like treasure in a dragon’s hoard.
The colors dazzled her eyes—brilliant rainbows in some places, muted earth tones in others.
Even the browns, grays, and dusky blues carried their own dignity, quiet and steadfast, like old gatherings of a polite society from so long ago.
Nettie’s fingertips itched as she gazed at the funky metallic yarns, shimmering threads that seemed spun from frost. Those were for scarves she might never wear but desperately wanted to make.
The soft, chunky yarns—oh, she could almost feel the weight of a blanket cocooning her in winter, as if hugging her close.
Her budget, however, yanked her back to reality, dragging her to the familiar, humbler skeins she always bought—sturdy, serviceable yarns, softening with love and plenty of fabric softener over time.
Still, she had goals – and those dreamy yarns called to her.
Cashmere. Angora. Mohair. Fibers so fine, so decadent, they might as well have come from fairy tales.
She drifted toward them, indulging in her favorite ritual of fantasizing about one day splurging on something beautiful just for herself.
A shawl, a sweater or a cardigan, maybe.
Something impractical but exquisite, something that whispered: you deserve this.
She turned the corner—and nearly plowed face-first into a wall of muscle wrapped in a dark green hoodie.
Nettie startled, stumbling back. The man in front of her loomed solid and broad, a storm cloud of tension even before he lifted his head.
“Oh, hey, Nettie!”
The employee—Melba? Marta? She could never remember—beamed at her from the other side of the display. She waved happily, oblivious to the way Nettie’s stomach suddenly tied itself into a neat square knot.
“This guy was just looking for—”
“Never mind,” the man snapped, pulling the hoodie up farther as if to shield himself from recognition. Too late. Nettie’s eyes had already caught his profile, saw the disheveled hair, and that strong nose that was still sporting the remnants of a faded bruise.
“Tate?” she breathed, the name slipping out before she could stop it. Her heart kicked into an uneasy rhythm. “What are you doing here?”
The employee supplied helpfully, “Oh, he’s looking to buy some yarn—”
“I swear, why does everyone have to be in my business?” Tate cut her off, his voice sharp, irritated. He heaved a sigh and tipped his head back, glaring at the ceiling as though begging for divine patience. “First Gina, then this lady, and now you – of all the people in the world… you.”
His voice was flat, angry, and obviously frustrated. Nettie swallowed, feeling instantly out of place in her own shop, which she visited frequently. Why did he have to be like this all the time?
“Um, I could help you… if you’d like?” Her voice felt too soft, too fragile in the presence of his sharp edges.
“Are you looking for something for Gina? I didn’t know she crocheted or knitted.
Or is it for your mother… or a girlfriend?
” The last word snagged in her throat, emerging broken and hesitant.
The idea of Tate Cassidy—intense, solitary Tate—dating someone was so foreign she couldn’t even imagine what kind of woman he’d choose. Someone loud and fiery? Or gentle and patient enough to weather his moods?
“No,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “I’m… uh, not Gina – okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Well, if it’s for your mother—”
“No. Why does everyone go there first?” His hands clenched at his sides. “If it’s not my sister, then it’s gotta be for my mother? Sheesh. Is it because this is what old people do in their spare time? Next thing you know, I’ll be macraméing planters and dipping candles.”
“Crocheting and knitting can be very soothing,” Nettie offered, trying to keep her tone steady and calm.
She reached out to touch one of the skeins, fingers trailing over the softness.
“It really depends on what you’re buying it for.
If you’re making something to wear, you want it soft against the skin—”
“Can you please just never utter the word ‘skin’ ever again?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I think I’m done here. In fact, I know I am…”
Her heart sank. “Oh. Well, I was leaving anyway. Sorry to have bothered you, Tate.”
She turned, ready to retreat into the safety of anonymity, when his hand landed firmly on her elbow.
“Wait.”
Her body went rigid. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stared straight ahead, bracing herself.
Would he say something nasty or caustic to her again?
Was there anyone within earshot? This was not how she wanted things to go between her best friend’s brother and herself, and she was afraid to even think what that ‘something else’ could look like.
Tate… was always just Tate.
“You barely have anything in your basket,” he said, voice rough. “Was I blocking you? I’ll move if you need to shop.”
“No,” she whispered, forcing herself to look up at him. His eyes were dark, hard, and far too intense for her liking. He was always so much larger than life – and when that presence loomed over her by a foot or so?
It was intimidating.
It had taken everything in her to come out shopping today.
After work yesterday, a random stranger insulted her casually - yelling ‘Sir’ behind her in the parking lot.
How did she look like a ‘sir’? Everything seemed so difficult lately.
She’d been wounded, her feelings hurt by someone’s careless words, that followed all too closely to her unexpected run-in with Tate.
What guy thought it was okay to ask if she was a man?
When was that ever okay?
She would never stick her hair up under a baseball cap ever again. She felt raw, brittle, every step second-guessed. And now here Tate was, yet another man who seemed to resent the space in this universe that they were forced to share.
“What are you looking for over here, then?” he pressed.
“I was just browsing, getting a few things and—”
“Which ones?” he interrupted sharply, his gaze fixed on her like a hawk on prey. Why was he so intense? Her feet shuffled back, a small instinctive retreat. His eyes narrowed, growing even darker. “I’m not gonna touch you, you know. I wouldn’t dare touch you, Nettie.”
“I know,” she said softly, though her nerves betrayed her in the tremor of her voice. Ouch…
“Then why are you acting like I’m some monster?”
Her throat tightened. But she found her courage, fragile though it was, and whispered, “Because you are acting like one to me. If you could be nice then…”
“I am being nice,” he shot back. “I’m being completely out-of-the-ordinary nice and shopping for some stupid yarn right now.
” He grabbed a skein of pale pink angora, the feminine fluff looking absurd in his large, scarred hands.
His grip was rough, as though he was holding something alive and slippery.
Nettie’s lips twitched into a nervous smile.
“What?” he snapped.
“You like… pink?” she asked gently, a hint of humor in her voice.
His lips parted in disbelief before he looked at the yarn in his hand. “No.” He shoved it back onto the rack, mangling the neat display.
“Do you?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.” Nettie smoothed the yarn, rescuing it from its crushed state. “Pinks, lilacs, pale oranges. I love anything that feels light and pretty.”
“Well, of course you do.” He grumbled, but his hand went right back to the same skein, plucking it up again before pointing at her basket. “If you like light and pretty colors—why are you buying red, green, and gray?”
Her face heated, blood rushing to her cheeks. His eyes locked on hers, unrelenting, almost accusing. It was too much. Did he treat everyone like they owed him an excuse for existing? Or just her?
“Answer me,” he demanded, his voice softer now but still edged with command that came out more like a possessive whisper that she did not want to react to. No, he was everything that she didn’t want in a guy – or at least she’d been telling herself that for the last five years or so.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she whispered, braver than she felt.
To her surprise, something flickered in his gaze—approval. The tiniest curl tugged at the corner of his lips, so brief she almost doubted it. But it was there—a smile.
Heaven help her—Tate Cassidy was smiling at her.
“It’s for work,” she blurted, the truth tumbling out despite her earlier defiance.
That hint of a smile obviously affected her brain or some synaptic response in her system.
Nooo, couldn’t end up with an eye-twitch, could she?
Nope – it was just a whopping case of verbal diarrhea for the win.
“I make the children each a little something for Christmas. Scarves, mittens, knit caps, just something homemade for them to open from me.”