Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
OSCAR
The underside of the food container threatens to blister my palm as I make my way back through the hall.
It’s almost two, and Freya hasn’t stopped the entire day.
From the moment we arrived, we’ve been moving, setting up, and then dealing with the flood of customers that came through the doors.
I’m not too proud to admit that I seriously underestimated the knitting crowd, because they are not messing around today.
Freya’s been incredible. She’s so bright and open, so in her element.
I’m fucking proud of her, but it’s been six hours and she needs a break.
I had to ask three times what she wanted for lunch, and even then, I only got a vague answer that she was happy with anything.
I figured a grilled cheese is probably a safe bet.
If mac and cheese is her favorite, then this is basically the same thing, right? Dairy and carbs?
The smile she throws my way as I approach almost puts me on my ass.
I haven’t had that smile yet. I’ve had others, her polite smile when she feels like she should, the shy one when she’s happy but doesn’t want to show it, but never this.
It’s all light. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders in perfect waves and my feet start moving faster.
That hair. I swear I used to have dreams about it.
She’s talking to two young women, each holding large bags already overflowing with yarn. The three of them laugh at something I wish I could hear as Freya shows them some of the fancy stripy yarn I put up on a pegboard against the back wall.
I don’t know how much help I’ve actually been. I don’t know anything about what she’s selling, so it’s not like I can really talk to the people stopping by. I’ve just been keeping all the stock topped up and trying to coax sips of water into her as she flits around.
I make it to the booth just as the two girls are leaving, having each bought a couple balls of yarn.
“Grilled cheese, and…” I reach into my pocket with a flourish. “Denver’s finest vending machine soda.”
She smiles, but her eyes dart around, distracted. “Thank you so much. I’ll have it in just a second.”
“There’s nobody here. You gotta eat. Sit down and have a break.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not gonna win this one, honey.” I take her by the shoulders and turn her, reaching down to untie the apron at her waist that she’s been stuffing change into.
“Just take fifteen minutes. If I screw up, you’ll be right behind the partition.
” I pull the apron off her and fasten it just above my belt.
She doesn’t say anything about the name.
I hadn’t meant to let it slip in the truck, but fuck it.
“You don’t have to wear that,” Freya says, turning to take me in. She always does this, acts like anything I do for her is some great burden. It only makes me want to do it more. So much that she stops noticing.
“What?” I raise an eyebrow. “You think I can’t pull it off?”
She rolls her eyes, not saying anything as she picks up the takeout box and reluctantly shuffles behind the partition.
I know I’ve been joking around with her, but I want to get this right.
I’m kind of in over my head here and this is Freya’s business.
I can’t do anything that might reflect badly on her.
In the end it hardly matters. The customers that come by don’t need much help and even when one girl asks how much yarn I would suggest she buy for a sweater, Freya poked her head around the side of the wall, grilled cheese still in hand, and chirped out an answer I hardly understood a word of.
She didn’t leave me to my own devices much longer after that.
I’m not convinced it was long enough to constitute an actual meal break, but I don’t think there’s any use arguing.
She’s got that look in her eye I’ve come to associate with “work mode,” all focus and clear intention.
I should absolutely not be thinking it, but it’s hot as fuck.
This whole trip has hit me like a smack across the face.
All those feelings that I thought were just a childhood crush have come burning back full force.
When I was a kid I thought she was so cool, so smart, but I didn’t know, then, everything that I know now.
She’s kind, she’s sweet, she’s funny as hell when she lets herself be.
She’s a hundred times stronger than she realizes and I just want her to see what I see.
But I know now’s not the right time to make a move. There’s something skittish about her, like a frightened animal. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, what happened to make her this way, but she’s not ready for me. Not yet anyway.
We spend the next few hours in a peaceful sort of rhythm. I don’t give Freya back her apron and instead let her focus on advising people while I keep the stock topped up and take their money.
“That’s seventeen ninety-nine,” I tell an older woman with dyed green hair as I slide her purchases into a paper bag, stamped with the Malcolm Yarn and Crafts logo.
The woman hands me a twenty and I count out her change before writing down what she bought in the notebook Freya started.
3 skeins— Freya told me an hour ago that I had to call them skeins— of worsted merino.
I’ve been careful to copy the labels exactly so I don’t disrupt Freya’s inventory at the end of this.
She’s talking to another woman who’s not buying anything now, but has been asking about commissioning Freya for some sort of lace shawl.
Freya’s got the soft flush on her neck that I’ve come to notice any time she gets excited, as if she can’t keep the feeling inside her body and it seeps out through her skin.
The woman leaves with a business card and a promise to be in touch.
Freya turns to me with eyes wide and her lip caught between her teeth, trying to bite back the grin I know wants out.
“That was good, right?” I ask, stepping closer.
She nods rapidly. “So good.”
“Amazing!” I clasp her hand and give it an excited little shake. “Freya, that’s awesome.” Sensation zips up my arm as I hold her fingers. They’re cold in this hall and I want to cradle them between my palms.
“I’ve been wanting to do more commission work, and this would be such a cool piece.” She stares at the woman’s back. “I hope she actually calls.”
“She will.”
The space between her brows creases and I resist the urge to rub it away. “She might have just been being polite.”
“She wasn’t, I saw her.”
“I dunno, maybe I came on too strong and she didn’t know how to say no.”
She has this habit of finding ways to doubt herself. I can’t fucking stand it. She allows herself these flashes of confidence, of certainty, but as soon as she notices that she’s let them out, she slams the lid shut again, caging herself inside.
“Hey, stop it.” I squeeze her hand again, my thumb brushing against the delicate ring she’s wearing. “She’s the one who brought it up, she loved your work.”
“You think so?”
“There’s no doubt. I saw the whole thing.”
“Yeah.” She frowns, looking at her shoes. The red toes of her kitten heels tap together nervously. “You’re right. She asked me.”
“And you’re going to kill it. Whatever you make for her is gonna be beautiful.”
“I’m really excited,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.
“You should be,” I whisper back.
Another customer approaches and Freya drops my hand like a hot stone.
I find myself gripping the air as if I’ll find her again, but she’s already across the booth, talking to the guy looking at the wall of sock yarns I mounted this morning.
He’s wearing a polo shirt, dark hair slicked back with too much gel.
My hackles go up as he watches Freya with obvious interest. His eyes flick over her, lingering way too long on things he’s got no business looking at.
She smiles up at him as they talk, and I can’t help but preen when I see it’s not the same smile she gives me. I watch the two of them out of the corner of my eye, pretending to count quarters as he picks up skeins and listens to Freya describing each one.
The coin I’m holding slips from my grasp, clinking against the table as I notice his foot move, inching in her direction.
The step he takes is small, but it’s only the first, and in a couple of movements he’s in her space, looking down at her as she talks.
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the table to take in the scene.
Freya gives a nervous chuckle at something he says, his voice too low for me to hear. She inches back a step and he follows. I don’t miss the way his gaze darts down, stealing glances at where the neckline of her dress gives way to pale, smooth skin.
Is he fucking kidding? He’s going to ogle her in the middle of a craft show?
I rock forward onto my toes, fisting my shirt in each hand to stop myself from closing the distance and moving him out of her orbit myself.
He says something else, his face split in a shit-eating grin, and I can’t contain it any longer.
In three long strides I’m behind her, the fabric of my shirt brushing against her shoulder.
“You ready to buy those?” He narrows his eyes, squaring his shoulders.
He’s probably got an inch on me and I can tell he notices.
Probably loves it. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t give a shit how tall he is, if he looks at Freya like that one more time, I’m putting him on his ass.
Then we’ll see how much that inch helps.
“I’m being helped,” he drawls, raising one eyebrow.
“We’re fine, Oscar,” Freya hisses over her shoulder.
“Yeah.” The guy smirks, and I want to smack it off him. “We’re fine.”
I don’t reply, I just lock eyes with him, staring him down until he drops his hands with a huff. He puts the yarn he’s holding back on the display—on the wrong hook—and turns on his heel, muttering something over his shoulder as he goes.
I watch him until he’s moved out of sight, disappearing between the rows of booths. When I’m satisfied he’s gone, I turn to the wall, lifting up the skein he put back and returning it to its rightful home.
“What the hell was that?” Freya keeps her voice low, but there’s no disguising the fury in her tone. When I look at her, I’m greeted by a sharp scowl, her hands braced on her hips.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”
I sigh. “He was a dick.”
“He was a customer.”
“He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat.” I match her stance, bracing my own hands on my hips.
“I’m well aware! Or did you think I didn’t notice?”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not some helpless child,” she seethes. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“I know you are. But you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“I know exactly how I deserve to be treated,” she mutters, giving me her back. I hate it. I want her looking at me, even if she’s pissed off, even when we’re fighting.
Shit. She’s right. That guy was an asshole, but I should have let her handle it. Instead I practically bared my teeth at a stranger like I was staking a claim.
She starts reorganizing the display of patterns, her shoulders tight as I approach. “Freya.” I keep my voice gentle. “I’m sorry for overstepping.”
The fight bleeds out of her. When she turns I see the tension in her jaw, the glaze in her eyes that looks like… fear. What the hell? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” she rushes out.
“It’s alright.”
“No.” She shakes her head frantically. “It’s not, you’ve come here to help me. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“Hey, hey.” I take hold of her elbows. It’s like she’s not quite here anymore. I want to keep her with me, keep her in this moment. “It’s not a problem, you’re allowed to be mad at me when I fuck up.”
She looks utterly confused. I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking right now, why she won’t let herself be upset with me.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice small.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.”
It’s gradual, the way the fog in her eyes clears. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s pissing me off. I feel like someone’s done a real number on her. I want to find out who and exactly what they did, so I can go some way to start fixing it.
“Why don’t you sit down for a second, let me deal with that?” I ask Freya. The convention finished thirty minutes ago and we’re about halfway done with packing up. She’s looking at the pegboard like it called her a name as she tries to hide a yawn in her elbow.
“I’m all good.” She gives me a tired smile that doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s another four hours back to Cedar Creek and I don’t know if either of us are going to hold out that long.
I load yarn into the plastic bins, trying to keep them in some kind of order. “You know,” I start, trying to sound casual, “maybe we should crash here in the city, ride back tomorrow?”
She turns, teeth flashing as she chews her lip. “That’s really not necessary. I’m sure you want your own bed.”
She starts dismantling the pegboard, and I catch a second yawn. Okay. I need to change tactics.
“I’m actually pretty tired, I don’t know about the drive…” I rub the back of my neck, hoping she believes me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you out here for a super long day.” She takes two steps toward me, hands wringing. Fuck, that backfired.
“No, it’s okay,” I insist. “You didn’t drag me anywhere.”
“But I—”
“It’s really no big deal. We’ll stay at a motel or something, head back tomorrow. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun.”