Page 131 of Close Knit

“My girl.” She scrunches her nose, smiling. “I still can’t believe you convinced the yarn store to stay open for us. I feel kind of bad.” Her gaze shifts to the outside, taking in the snowy landscape as it whizzes by. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, fighting off the creeping motion sickness.

I wanted to keep what I’d planned a surprise, but she hates surprises, so I ended up sending her an itinerary for the weekend.

“It’s only an hour, and they were happy to help.” I shrug, not mentioning that I had to shell out five-thousand euros to the shop owner to make it worth their while.Who knew knitting was so expensive?

“I can’t wait. It’s so cool here. I’m excited to see all the snow during the day.” She leans her cheek against the window, eyes wide with wonder.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Villainen Metsä, a sprawling shop nestled in downtown Helsinki.

The lights are dim as we walk in, with wooden shelves packed with colorful yarns, sorted by color and type. Large tables in the center hold knitting needles, baskets of yarn, and other supplies. A small fire crackles in the background, with oversized chairs.

“Tervetuloa.” An older gentleman greets us with a nod.

“Hei,” I mutter, trying to sound appreciative. “My name is Cameron Hastings; I believe we spoke earlier.”

“Ah yes!”

“Thanks for staying open.”

“Kiitos,” Daphne chimes in, her smile radiant. We’ve tried to learn a few Finnish words this week, mostly during quiet moments when she braids her hair before bed.

The gentleman nods again. “Ei kestä.” He retreats behind the register, picks up an almost-finished cardigan, and resumes his knitting.

“Maybe that will be you someday,” Daphne says, nudging me in the ribs as I grab a wooden basket. She wanders around the store, her eyes wide with excitement.

I scoff. “That looks like it involves purling, so not likely.” My knitting progress has been embarrassingly slow. Untangling her yarn is about the extent of my skills right now.

“By the end of this year, you’ll be making sweaters. Mark my words.” She trails her fingers over the yarn, her voice full of conviction.

I roll my eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “We’ll see about that. I’d be happy if I could manage a potholder that looks more like a square and less like a parallelogram,” I say, moving toward a shelf lined with vibrant yarns.

“A parallelo-what?” Daphne laughs, spinning around to face me. “You aced math, didn’t you?”

“Had to keep my grades up to stay on the team. Finn helped tutor me; he’s been friends with Alec since I was born,” I reply, picking up a skein of blue yarn, savoring its softness.

“Juni tutored me in everything,” she says, picking up some red yarn and rubbing it on the back of her hand. “She’s brilliant.”

“Knitting involves a lot of counting,” I mention.

“Counting and geometry are worlds apart,” she counters. “Feel how soft this is.” She rubs the yarn over my hand before tossing the ball into the basket. Her fingers brush against mine, and I can’t ignore the jolt of electricity that zips through me.

“And here I thought you liked challenging things.” I wink, and she scrunches her nose. My phone pings. I silence it. “That’s my alarm. We’ve got about thirty minutes before we need to get back to the town car and catch the train.”

She laughs. “You’re such an airport dad.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but if it makes her happy, I’ll wear the title. She said the same thing when my alarm went off for our boarding time, and the way her eyes lit up was worth any confusion on my part. “All right, that’s plenty of time. Now that we’re here, I wish I’d left more space in my suitcase,” she says, handing me six more skeins of the red yarn.

“I left some room in mine for you,” I offer, trailing her around the store.

“Surprised it’s not filled with your hair products.” She shrugs and resumes her browsing.

“I don’t havethatmany hair products,” I grumble.

“Four containers at my place! That’s a lot of pomade. And I still don’t get it—you put it on and then you get all sweaty anyway.”

“It works better with sweat,” I say, a smirk playing on my lips.

“Keep telling yourself that.” She reaches up and threads her fingers through my hair, messing it up. I grunt but can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth as she laughs, turning back to the yarn and handing each ball to me. “Whoa,” she says suddenly, pausing. “I just got déjà vu. Or maybe it’s just my brain remembering our last trip to Morrisons. You holding the grocery basket, letting me throw things in.”

Our Sunday night ritual—stocking up for the week. I used to get my groceries delivered, but she loves the store, loves picking out new snacks, even though my list never changes.

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