Page 7 of Close Knit

Her eyes scan my face. She must see the brief dive in my mood, but she doesn’t pry. “Why don’t you order a drink and tell me about it? Or you can come up with some more knitting jokes, but I promise you, Goose, I’ve heard them all.”

A no-expectations encounter with a beautiful stranger who is clueless about my identity. It’s new. Intriguing. And it’s the first time in months that my mind has been quiet.

“What are you having?”

She slides her drink over. “Try it. It’s a vanilla shake.”

I pause. “I don’t really do sugar.”

Those expressive brows shoot up on her face. “You don’tdosugar? Who hurt you?”

“I’m strict with my diet.”

“Right. Only stems, seeds, and leaves of grass for you.”

Another laugh from me. Another dazzling smile from her. I skip the drink but take up her offer to stay.

Time slips around us as we continue our verbal foreplay. We share more funny stories about each other’s grandparents. What music we like to listen to—every genre for her and high-BPMrecords for me. Our favorite parts of San Francisco—a spring day at the Conservatory of Flowers for her and a foggy morning at Point Bonita Lighthouse for me. When our laughter gets too loud, I slide into the seat on her side of the booth. We find reasons to touch—she playfully ruffles my hair when I admit that I have to make an effort to style it this way. I finger the collar of her sweater to inspect it, pretending to have any idea what she’s talking about as she names each stitch. She runs the pad of her thumb over the small gold hoop in my ear. I hold my palms over hers when she attempts to show me how to use her knitting needles.

We’re polar opposites.

Our worlds could never collide, but the spark between us could win a championship trophy.

A waiter interrupts our conspiratorial giddiness. “Hey, you two, we’re closing.”

For the first time in hours, I look up. We’re the only people left in the bar. The musicians are gone, and the lobby is empty. Our night can’t be over. Staying drunk on her is how I’d like to spend my last hours in San Francisco.

One last distraction.

“Why don’t I walk you home?” she asks, gathering all of her things into her bag as I slide out of the booth and straighten the wrinkles out of my tux.

“I think that’s my line.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Don’t be so antiquated.”

“Sure, I’d love that.” She reaches into her bag, revealing her yellow phone case. I stiffen. “Uh—what are you doing?”

“Texting my handler,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Wouldn’t want them to think I’m MIA.”

“Right.” I laugh.Calm down, Cameron.I’m acting like a spooked dog over a cell phone.

When she finishes her text, I help her out of the booth. Once she’s standing in front of me, our height difference is obvious. She’s about as tall as my baby sister. Five-six, five-seven? A whole head shorter than me. I scan her body and find her sweater swallowing her whole. No hint of her figure beneath the knit. But her legs, I linger on those for far too long. Elongated thighs that look soft to the touch. Jewelry hangs off one of her ankles and calls to the animalistic urge in me to run my teeth over the colorful chain.

“You’re all sweater and legs.”

“And you’re ogling me.”

“How could I not?”

When we enter the lobby, I loop her fingers into mine and tug her toward me. “Actually, I’m right upstairs.”

“At the hotel?”

I nod. “I leave in the morning.”

“Oh.” A beat of hesitation passes over her face before she takes a step forward and follows me to the elevator bank.

I jab the call button, hoping the elevator takes its sweet time so I can steal a few more moments with her. Instead, the car right next to us opens immediately. Of course, it does.It’stoo soon to say goodbye.Holding onto her hand, I step into the elevator and press a bunch of random floor buttons before stepping out. It chimes and takes off. “I guess I’ll have to get the next one.”

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