Page 112 of Close Knit

“No worries. We’ll catch up on Wednesday?”

“See you then.”

“Goodnight.” He disappears into his apartment, closing the door.

Once we make it inside, my hero works to wrangle the boxes into one corner of my living room. I grab a bright pink package and tear it open.

My eyes well up as I read a letter from a woman in Stockholm. Knitting my Juni sweater has become her therapy, helping her cope with anxiety. Now she’s teaching her daughter to knit, turning it into a bonding experience.

I open another letter. A man from New England writes that knitting with his wife helped save their marriage. They didn’t just stitch scarves and beanies; they stitched their relationship back together.

Then there’s a tiny knitted duck from a college student in London, who writes that I inspired her to start a campus knittingclub. It’s now a popular stress-buster and social hub, and it helped land the founder an internship. She even wants to write a college essay about me.

Despite my initial fears of returning home, I’m suddenly swept up in a wave of love so cheesy it could top a pizza. It’s easy to forget the impact you’re having when you spend most of your day glued to a phone screen.

But this, this is why I want to run this retreat—to forge genuine connections and stretch my reach beyond the pixels and screens.

I hand the notes to Cameron.

He reads them one by one. “They adore you.” I’m practically floating on air. “Not surprising, really,” he adds with a grin.

“I think this is the most overwhelmed I’ve felt,” I say, half laughing, half crying.

“Does that cry feel as good as an orgasm?” he teases, gently brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“Better,” I retort with a snicker.

He laughs along, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

“You just get off on winning.” I roll my eyes playfully.

He shrugs. “Is that so wrong?”

“You’re going to spoil me with a private jetandan orgasm before bed?”

“Wait until I wake you up early in the morning to go get groceries for the week.” He frowns at my empty fridge.

“That’s some real dating-level stuff right there.” I chuckle.

“Bet your sweet ass it is.”

Chapter 32

Daphne

I sleepily wanderinto the living room, the afternoon light streaming into my apartment. Cameron must already be up, because the mountain of boxes and packages that littered my place last night has mysteriously vanished. On my kitchen counter, there’s a huge white box with the signature Petal & Plate logo imprinted on the top.

I love having Cameron Hastings in my bed and treating my place as if it were his own.

He’s like my own personal radiator at night, letting me tuck my cold feet in between his thighs. I’ve never felt unsafe in my apartment, but knowing that he was beside me let me drift off easier without my usual cryfest blaring on the television.

With my almond croissant in hand, I slink onto my couch and take three deep breaths before redownloading each of my social apps.

You got this, Daphne.

Before I check the hundreds of notifications, I filter out every negative word ever thrown my way—weird, stupid, ugly, attention, Lyndhurst. Luckily, Juni and my moms helped me make the list, shielding me from having to dig through the onslaught of online nonsense.

Authors must feel like this when they handle book reviews—gearing up in shiny armor to collect praise and dodge critiques. It must be tiring watching your work get tossed around in the unpredictable arena of public opinion.

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