Page 57 of Close Knit

“You’ll get used to it,” I say before we are interrupted by a cough.

“You must be Daphne,” a stout woman with curly orange hair calls out in a thick British accent from the porch.

“Miranda, nice to meet you!” Daphne calls as we approach.

“The one and only. Who’s this boy dressed like a beet?”

Usually, an insult from a stranger would irritate me, but Daphne made me this sweater. Frankly, I’m the best-looking beet on this farm.

“Oh, him?” Daphne tilts her head toward me. “This is Goose, my assistant for the day.”

First, I’m begging for an apology, then I’m her chauffeur, and now I’m her assistant. Next thing you know, I’ll be like a dog at her doorway, waiting for my next command.

“Nice to meet you both! Come in.” Miranda welcomes us. “Tell me about your event. I’ve heard of knitting circles, but never a whole retreat!”

Daphne lights up. “I want to raise mental health awareness through the therapeutic art of knitting.”

“Sounds lovely!”

“Are there any hotels nearby? Some guests will be coming from out of town.”

“Nothing for at least twenty minutes.”

Daphne gives me a disappointed look, a silentUgh. It hits me that she wants to share this with me—to invite me into her world. I’m honored and a bit surprised. Perhaps I didn’t forget how to have friends after all.

“Gotcha.” She nods. “How many people does the barn fit?”

“Give or take a hundred. I know you’re looking at a March date, and I have to warn you, it’ll be as muddy out here as it is today.”

“That’s good to know!”

For the next hour, we tour the property while Daphne describes her retreat to Miranda. She outlines plans for breakout sessions, silent knitting, guest speakers, social hours, and even a yoga session—called “body knitting.” By the end of the weekend, she hopes to donate most of the projects to hospitals or shelters. Her genuine desire to help others leaves me speechless.

At the end of our tour, Miranda agrees to lower the rate for the barn and give a talk about wool production.

“Let me grab a few yarn samples for you.” Miranda smiles. “Feel free to pet those little guys. They were born last month.”She gestures toward a small pen inside the barn, where baby sheep are huddled together.

“Thank you so much, Miranda, truly.” After the owner leaves, Daphne turns to me and squeals, “How freaking adorable is this?” She rushes into the pen, sitting cross-legged on a pile of hay. The little animals swarm her—who could blame them? “Cameron, aren’t you going to join me?”

“Not my thing.”

She scowls. “I let the no-sugar incident slide, but not petting a fuzzy baby animal is unforgivable.”

Fucking hell. I already put on a disguise and let the mud ruin my shoes. I guess I can pet a goddamn sheep. “Fine.”

“Yay!” she sings in a melodic voice, making me feel far more than I should for a friend who has sworn off footballers forever.

Standing awkwardly, I spot a small, lone lamb at the back of the pen and approach it, gently stroking its head. It lets out a soft bleat.Okay, this thing isn’t horrible. I pick him up, and Daphne watches me.

“What?” I ask.

“Just something about a big, tough man holding a baby sheep.” She sighs dreamily.

“Doing it for you?”

“Oh yeah. But in a very platonic way.” There goes that ego boost. “I think the guys would love these fluffy babies. Maybe I can convince them to do a field trip out here once we finish our projects for Femi’s auction.”

She fits in so seamlessly with my squad that it stirs a pang of jealousy.

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