Page 56 of Close Knit

I chuckle. “Guidance, huh? More like unsolicited commands.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

My heart races. It’s getting harder to say no to her, and I’m not sure I want to.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but lose the mustache. And I’m not wearing the wig.”

“Killjoy,” she teases.

“Brat.”

“Ugh!” She rips off the handlebar mustache and pockets it.

I open the driver’s door, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it on the seat before replacing it with the retina-burning, bright-colored sweater. A vanilla scent surrounds me. The fabric is soft, like one of Daphne’s blankets. “Did you make this?”

“Yeah.”

“You knitted an entire sweater in two weeks?”

“You’re making it into a big deal.” She circles me and sits behind the wheel on top of my jacket, her legs dangling out of my car. “I do this for a living. It’s just a stockinette stitch. Literally took me half a season ofGilmore Girlsto throw together. It’s nothing.” But to me, it’s everything. No one has ever made me anything before. The thought that her hands touched every inch, every stitch, fills me with a warmth I can’t quite name. “Now come on, put on the rest of the outfit,” she insists.

“Thank you, Daphne.”

“It’s honestly nothing.”

I need this distraction today. My mind’s been tumbling all week after Lyndhurst’s last two games ended in a draw. At this rate, winning the trophy seems impossible. At the botanical garden two weeks ago, I found a rare moment of peace. With Daphne, I don’t feel like a goalkeeper burdened with unmet expectations; I’m just a man enjoying the company of a beautiful girl with an addictive laugh. She makes me forget everything. Her infectious sunshine is finally starting to claw its way through my clouds.

“So, what are we doing here?”

“I thought it would be fun to visit a few locations I had in mind for my knitting retreat, you know, since I have you to drive me around for the rest of the day.” Daphne peers out at the expansive pastures, which are speckled with hundreds of sheep.

“Why a farm?”

“Not just any farm. A sheep farm!” I stare at her, head cocked. “Wool comes from sheep, silly.”

“Naturally.” I’ve never thought about where my clothes come from, but she makes me want to learn.

Daphne checks her phone. “Miranda Lambright, the owner, is meant to be our tour guide.”

“Do you think that’s her legal name or a code name? Lamb…right?”

A bubbly laugh escapes her. “Maybe there’s a shady black market for wool.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re undercover.”

Daphne kicks out one of her feet and bumps my shin. She looks up at me with mirth in her eyes. “For a footballer, you don’t seem too keen on getting dirty.”

With a husky chuckle, I rest my forearm on the car roof and lean closer, my voice dropping to a low whisper near her ear. “I love getting dirty when the game gets interesting. I can get you dirty too.”

She bites her lip, struggling to maintain her composure. “W-what?”

In one quick motion, I grab her hands and tug her out of the car. She pops up, her boots squelching into the thick, sticky mud. Some splatters across my jeans. “See, now we’re both a mess.”

“Does all of this come naturally to you?” Her cheeks flush, and she makes no effort to let go of my hands.

“You bring it out of me.” I flash her a smirk that I know drives her wild.

She swallows hard. “You’re impossible.”

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