Page 7 of Not Catching Love

“Have you at least looked up some of the resources I gave you yet? I can’t help you if you don’t make the effort.”

Xander glances over at Seven. “I’m bored. Can we go now?”

Seven’s gaze pings between us before dropping to the floor. “Sure, Z. Whatever you want.”

They both leave before I can get another word out—or shake them; I’m pretty fucking ready to do that too—and I lean back in the chair and cover my face with my hands.

A long groan slips between them.

“Good visit?”

I startle at Constantine’s voice. “Don’t ask.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

“Or twelve.” But we both know I won’t do that. There’s every possibility Xander could be back here again tonight. “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course. It’s your birthday.”

At least someone cares about that. “I should never have mentioned it. And Constantine, no cake. Seriously.”

“I heard you the first ten times.”

We’ll see about that.

Chapter Three

Xander

“You’re such an old person,” I complain as I hold the wool Auntie Aggy is using. The knitting needles clack together as she works on what I can only assume is a sweater that belongs to a blob creature.

“Shush and help me.”

I eye the blue, lumpy … whatever that is. “I don’t think you’re very good at this.”

“You’re ruining my concentration,” she snaps.

“And you’re ruining a perfectly good ball of wool.”

Aggy huffs and sets the monstrosity aside. She’s in her late seventies and sharp as a tack. Ever since our ragtag group moved in next door, she’s called us her lost boys and unofficially adopted us as her honorary grandchildren. Orgreat-grandchildren. She isveryold. “I’ve never knitted before.”

“Then why are you knittingnow?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Because there’s a man at the nursing home who likes unflattering knitted sweaters.”

“You have the unflattering part right.”

“This is not my wheelhouse.” She runs a delicate, veiny hand over her forehead. “I could swing dance that mother fucker to death, but a sweater? Still, when you’re my age, you work with the options you’ve got.”

I sigh and grab my phone, opening a video on how to knit. “This really is Rush’s expertise,” I tell her. “Why don’t you ask him to knit one and pass it off as your own?”

“You really think so little of me?”

I give a flat look to her fake-offended tone. “Have you forgotten that I was here when those religious missionaries showed up, and you told them that you already signed the contracts for your soul with Satan and that God should have come knocking ten years earlier? Then offered to put them on a waitlist?”

“Okay, so maybe I’m going to hell for that one, but that doesn’t mean I need to get the big man any more offside by lying. Ah,more.” She leans toward my phone. “What’s it saying?”

“That you’re a terrible knitter.”

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