“What does she do for fun?” he asked before he could stop himself.
There was silence on the other end, then Gina’s suspicious squeal. “OMIGOSH! Are you asking her out on a date?”
“No!” Tate barked, sitting up and scrubbing both hands through his hair. “I thought maybe… a gift. Something to soften things. Cheer her up. Just don’t tell her it’s from me. Let it be from some good Samaritan.”
“Aww, you big softie. I knew you had it in you, underneath all those sour, rotten, and decrepit spots…”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he snapped, heat climbing his neck. “I’m not in the mood for your mouth. I’m attempting to do something nice for my sister.”
“For Nettie…” she stressed.
“For my sister because she’s bugging the crap out of me,” he corrected. “What does Nettie do for fun? Music? I could grab her a gift card. Does she like books?”
“She knits and crochets stuff.”
Tate pulled the phone away from his head, stared at it, like it had suddenly changed shape or sprouted wings, before putting it back against his ear. “Are you serious? So she actslike a grandma just like her name? She’s what… twenty-four? Twenty-five? Why in the world would she want to spend her time knitting? Does she need a sweater – I’ll buy her ten stupid sweaters if she needs clothing. Sheesh…”
“Hey, she was raised by her grandmother, remember? And she actually enjoys knitting and crocheting things. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Never gonna happen,” he muttered flatly. The mental image of him holding knitting needles nearly made him laugh—and puke. He would look like a moron holding those little, tiny things.
“Just get her some pretty yarn and she’ll be golden. Oh! And maybe a sweet little note that tells her?—”
Click.
Tate hung up, tossed the phone onto the charger, and then set it to ‘Do Not Disturb’. He’d already endured enough sunshine and rainbows for one morning – but even he had his limits.
Gina was a romantic fool and thought everyone should be in a relationship, something that his parents had fostered, supported, heck, even encouraged despite the multitude of times he’d abolished that idea for himself. He didn’t want a relationship with someone – and he didn’t even know if his own sister was dating someone. Maybe he should go to dinner on Sunday instead of bailing on them like he’d considered?
But as he dragged himself toward the shower, he couldn’t shake the image of Nettie with her hands full of yarn, her eyes too big, too soft, and sitting cross-legged on the couch like he remembered that she used to do as a teenager.
She’d always been so… gentle,he thought silently, stepping under the spray, closing his eyes.
Too gentle.
Too tender-hearted.
Too… Nettie.
Dousing his head under the streaming water, he sighed heavily.
Where the heck do you buy yarn anyhow?
CHAPTER 5
NETTIE
“I cannot believeit’s Sunday already…”
Nettie’s breath left her in a long sigh, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of an entire week with it. The words slipped from her lips in a whisper, almost a prayer, almost a plea. If the universe was listening, maybe it could hear her weariness and offer mercy: a faster week, or better yet, a longer weekend. A pause button. Just one chance to breathe, to catch up, to steal a few more quiet hours for herself.
It was her own fault, of course. She’d stacked her proverbial plate too high—setting goals that she knew she’d obsessively chase until her fingers ached. A part of her told herself it was because she wanted to prove something, but to whom? To herself? To her peers at work? Or maybe, in some strange way, to her grandmother’s memory. Nettie sometimes felt that if she worked hard enough, did enough, created enough, her grandmother would look down and nod in approval as if love from the great beyond could still be earned.
Her feet carried her slowly along the wide wall of yarn—endless shelves, stacked high with skeins that gleamed like treasure in a dragon’s hoard. The colors dazzled her eyes—brilliant rainbows in some places, muted earth tones in others.Even the browns, grays, and dusky blues carried their own dignity, quiet and steadfast, like old gatherings of a polite society from so long ago.
Nettie’s fingertips itched as she gazed at the funky metallic yarns, shimmering threads that seemed spun from frost. Those were for scarves she might never wear but desperately wanted to make. The soft, chunky yarns—oh, she could almost feel the weight of a blanket cocooning her in winter, as if hugging her close. Her budget, however, yanked her back to reality, dragging her to the familiar, humbler skeins she always bought—sturdy, serviceable yarns, softening with love and plenty of fabric softener over time.
Still, she had goals – and those dreamy yarns called to her. Cashmere. Angora. Mohair. Fibers so fine, so decadent, they might as well have come from fairy tales. She drifted toward them, indulging in her favorite ritual of fantasizing about one day splurging on something beautiful just for herself. A shawl, a sweater or a cardigan, maybe. Something impractical but exquisite, something that whispered: you deserve this.
