She turned the corner—and nearly plowed face-first into a wall of muscle wrapped in a dark green hoodie.
Nettie startled, stumbling back. The man in front of her loomed solid and broad, a storm cloud of tension even before he lifted his head.
“Oh, hey, Nettie!”
The employee—Melba? Marta? She could never remember—beamed at her from the other side of the display. She waved happily, oblivious to the way Nettie’s stomach suddenly tied itself into a neat square knot.
“This guy was just looking for?—”
“Never mind,” the man snapped, pulling the hoodie up farther as if to shield himself from recognition. Too late. Nettie’s eyes had already caught his profile, saw the disheveled hair, andthat strong nose that was still sporting the remnants of a faded bruise.
“Tate?” she breathed, the name slipping out before she could stop it. Her heart kicked into an uneasy rhythm. “What are you doing here?”
The employee supplied helpfully, “Oh, he’s looking to buy some yarn?—”
“I swear, why does everyone have to be in my business?” Tate cut her off, his voice sharp, irritated. He heaved a sigh and tipped his head back, glaring at the ceiling as though begging for divine patience. “First Gina, then this lady, and now you – of all the people in the world… you.”
His voice was flat, angry, and obviously frustrated. Nettie swallowed, feeling instantly out of place in her own shop, which she visited frequently. Why did he have to be like this all the time?
“Um, I could help you… if you’d like?” Her voice felt too soft, too fragile in the presence of his sharp edges. “Are you looking for something for Gina? I didn’t know she crocheted or knitted. Or is it for your mother… or a girlfriend?” The last word snagged in her throat, emerging broken and hesitant.
The idea of Tate Cassidy—intense, solitary Tate—dating someone was so foreign she couldn’t even imagine what kind of woman he’d choose. Someone loud and fiery? Or gentle and patient enough to weather his moods?
“No,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “I’m… uh, not Gina – okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Well, if it’s for your mother?—”
“No. Why does everyone go there first?” His hands clenched at his sides. “If it’s not my sister, then it’s gotta be for my mother? Sheesh. Is it because this is what old people do in their spare time? Next thing you know, I’ll be macraméing planters and dipping candles.”
“Crocheting and knitting can be very soothing,” Nettie offered, trying to keep her tone steady and calm. She reached out to touch one of the skeins, fingers trailing over the softness. “It really depends on what you’re buying it for. If you’re making something to wear, you want it soft against the skin?—”
“Can you please just never utter the word ‘skin’ ever again?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I think I’m done here. In fact, I know I am…”
Her heart sank. “Oh. Well, I was leaving anyway. Sorry to have bothered you, Tate.”
She turned, ready to retreat into the safety of anonymity, when his hand landed firmly on her elbow.
“Wait.”
Her body went rigid. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She stared straight ahead, bracing herself. Would he say something nasty or caustic to her again? Was there anyone within earshot? This was not how she wanted things to go between her best friend’s brother and herself, and she was afraid to even think what that ‘something else’ could look like.
Tate… was always just Tate.
“You barely have anything in your basket,” he said, voice rough. “Was I blocking you? I’ll move if you need to shop.”
“No,” she whispered, forcing herself to look up at him. His eyes were dark, hard, and far too intense for her liking. He was always so much larger than life – and when that presence loomed over her by a foot or so?
It was intimidating.
It had taken everything in her to come out shopping today. After work yesterday, a random stranger insulted her casually - yelling ‘Sir’ behind her in the parking lot. How did she look like a ‘sir’? Everything seemed so difficult lately. She’d been wounded, her feelings hurt by someone’s careless words, that followed all too closely to her unexpected run-in with Tate.
What guy thought it was okay to ask if she was a man?
When was thateverokay?
She would never stick her hair up under a baseball cap ever again. She felt raw, brittle, every step second-guessed. And now here Tate was, yet another man who seemed to resent the space in this universe that they were forced to share.
“What are you looking for over here, then?” he pressed.
