She tips her head at me. “That is ... not something I expected from you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re a big tough hockey player. I didn’t think you’d find something so gentle, so soothing.”
“Would you believe it if I also said I like to crochet?”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. “No way.”
I laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. I don’t even know what crocheting really is.”
“Fair enough. I’m not sure I could tell you the difference between knitting and crocheting, but my nonna could. She makes me a scarf every year for Christmas. They’re always hideous, but I wear them anyway.”
I know exactly the scarves she’s referring to, and they are ugly.
Still, I like that she wears them for her grandmother. It’s like what I used to do for my mother, who would buy me the most atrocious-looking tie every December. It didn’t matter, though. I would still wear it to the game, even knowing I’d be photographed, because it made her smile.
“So,” she says, wiping the towel inside my mom’s favorite wooden bowl, “are you going to avoid me forever, or do I get to come back to the farm to help with the barn?”
I lift a brow. “You want to come back after what happened last time?”
She shrugs. “Sure, I do. It wasn’t me who ran into the door.”
“No, it was just your fault thatIdid.”
She huffs likeI’mthe one who is wrong. “I don’t want to get into it again. Can’t we just say that we’rebothat fault and call it good so I can come back?”
I want to tell her no. I want to push the issue and tell her I don’t need her. To piss her off so badly, she doesn’twantto come back, because I can’t afford the distraction.
But that’s not what I say at all.
“You can come back.”
“Really?!” She claps, far too excited about the idea of manual labor.
“Yes,but—and this is a bigbut—if you get in my way or injure me again, even accidentally, then you’re out. We’re on a tight schedule. I can’t afford to lose any more days.”
“I still think it wasn’t my fault at all”—her lips twitch becauseof courseshe’s arguing—“but all right. That sounds fair.” She holds her hand out between us. “Shake on it?”
I pluck my hand from the water, sliding it against hers, not bothering to dry it.
We shake once, then twice, and I try not to pay attention to how soft her touch is beneath mine.
She’s the first to pull away, flexing her hand at her side, like she can still feel my touch and is trying to shake it away.
Or maybe it’s just the water still clinging to my hands, and I’m overthinking things.
You’re the one with the problem, Noah. Not Odette.
“FYI, I won’t be in tomorrow, boss,” she says.
What the . . .
“But you just said you wanted to come help.”
“I know, but tomorrow’s Sunday.” She shrugs like that explains everything and doesn’t elaborate any further.
I don’t bother asking questions either.
