He didn’t remember me. That much was clear from his blank expression. I’d spent the last three decades reliving the humiliation of his rejection, and he didn’t remember it at all. He didn’t remembermeat all. Typical.
But then something changed in his expression. I could actually see the moment his memory kicked in. “Dawn…Dawn Czworniak, right?”
Dreamy.
I couldn’t help grinning. At least I’d made an impression, even if it wasn’t a good one. I hadn’t been completely forgettable.
“That’s right,” I said, before correcting myself. “Well, Dawn Botstein these days. I haven’t been Czworniak for twenty-six years.”
“You’re married, then?” He betrayed no reaction to this information. It was simply a fact, utterly unrelated to him.
“I was until two years ago. I’m divorced now.” I felt it important to put that out there. Not that I really thought there was a chance…but if there was, I wanted Mike to know I was currently unattached.
He looked faintly embarrassed, as one does when they realize they’ve stepped into uncomfortable conversational territory. “Sorry.”
I shrugged to show it wasn’t a sore spot for me. “I used the divorce settlement to open this place, so you could say I made my lemons into lemonade. What about you?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity. If Mike was a married man, I needed to get my lustful feelings in check, pronto.
His forehead creases deepened fetchingly—damn men and the attractiveness of their wrinkles. “What about me?”
“Are you married?”
He affected a faint grimace. “Twice—and divorced twice too.”
I nodded in sympathetic commiseration while trying not to look happy to hear that. “So what have you been up to all these years? Last I heard you were in Ohio.”
“I was, yeah. I just moved back to Chicago in February after my dad died, to be around more for my mom.”
“I’m so sorry.” This time my sympathy was genuine and profound. I’d lost both my parents in the last ten years and knew how difficult it could be. “My condolences for your loss.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes to his feet.
I took pity on him and changed the subject. “What brings you into the shop today?” I asked, reverting back to my customer service persona. “Are you a knitter?” It wasn’t common for men to knit, but it wasn’t unheard of either. I counted several men among my regular customers—including a famous television star who was an avid crocheter—so I never made presumptions based on gender.
Mike shook his head. “No, it’s for my mom, actually. She used to knit, and I was thinking it might be good for her if I could get her to take it up again. Give her something to focus on other than…” He trailed off with a grimace.
“Sitting around the house missing your dad?” I offered gently.
“Yeah. Exactly that.” Mike’s eyes met mine with a grateful look that was so unexpectedly soft and tinged with sadness, I felt guilty for the way it made my toes curl and my stomach flutter.
The man was mourning one parent while caring for the other, and here I was internally squealing over a little eye contact like I was sixteen again.Shame on you, Dawn.
I pulled myself together and refocused on the matter at hand. “What kinds of things did your mother used to knit when she was knitting regularly? Can you remember?”
Mike rubbed a hand over his face while he thought about it, and I looked away, lest the sight of his thick fingers stroking that luscious beard send my hormones into carnal overdrive.
“She knit me and my dad a few sweaters,” he answered as I moved to straighten a perfectly straight display of hand-painted yarns.
“Anything else?” A sweater project could be tricky to pick out for someone if you didn’t know their tastes or skill level.
“Blankets,” he said. “There’s a few around the house she made.”
I dared a glance at him. “Knit or crocheted?”
“What’s the difference?” he asked with another of those damnably attractive frowns.
“Get her one of those nice afghan kits!” Linda called out from her seat by the front window. In my preoccupation, I’d completely forgotten she was in the store and near enough to hear every word of my conversation with Mike.
“Good suggestion,” I called back to Linda. “Follow me,” I said to Mike and set off for the display of afghan kits by the register. “These can either be knit or crocheted,” I explained as I showed him some of the different patterns and colorways available. “They’re a bit pricey though,” I warned, not wanting to make assumptions about his budget. Good quality yarn was a luxury item, and a blanket required a lot of it.
