Tangled Up in Love (4 page)

Everyone tittered, and though Jenna laughed along with them, a slight blush colored her cheeks.

“The next time I have an orgasm,” Jenna said, “I’m hoping it will get me pregnant, so a vibrator would sort of defeat the purpose.”

“How do you expect to get pregnant when you aren’t even seeing anyone with the equipment to accomplish that goal?” Grace asked. “Not since you and Gage broke up, anyway. Or is there something you’d like to share with the group?”

“No, nothing to share,” Jenna admitted, keeping her eyes on the long, bright-pink boa she was knitting from a slinky, feathered type of yarn.

It was a testament to her slow-but-sure recovery that she was finally back to knitting and occasionally even wearing the long, colorful scarves that had practically been a trademark for her before the divorce. Ronnie and Grace often commented that they could determine
Jenna’s moods by the presence or absence of a boa around her neck, and by its color if she was wearing one.

“Unfortunately. But I’m remaining optimistic, and even considering my options. I mean, I can get pregnant without the orgasm, know what I mean?”

Ronnie dug into her homemade tote for her own thick, variegated wool yarn, which she was using to make a rather complicated cable-knit cardigan. She pulled out the pattern book she was following and removed from her needles the plastic caps that kept her from losing stitches, then picked up where she’d left off at their last meeting.

“Good for you,” she told Jenna.

She’d been as sorry as the rest of them when Jenna and Gage had gotten divorced. That had been an ugly time, with Jenna arriving for their Wednesday night knitting circle in tears more often than not, and the bulk of their time being spent comforting her—and disparaging Gage—rather than actually knitting.

It had taken nearly a year of ups and downs, but Jenna was finally beginning to return to her old self. She seemed happier, more confident, and ready to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

And what she wanted—they all knew, since she’d never made any secret of the fact—was a baby. It had been the impetus behind the split with her husband (she’d wanted one, he hadn’t) and had now become almost an obsession.

“You don’t need a man to have a baby,” Ronnie continued, sending her needles clicking as she looped stitch after stitch. “They may possess half the DNA necessary, but you can
buy
that, and then you don’t have to put up with a guy’s crap for the rest of your life. They
never help with midnight feedings or diaper changes, anyway.”

“It won’t be nearly as fun as getting knocked up the old-fashioned way, though,” Melanie put in with a wicked grin. And she should know; she had two rugrats of her own.

“Poor Charlotte,” Grace said, slanting a glance at the oldest woman in the group, who just happened to be Jenna’s aunt on her father’s side. “You probably hate it when we start with all the dirty talk, don’t you?”

Charlotte had a mop of curls on top of her head in Lucille Ball orange that were sprayed so heavily, a Category Four gale-force wind couldn’t dream of budging them. Short and pudgy with a round, smiling face, she always wore some form of polyester pants stretched tight across her wide behind and a floral-design top that drew attention to her ample breasts and lack of discernable waist.

But Charlotte was a hoot, and they all adored her. Though she had to be at least sixty, maybe even seventy—they really ought to ask Jenna sometime—she was the sole owner of an alpaca farm, and ran it practically single-handedly. She sheared the llama-like creatures, cleaned and spun the fiber into yarn, then sold both the yarns and her own knitted and crocheted items at a booth she kept at a local indoor, year-round flea market. And if any of the girls from the group wanted to sell the items they made, Charlotte was only too happy to display those, as well, and give the women 100 percent of whatever she got for them.

Ronnie took regular advantage of the woman’s kind offer, and while the money it brought in was nothing to write home about, every little bit helped.

Charlotte may have been Jenna’s aunt by blood, but they all considered her a mother figure, and Ronnie often thought the majority of the women who attended the Wednesday night knitting circle came as much to see the older woman as to knit or chat with the younger ones.

“Oh, no, dear,” Charlotte answered without lifting her gaze from her knitting, “I love listening to you girls go on about your jobs and your men and your lives. It keeps me young. And I may not be married, but I have had my share of beaus, so I know a thing or two about men myself.”

Ronnie noticed that Charlotte straightened at that last part, raising her chin and thrusting her chest out just a bit.

“You’re not telling us that you own a vibrator, are you, Charlotte?” Grace teased.

If she was hoping to make the woman blush, she was destined for disappointment. Charlotte’s hands barely slowed as she cocked a brow and looked Grace straight in the eye. “You have to remember that I’m from a different generation, dear. One that learned not to rely on batteries for every little thing.”

That caused a burst of raucous laughter. Nothing new for this group, really, but they were lucky other store customers didn’t complain to the manager and get them kicked out. Then again, if they were going to get the boot, it probably would have happened long ago.

“Ronnie, dear, you should invite your young man to visit our group sometime,” Charlotte said. “We could show him a thing or two about knitting.”

“Aunt Charlotte, the idea is for him
not
to learn how to knit. If he learns and does a good enough job to
make a scarf or dishcloth or something, then he wins the bet and Ronnie loses.”

“And Ronnie does not want to lose,” Ronnie mumbled.

“Well, I can’t say I understand the point of the little competition you have going with that Dylan Stone fellow, but I do think it would be nice if more men learned to knit. It would do them a world of good—teach them to relax and maybe even appreciate something that we’ve been doing for years.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Grace agreed, but even Ronnie couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sarcastic. “But in this man’s case, we’re rooting for him to fail.”

“Miserably,” Ronnie added.

“Miserably,” Grace repeated dutifully. “You get to keep the trophy if he loses, right?”

Ronnie grinned, picturing Dylan’s beloved Harrison Award that he’d won for some piece or another, all silver and gold and sparkling. She kept it on the dresser in her bedroom both as motivation and to remind her that she’d whipped his butt on the last task he’d put her on. Whipped his butt and gotten a tattoo on hers, but that was beside the point.

He loved that stupid award, and she knew it galled him to no end that she kept taking it away from him. And this time around, she meant to keep it.

“Oh, yeah. And as soon as he loses this stupid competition altogether, I’m going to have his name removed and replace it with mine. That’ll really kill him.”

“Good to know you’ve got your priorities straight,” Grace quipped, setting aside her knitting and grabbing her now empty mug.

“Isn’t it, though?”

The conversation branched off into other topics as Grace moved to the sideboard to make more hot tea, Jenna close on her heels. Ronnie hadn’t gotten a drink yet, mostly because she was looking forward to a cocktail or two at The Penalty Box later. But maybe after a couple more rows, she’d grab a bottle of water.

“Excuse me,” a voice broke in, and Ronnie froze in midstitch.

She was sitting with her back to the store, so she hadn’t seen anyone come up, but she knew that voice. It was male, deep, and rumbling, and she knew, just
knew
who it belonged to.

To six feet of rugged, well-built male. One with sandy blond hair and eyes the same blue as a patch of bachelor’s buttons blowing in the breeze.

A heavy, lead weight settled at the bottom of her stomach as she swallowed hard and waited. Maybe if she didn’t move, he wouldn’t realize she was there. Maybe if she let someone else respond to his question, he would get the answer he wanted and be on his merry way.

Rolling only her eyes as far to the left as they would go, she glanced at Grace and Jenna, noticing that both women were standing stock-still at the refreshment counter, matching expressions of shocked horror etched on their faces.

Oh, God.

But of course Charlotte had never met a person she didn’t immediately take a liking to, and she was the first to pipe up.

“Yes?”

“Is this the Wednesday night knitting group?”

It was definitely Dylan. She’d recognize his voice anywhere, especially since he seemed to be standing directly behind her, towering over her armchair, so close she was surprised she couldn’t feel his breath on the back of her neck.

God bless Melanie for having the chutzpah to say what she couldn’t at the moment.

“No, honey,” her friend deadpanned, lifting her knitting a few inches higher, “these are golf clubs and we were just about to tee off. Care to join us?”

Ronnie bit her tongue, sinking lower in the cushions of her chair as she covered her mouth with both hands to keep from snickering. If it was anybody else on the receiving end of that remark, she’d have felt sorry for the poor bastard. But since the current recipient happened to be her sworn enemy, and it was no less than Dylan deserved . . .

Behind her, she heard him shuffle his feet. She could picture him standing there, looking infinitely hot in some snug tee or button-up shirt, with a jacket over top in deference to the rainy weather. And he would of course be wearing his typical faded blue jeans, since he’d never met a pair of Levi’s that didn’t frame his pinchable ass to perfection.

Not that she’d ever paid all that much attention to his appearance.

Remaining perfectly still and silent, Ronnie prayed that Dylan had gotten his answer and was turning to leave.

Is this the Wednesday night knitting group?
Yes.
Thank you very much, I’ll be on my way.

It could happen.

A few chairs away, Charlotte made a
tsk
ing sound
and sent Melanie a disapproving frown. “Pay no attention to her, dear. If you’re looking for the Knit Wits, then you’ve come to the right place. Can we help you with something?”

“I sure hope so,” he replied,
not
leaving, as Ronnie had so desperately wished he would. “I’m in need of a bit of instruction about learning to knit. Would anyone here be willing to teach me, at least the basics?”

Yep, that was about right. Of all the craft stores and all the knitting groups in the city, of course he would walk into hers.

Damn Murphy and his law straight to Hell.

Ronnie’s lips parted, her mind screaming
nooooooooooo
at the top of her lungs while in reality her mouth worked like a fish’s and no sound beyond a tiny squeak came out. Then, before her motor functions could return to normal, Charlotte . . . dear, sweet, benevolent, soon-to-be-strangled-with-her-own-yarn Charlotte . . . beat her to the punch.

“Of course, dear. I’m sure someone here would be delighted to teach you to knit.”

And damned if that old woman’s cagey gaze wasn’t aimed directly at Ronnie.

“Great,” he breathed, and Ronnie could hear the relief in his voice. “Because I seem to be having a bit of trouble trying to figure this out on my own.”

Before the words were completely out of his mouth, a blur of something dropped in front of her and landed with a light bounce in her lap. She jumped in surprise, then glanced down to see an ungodly tangle of baby-blue yarn knotted around two size ten needles.

“Oh, sorry,” Dylan said, reaching around to retrieve the mangled mess. “I didn’t mean to—”

He broke off as his head came level with hers and their eyes met.

So much for melting into the seat of the faux leather armchair.

“Chasen,” he muttered, making her name sound like a curse.

Ignoring the erratic pounding in her chest and the spark in his clear blue eyes, she returned the favor. “Stone.”

She curled her fingers, with their long, blood-red tips, around the sad proof of his colossal first attempt
at knitting and held it out to him, her lips curved in an amused sneer. “I believe this is yours.”

He took the ball of yarn—if it could be called that by any stretch of the imagination—and tucked his arm behind his back. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Are things not going well with your latest challenge?” she asked sweetly.

The corner of his eye twitched; a tiny, involuntary movement, no doubt brought about by an overload of stress.

Deep down, Ronnie knew she should feel guilty for that, for being the one to have caused a facial tic in another human being. But even deeper down, she was giggling like a four-year-old who’d just discovered the Teletubbies at her birthday party.

“I’ve got a month,” he reminded her. “Don’t count me out yet.”

“Whatever you say.” She turned her attention away from him and back to her knitting. “That Harrison Award looks lovely on my dresser, and I’m in no hurry to give it up. I’m even thinking of building a little display case for it and any other awards I win from you in the future.”

Though she wasn’t looking directly at him any longer, she imagined his eye was twitching again. He really loved his Harrison Award for excellence in journalism, which she grudgingly acknowledged he deserved, since she’d read the article that gained him the coveted prize. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to him or anyone else. Not even under threat of death . . . or a really bad perm.

It galled him to no end that she maintained possession
of it, and that only made the attainment that much sweeter.

His reply, when it came, was low and tight and edged with more than a hint of bitterness. “Like I said, don’t count me out yet. It might hurt too much when I take my award back and make you eat your words.”

Ronnie gave a snort and increased the speed of her stitches, making sure he heard the rapid-fire clack of her needles. “Bring it on, Stone.”