31. Daphne

Chapter 31

Daphne

December 26

Daphne Quinn’s Followers Clap Back at Football Fanatics’ Cruel Comments!

December 27

Will Cameron Hastings Return for the First Game of the New Year?

“Seriously?” I sputter, my eyes popping out at the Everest-like mountain of packages barricading my apartment door. It looks like a game of Tetris gone horribly wrong. Bright red Forwarded stickers are slapped across them. The luggage that Cameron hauled up three flights of stairs looks like feathers in comparison to this cardboard monstrosity looming before us.

Cameron drops our bags on the floor. “This is more than I’m used to carrying up the stairs,” he says, an eyebrow cocked.

“Right?” I shake my head. “This resembles a small warehouse.” My surprise is palpable. The labels are all addressed to @wooly.duck. These are all from my followers? “We were gone a week!” I exclaim in a hushed whisper.

Together, Cameron and I start the mammoth task of shifting the packages to unearth my front door.

Suddenly, a head pops up in the hallway like a gopher in a field. “ Hallo ?” It’s Sven, wrapped in a fluffy baby-blue robe that swallows him whole. “Oh, Daphne, you’re back! Thought you were Ibrahim coming home from the Labyrinth concert.”

Cameron smiles at Sven, but the moment is as awkward as a sheep trying to knit its own wool. Sven avoids his gaze, and Cameron resumes clearing a path to my apartment. Guess the guys are still upset after the Overton game. I hope the knitting circle helps bind them back together.

“Hey, Sven,” I whisper across the hall, aware that most of the building is asleep. “How long have these been here?”

“Mailman dropped them off two days ago,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Your PO box was overflowing, so we hauled it up.”

“That’s so kind. Thank you!”

“No worries. We’ll catch up on Wednesday?”

“See you then.”

“Goodnight.” He disappears into his apartment, closing the door.

Once we make it inside, my hero works to wrangle the boxes into one corner of my living room. I grab a bright pink package and tear it open.

My eyes well up as I read a letter from a woman in Stockholm. Knitting my Juni sweater has become her therapy, helping her cope with anxiety. Now she’s teaching her daughter to knit, turning it into a bonding experience.

I open another letter. A man from New England writes that knitting with his wife helped save their marriage. They didn’t just stitch scarves and beanies; they stitched their relationship back together.

Then there’s a tiny knitted duck from a college student in London, who writes that I inspired her to start a campus knitting club. It’s now a popular stress-buster and social hub, and it helped land the founder an internship. She even wants to write a college essay about me.

Despite my initial fears of returning home, I’m suddenly swept up in a wave of love so cheesy it could top a pizza. It’s easy to forget the impact you’re having when you spend most of your day glued to a phone screen.

But this, this is why I want to run this retreat—to forge genuine connections and stretch my reach beyond the pixels and screens.

I hand the notes to Cameron.

He reads them one by one. “They adore you.” I’m practically floating on air. “Not surprising, really,” he adds with a grin.

“I think this is the most overwhelmed I’ve felt,” I say, half laughing, half crying.

“Does that cry feel as good as an orgasm?” he teases, gently brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“Better,” I retort with a snicker.

He laughs along, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

“You just get off on winning.” I roll my eyes playfully.

He shrugs. “Is that so wrong?”

“You’re going to spoil me with a private jet and an orgasm before bed?”

“Wait until I wake you up early in the morning to go get groceries for the week.” He frowns at my empty fridge.

“That’s some real dating-level stuff right there.” I chuckle.

“Bet your sweet ass it is.”