9. Daphne

Chapter 9

Daphne

Teaching football players how to knit is like herding preschoolers who argue over who’s the best student like there’s a trophy at stake. It’s hilarious and, honestly, kind of adorable. Sure, they’re eager to get Femi’s scarves right, but my patience is starting to stretch thinner than the yarn we’re using.

If this is any indication of how my retreat will go, I’ll need to build up my hand stamina.

Okay, that sounds positively filthy.

The guys sit around me as I demonstrate how to cast off a scarf for the third time this evening. Lust Island booms in the background.

Omar looks like a grizzly bear trying to delicately assemble a house of cards. His massive fingers fumble with the delicate yarn, ensnaring it in a never-ending loop of frustration.

“This has got to be harder than bench-pressing a small car,” he grumbles.

“It isn’t.” Sven shakes his head.

He, on the other hand, is a knitting prodigy. His needles click away, effortlessly creating a perfect stockinette stitch. Sure, he asked for a private lesson last week, but that was cut short after the spider fiasco. Sven simply could not sit in my apartment. His arachnophobia had him swinging his head around my living room, looking for any sudden movement.

My gaze keeps abandoning my project and jumping up to the entrance of the common room. Cameron’s late today. It’s already a quarter past nine.

Where is he? More importantly, why do I care?

“Sven, you’re such a teacher’s pet.” Ibrahim nudges his friend’s elbow, attempting to mess him up.

“No need to be jealous, big boy,” he laughs. “My sister’s taught me to knit.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he isn’t turning the macho stereotype on its head. “I used to make sweaters for my pet iguana.”

When Sven showed me pictures of the tiny iguana in a white sweater, I nearly peed myself. Cozy, adorable animals are my weakness, apparently—right up there with gruff footballers who rescue spiders.

Ibrahim side-eyes Sven. “They have iguanas in Oslo? Isn’t it too cold for them?”

“Hence the sweater.” He laughs. “Daphne, do you sell the pattern to this scarf on your website?”

“I do! It’s one of my bestsellers. I have over a hundred patterns on my site, and I’m always adding new ones.”

“I’ll have to check out the others and buy some,” Sven says.

“Thanks, Sven.”

Omar, Jung, and Tamu have their tongues stuck out in deep concentration.

“While Sven’s picking up a new side hustle, I doubt we’ll have an easy time auctioning these off when they look like this,” Tamu muses, glancing at the tangled mess in his lap.

“Everyone gets better with practice, I promise,” I say, hoping I don’t come off as some cheesy motivational poster. “These scarves will be made with love, and that’s all that matters.”

“I guess,” Tamu says. He doesn’t look convinced.

“We’ll get it right, just like we’ll get that play right with Hastings on the pitch,” Omar assures him.

I want to find out more but before I can pry, Jung says, “You’re announcing your knitting camp tonight, right?”

My nerves wriggle with excitement. Since the Stone Times article came out a month ago, I’ve been flooded with support and patience from my knitting community. My mom and I sat down to go over an estimated budget for the event. I’ve organized a list of sponsors, from yarn suppliers to mental health providers, that could all pitch in and lower costs. Despite my nerves, things seem to be working out.

“Yes, tonight is the big announcement.” I glance at the clock. “I actually have to get going soon to set up.”

“If you can manage to teach us poor saps how to knit, your followers will be positively stoked,” Ibrahim says in the only volume he knows—loud.

They all cheer.

After so many years of keeping my social circle to my sister, moms, and online community, being here with them has made me realize how lonely I truly was. Three months into my Yes Year, and taking risks is paying off tremendously. I like this feeling of belonging. My knitting retreat is only going to multiply it.

“Thanks, guys.” I pack up my tote bag and loop it over my shoulder. “Same time next week.”

“Night, Daph!” they say in unison.

Next to the mailboxes in the lobby, there’s a stack of packages with my name on them. I crack my neck, ready for the only form of exercise I actually enjoy: lugging PR boxes up and down three flights of stairs.

At least at the end of this cardio, I’ll have a whole new slew of yarn to play with.

The best part of my job is how lucky I am to be sponsored by brands I love. My streaming income is consistent enough to keep me comfortable, but the sporadic brand sponsorships give me a boost here and there.

Definitely a big enough boost for me to be able to invest in the retreat!

I grab the biggest box, struggling with its unwieldy size, and ascend the stairs. Halfway up the last flight, my arms strain with the effort. You’d think yarn wouldn’t be this heavy, but my thighs are burning. My foot catches on a step, and I stumble, the box almost slipping from my grasp.

“Need a hand?” A voice startles me from behind.

Not just any voice. Cameron’s voice.

Of course, it’s him.

I turn. He’s standing with the rest of my boxes stacked like a Jenga tower in his strong, hefty arms. The soft hallway light illuminates his chiseled, brooding features. His dark hair is tousled in a perfect just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

My cheeks burn, the same way they did when he burst into my apartment like a sexy, heroic exterminator. Must my body betray me so cruelly? He’s just a man! A handsome, grunting man with a voice that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

And he’s wearing that gold hoop in his ear again.

Must he do that when I’m fuming at him?

Are his deep brown eyes swirling with that familiar mix of mischief and sadness? I can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter. The last thing I need to be doing is trying to figure out what any of his looks or actions or sexy half-smiles mean.

“Shouldn’t you already be hiding out in your apartment? It’s after nine,” I blurt out before realizing my mistake.

“Keeping tabs on me?”

“No. Of course not. Just surprised to see you lurking at this hour,” I retort, trying to regain some composure. I fail. Miserably. “What are you doing with my stuff?” I attempt to change the subject as I climb up to our floor.

“I’m only trying to get up the stairs.”

“So you decided to steal my boxes and follow me up here?”

“Don’t know if you forgot, but we are neighbors. If you don’t want me to help you carry these, then I’ll walk them downstairs, and you can bring them back up yourself.” His tone is annoyingly calm, but the way his brows lift tells me he’s enjoying this.

“Fine, but don’t think for a second this means you’re off the hook. You still owe me an apology for being a complete jerk the other day.” He climbs another stair, gets closer, and cocks his head before letting out one of his signature grunts. That rumbling sound makes my blood boil with vexation. “Seriously?”

He tilts his head, still silent. Immature and ridiculous. I want to crack him open and see the guy I was with in San Francisco, not this statue. No, Daphne. He’s not a flawed stitch I can mend.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you. Why did he have to tell me that? Why turn everything between us into such a confusing mess?

“You know what? Take my boxes. Throw them down the stairs, or take them to your apartment and burn them! You can add Package Thief to your résumé, right below Spider Exterminator, Stalker Accuser, Premier League Soccer Jerkface, and Man with That Sexy Gold Hoop Earring,” I babble out in frustration.

Ugh. I know how to manage my emotions, but with Cameron Hastings, I feel so out of control.

“Sexy?” His mouth quirks to the side.

He gives me that look again. The smoldering, I’m-too-cool-for-this look. My body instantly melts like a popsicle in July. Traitor! Why does this meathead act totally work on me? What primal cavewoman switch gets flipped in my brain when he does this?

“The hoop is doing all the heavy lifting.”

“That so?” He steps closer. A familiar, sexy wickedness flashes into his eyes. “Want to try it on?”

“Oh, please. If I wanted to accessorize, I’d wear something that doesn’t scream pirate wannabe.”

“Pirate wannabe?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got quite the comebacks, Daphne.” The way he says my name makes the tendrils in my stomach tighten.

“And you’ve got quite the ego, Cameron.” I try to look unimpressed.

“Look, I’m—”

“Don’t look me. You’re hot and cold, up and down, and it’s exhausting. One minute you’re helping me, the next you’re accusing me of stalking you.”

He takes a deep breath, gaze softening. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure things out.”

The words snap some sense into me. I don’t want to be collateral for some gorgeous man who can’t vocalize his feelings.

“I thought there was no us to figure out.” I sigh. “Please just leave my boxes here. I’ll get them later.”

I whirl around to storm up to my apartment, but my slipper slides along the tile, causing me to lose my balance. The large box in my arms collapses to the floor. In one swift motion, Cameron drops my packages onto the landing and tries to steady me, placing his hands on my shoulders. We end up losing our balance, stumbling backward as we struggle on the staircase. We slide down four stairs before coming to a stop on the landing, my back pressed against the wall. He steadies me, his six-foot-plus frame towering over me.

His hot breath fans across my face. A mix of fresh grass and earthy musk fills my senses. My traitorous mind spins with the memory of being with him.

The way his scruff brushed against my knuckles, the tenderness of his lips when he kissed my palms.

His presence is dominating and overwhelming. Oxygen drains out of my lungs. We stare at each other for a long time, his gaze scanning my eyes before it dips to my lips.

I want to kiss him again. Against every rational instinct in my body, I want to rise up onto my tiptoes and get a small taste.

“You smell nice,” he says with an icy drawl.

My knees wobble. Warmth pools in my belly. I want to tell him to whisk me into my apartment so we can finally get rid of all this ridiculous pent-up tension between us. But I can’t. Not when I risk being brushed off by his cold shoulder again.

It takes all my might to push him away. “Thanks,” I snap, my voice slicing through the tension like a knife. I scramble to pick up my large box. “Good night.” I scurry up the stairs, unlock my apartment, and toss the cardboard barrier onto the floor.

The entire living room spins as I attempt to calm my racing heartbeat, but his inescapable image flashes in my mind.

That strong jawline. His not-so-perfect nose. His hands clenched into fists while he avoided my gaze. What gives guys like him the license to be such jerkfaces? The patriarchy, that’s what. His first red flag was bright and clear—what kind of person doesn’t eat sugar? There has to be some sort of grumpy-dude manual out there, one that lays out all the qualifications for being a certified grouch.

One: never smile

Two: avoid sweets

Three: grunt instead of using words

Four: don’t pet puppies

Okay, I don’t know about that last one. But my point stands.

I have my knitting retreat to announce, scarves to knit for Femi, and a whole nine more months of my Yes Year. I don’t have time for guys who don’t know what they want. The last thing I need is someone messing with my composure.

Stop it, Daphne.

“I am a strong, confident, charming woman who doesn’t need to second-guess herself,” I say out loud. And it’s not my problem if he doesn’t want anything to do with me because, frankly, it’s his loss.

I’m a Yes Girl!

Except maybe when it comes to Cameron Hastings.