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The high-pitched whine of cicadas drilled into my eardrums as I leaned against the white picket fence of Mr. and Mrs. Woodcock’s place. I hadn’t been there for ages. The last time would’ve been Halloween, maybe fifteen years ago. Coop and I had set off some fireworks in their drainpipe. After being caught in the act, we had to pick up litter in the town square for a week.

I rechecked my watch. Ro must be running late. She hadn’t messaged me today, and I wasn’t in the habit of hanging on street corners waiting for girls. But as she came around the corner on Daisy Three, the edges of my mouth curled. Forthisgirl, I’d make an exception.

With a grin, Ro applied her squeaky brakes and stopped in front of me. She slipped off her bike, cocking her leg over the crossbar. Leaning its frame against her hip, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, dark braids. A healthy slug of floral shampoo tickled at my nostrils, and I breathed it in.

“You made it,” she said, surveying me with a sweep of her brown eyes. “Where did you tell Coop you were going?”

She knew I wouldn’t admit to her brother why I missed dinner. “I said I had a phone meeting. Needed some privacy.”

She chuckled. “Privacy is the last thing you’ll get tonight. The minute the group realizes they’re in the presence of greatness, they’ll all be fighting to sit next to you.” Ro tucked her helmet into the basket at the front of her handlebars. She pulled out her bag, shouldering it in one swift motion.

At the slight curve of her lips, I couldn’t resist teasing her. “I thought you were responsible for me this evening? I’m a virgin. Remember? That makes me vulnerable. Open to suggestions. What if I get performance anxiety in front of a crowd?”

Instead of the flirty look that most women would throw me, Ro puffed out air. “You’d never have performance anxiety. You’re too cocky for your own good.”

She wasn’t wrong. I swallowed down a million smutty comebacks as I followed Ro down the driveway toward the old house. The building was just as I remembered, although someone had replaced the drainpipe we’d obliterated. The green and white painted timber was the same. As was the ivy clinging to its surface.

“So tell me again, why are we meeting here? I mean, it’s someone’s house. Are we casing the joint? Do the Woodcocks own some kind of rare yarn?” I sucked in a theatrical breath. “Maybe they have a collection of golden crochet hooks inside. We could sell them to the highest bidder and run off to Mexico together.”

With a roll of her eyes, Ro propped her bike against the wall just before the steps to the front door. “This is the HQ of the Dirty Hookers.”

“You don’t meet at the wool shop?” Tuft Swallow had a haberdashery called The Knotty Nester. The owner, Ruth Barfoffen, spent hours knitting clothes for the trees in the town square.

“Nope. A house is far more in keeping with the spirit of the group.”

“How d’ya mean? Keep your friends close, and your crochet hooks closer?”

“No Brody, more that we’re like a family.”

“Closeknit?”

Ro groaned at my terrible joke, and her eyes sparkled in the porch lamplight above us.

“I’m worried about how your wooly family will welcome a stranger. Will Mrs. Woodcock frisk me on my way in?” I lifted one corner of my mouth. “Will you?”

Ro sighed, her tank top stretching across her breasts as she took in a breath and let it out. “I know crafting isn’t your scene, but remember why you’re here, and please be polite. I don’t want to be thrown out of the group for inviting a troublemaker.”

I threw my palms up in submission. “I promise I’ll play nicely. So, does Mrs. Woodcock lead this group, too? I should have guessed. That woman practically runs the town. Always has.”

Ro let out a low, throaty giggle, its sound going straight to my jocks. I wetted my bottom lip with my tongue.

“You were right when you said nothing ever changes in Tuft Swallow.” Her freckled nose wrinkled, and my breath ran a little shallower.

“Some things have,” I murmured.

As I spoke the words, I reached out and ran my fingers along her forearm. I don’t know what possessed me. It was the wrong thing to say. The worst thing to do. A momentary lapse of judgment. And I shouldn’t have touched her, but the way Ro’s eyes burned into mine, wide and alive, I was ready to throw caution to the wind and take up cross-stitch if it meant I could touch her again.

A low grunt rang out in the air between us, and a rugged man built like GI Joe pushed past, heading up the steps to the front door. Ro and I looked at each other, and her lips quirked a little. An uncomfortable burn sparked in my chest.

“Have you datedhim?” Damn, I sounded like a jealous boyfriend. I’d already asked the same question about Finn and Nick. Ro was at liberty to date whoever she wanted.

She tipped her head to one side before shaking it, dismissing my ridiculous inquiry. “I don’t even know his real name. We call him Winston’s Hot Daddy. Comes every week. Makes the most adorable sweaters.”

“He wears sweaters?”

“No, they’re for Winston.”

“The goat?”