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“Brody will join us tonight, courtesy of Rowena.” All heads swung to Ro, and her cheeks fired pink. The corners of my mouth lifted. The color suited her. “Okay, Hookers, let’s get to work.”

I moved to join Ro on her bench, but Mrs. Woodcock took my hand and led me to the opposite side of the porch, sitting me down in the chair next to hers. The wicker creaked as I settled into its cushions. She handed me a crochet hook and tied aslipknot in a length of neon green yarn. “I’m going to teach you the basics, then you can join your friend.”

I glanced up again, but Ro wasn’t looking at us. Instead, she had her tongue clamped between her teeth as she set about working with a large ball of crimson wool. The skin of her long thighs glowed in the soft lamplight. I’d much rathershe’dteach me the basics.

“Brody! Pay attention.”

“Sorry. I was just seeing what everyone else was working on.”

She huffed a little laugh. “So I noticed, but while I’m teaching you a basic chain stitch, I want your attention on me.” Her eyes had a bright glow as they roamed over my face. She lifted a silver eyebrow, and I considered myself well and truly busted for sneaking a peek at my housemate.

After the longest forty-five minutes of my life, Mrs. Woodcock declared that I had practiced enough in the art of basic crochet to be set free from her tutelage. More than once during my crash course, I’d looked up to find Ro watching me. Her mouth twitched at the corners as I battled not to use every curse word under the sun when my yarn fell off the hook and unraveled.

I thanked Mrs. Woodcock and gathered my materials, heading to join Ro on her bench. When I reached it, however, there wasn’t much room. She still sat cross-legged in the same spot, deep in concentration. Her collection of brown balls had multiplied and was now threatening to spill over onto the rug.

“I didn’t know crochet potatoes were so popular.” Ro’s head snapped up, but her frown turned into a big grin, and my heart all but melted on the spot.

“You’re alive then?”

Instead of turfing the balls off the bench, I grabbed a beanbag from the corner and brought it close to the seat before sinking into it at her feet. The polystyrene pebbles shifted and jostledunder me as I settled. “Barely. Old Mrs. Woodcock is brutal. I swear she might’ve stabbed me in the back of my hand with her hook if I’d dropped any more stitches.”

I nodded toward Ro’s heap of brown balls. “How are the mutant owls going?”

“I can’t decide whether I should rebrand them as crochet root vegetables or hang up my hook and call it quits.”

“I’d offer to help, but I can only do straight lines at the moment. Between us, we could join forces. Make them into a ball and chain?”

Her giggle tinkled in the muggy air, bathing me in warmth. I could listen to it all night. Instead, I struggled on with the scraggy string of stitches I’d started.

After a few minutes of working together in silence, I missed yet another stitch and threw my hook down into my lap. “I thought you said crochet was therapeutic. It’s stressful. Are you sure you definitely want gloves? Couldn’t I just make you a long string instead? It could come in useful. Tie your hair back. Lace up your skates.”

Ro narrowed her eyes for a beat. “No. You promised me gloves. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain so far.”

And she had. Ro had worked hard. Left the house early to practice her skating in the park. Visited Odd Duck’s gym a few times on her own. “Fine. But I need my fingers to grip my hockey stick. I don’t want to have worn them out with all this picking and pulling.”

“And I need fingers to the work outside at the Plume. We have harsh winters. I require gloves.”

I couldn’t resist the challenge in her eyes. “So, you need me to keep you warm? I’m sure I can arrange something.”

A corner of her mouth quivered, and I gave her the benefit of what one sports commentator had described as my show-stopping smile. She didn’t return it, though.

“Tell me about life on a hockey team.” The lady with the blue streak asked from across the porch. She was knitting a bright orange sweater with mismatched arm lengths.

“Brody, this is Callie. Callie, Brody. Callie’s a teacher at the school.”

I nodded a greeting, then stretched my legs out straight and threw my arms behind my head, leaning back. “Well, what can I say? It’s a charmed life. I have a butler, a PA, and a masseuse. All I have to do is turn up twice a week and play a couple of hockey games. Wave to some fans.”

The woman leaned forward in her chair as if she would cross-examine me.

“He’s only joking, Callie.” Ro looked down at me. “He works hard, and I know he’s at the rink most days.”

“You’ve been checking, Small Fry? Hired a PI? Keeping tabs on me?”

Ro sent her eyes heavenward. “Don’t flatter yourself. Being best friends with your ultimate super fan has its advantages.”

“I won’t say I’m not disappointed. You really haven’t scoured the internet for news of me? And there I was, thinking you’d been saving yourself for the day I returned to Tuft Swallow.”

A glow crept over her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows. I sat back up. Was she pissed at me?