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Hot GI Joe Goat Daddy, or whatever Ro had called him, shifted in the corner, laying down his knitting. A thick “humph” escaped his lips. “I heard you keep yourself plenty busy when you’re off the ice, too. I wanna hear aboutthat, Flock Boy.” He chuckled, and Mrs. Woodcock’s head bobbed up.

Even though Ro didn’t look at me, the air crackled between us, and I chewed on my bottom lip, considering my words.

“I’ll admit I’ve had my fun. Dated some women. Maybe broken a few hearts.” One elderly lady with lilac-rinsed hairgasped, and Callie giggled. “But I confess, I lostmyheart to a woman years ago.”

It was as if all the crickets went on strike and stopped simultaneously. I’d heard of pregnant pauses before, but this one was expecting octuplets. The only thing I heard was the gentlest intake of breath from Ro.

“Really, tell me more?” Hot GI Joe wasn’t giving up.

“I don’t want to give the lady’s name away, but she’s very special. Always looked out for me. Been there for me when it mattered. Even though our circumstances aren’t ideal, I struggle to keep my feelings to myself when I'm near her.”

“Won’t you tell us who it is?” asked Callie as if I was retelling Romeo and Juliet.

I gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose one day, I must confess. Why not here? Tonight on this porch. Amongst friends.” I dared to look up at Ro. Her chest rose and fell a little faster than I remembered, and she’d clamped her lips tight. What I wouldn’t give to kiss them. To soften her brow and have her smile again.

“Look, I’m sorry if this puts you in an uncomfortable position, Mrs. Woodcock, but I have to say, if you ever decide you’d had enough of life with your husband, I’m yours. I can mow lawns, cook, and I’ll even take up cornhole if I have to. And, of course, practice my crochet.”

Almost everyone, including Mrs. Woodcock, giggled. I’d always known how to play to a crowd. Only Ro remained silent, her face unreadable. She’d unwound her legs, and I gently pressed my shoulder against one of her thighs, the need to touch her, to have contact with her, overwhelming. At first, she met my gesture with nothing, only silence. Stillness. But eventually, the softest pressure nudged back against me, and I thought my heart might explode.

The surrounding conversation had moved on, with chatter about a shortage of green wool and the havoc it would create forthe town’s St Patrick’s Day pet parade. Ro had returned to her owls, and I struggled to keep my mind on my hopeless crochet chain. She was so close, her warmth pulsing through my T-shirt, and as the scent of her perfume nestled into my nose, there was no way I could concentrate.

“Ro. Can you look at my stitches? I think they’re loose.”

She glanced at the chain in my hands, put her work to the side, and bent down. Violets. She smelled of violets, and as she leaned in, one soft braid brushed my cheek. I gripped my hook tighter, fighting the urge to reach up, wind it around my fingers, and gently pull her in to kiss me.

The sound of a throat clearing took my attention, and I glanced up to see Winston’s Hot Daddy’s piercing blue eyes on me. One of his brows quirked to the sky. I gave him a disarming smile and shifted on the beanbag with a crunch. He wasn’t the only one looking at us, though. As I glanced around, at least three other Hookers were watching. It was like being on a first date with your family. As if Ro had her own team of bodyguards looking out for her. Keeping her safe from the Flock Boy.

I loved them for it. The thought that she’d always have folk protecting her lit a glow in my chest, but damn, I wished it wasmyjob.

“We should go,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “My leg’s kinda sore from sitting on the beanbag. I need to stretch it.” It wasn’t a lie, but what I truly wanted was Ro, all to myself.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. You could’ve had my seat.”

“No. You needed the space for your family of mutant balls.”

She chuckled and gathered the spheres up, stuffing them into her bag. I held out my yarn and hook toward her like I was offering my firstborn to a deity.

“No way, buddy. If you don’t take responsibility for your own yarn, those gloves may never get made.” She stood and looked at me.

“Where am I supposed to keep it? I patted myself down to emphasize my point. “I’m traveling light.”

“In your pocket. It’s what they’re for.”

I grinned at her, compressing my yarn into a tight ball before stuffing the wool and my hook into a pocket. Once satisfied I’d sufficiently wedged them into my jeans, I held up a hand. “Help an injured man up?” I didn’t relish the thought of getting out of the beanbag unassisted.Andwith a crochet hook so near to my package.

After three attempts and a little snickering from Winston’s Hot Army Daddy, Ro hauled me from the bowels of the beanbag. I put my hands on my hips and glanced down. The wool I’d crammed into my jeans had behaved just as I’d hoped, giving me an impressive lump at my groin.

Ro looked down, too, at my straining zipper. You couldn’t miss the bulge. “Oh, good lord,” she said, holding her palm up. “There’s nothing like making your point. Come on, I haven’t got all night.”

I dug into my pocket, feigning innocence. “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to weigh you down. Besides, the yarn might be warm by now.” I winked, and Ro rolled her eyes before popping my cargo into her bag.

“You’re always so dramatic.” She turned back to the rest of the folk on the porch. “I’m afraid Brody has a sore leg. We’re going to have to call it a night.”

I faced our hostess. “Thanks for having us, Mrs. Woodcock, and for your instruction. Remember, if you ever tire of your husband, you know where to find me.” I gave her a grin, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

“You always were one to put a smile on an old lady’s face. Thank you for coming, Brody, but just make sure you look after Ro. Get her home safely.”

I glanced at Ro. She was elbow-deep in her bag, digging for something. A loose strand of hair fell over her face, and I practically glued my hands to my sides to stop myself from brushing it away.