A Stitch in Time Read online

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  By Asta Idonea

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  A Stitch in Time

  By Asta Idonea

  When Connor’s friend signs him up for a crochet course, the last thing he expects is to find love. However, at the community center, he meets hunky Finn. There’s only one problem: Finn assumes Connor’s there for the boxing class, and Connor lets him believe it, worried Finn will ditch him if he knows Connor prefers crafting to upper cuts. Can they salvage the situation when the truth comes out?

  “FOR FUCK’S sake!”

  With a petulant huff, Connor tossed the tangled ball of yarn. It dropped to the floor and commenced an uneven roll. Too late, Connor saw what was going to happen. He grabbed for the work in his lap, but all he caught was the hook, which came out of the loop as the wonky mess he’d been calling rows one through three slid to the ground in a pathetic-looking heap. He stared at it, too disheartened to complain, and too despondent to reach down and retrieve his efforts.

  What had he been thinking? He should have taken up papercutting, even if it cost him a fortune in plasters. Or decoupage. That looked easy enough, potential glue spillages aside. However, Mel had assured him that crochet was the way to go. Not only simple, it was relaxing, she’d said. And he’d believed her. The simple part had to have been a mean jest, and as for relaxing….

  He grabbed his phone, snapped a picture of the jumble on the floor, and sent it to Mel, along with six sad-face emojis and a question mark. A second later, his ringtone announced an incoming call.

  “You can’t expect to be perfect on the first try,” Mel said without greeting or preamble.

  “First try? I’ve been at this for three bloody hours. The instructions don’t even make sense.”

  “Maybe try watching a YouTube video. Or, better yet, join a club.”

  “A club? For crochet? Crocheters Anonymous?”

  “A class, then. Call it what you like. That’s how I got started.”

  “But won’t I stick out like a sore thumb in a room full of grannies?”

  “Don’t be ageist,” Mel admonished in a light scolding tone. “You’d be surprised at the different people who attend. Crochet’s not just for little old cat ladies these days.”

  “But maybe papercutting would be—”

  “Why? What use is that? Sure, you could make greetings cards, but you’d soon grow bored of that, or get blood all over them, knowing how clumsy you can be. I already told you, crochet is far more versatile and useful. You can make clothes, bags, baskets, decorations, toys…. And aside from the occasional finger-ache, no pain or risk. Now, quit whining and apply yourself, dummy.”

  “Yes, sarge.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Have I ever told you, you’re a bossy so-and-so?”

  “At least once a month. But deep down, you love it. However would you make a decision without me?”

  Connor had to admit, it was true. He was the king when it came to prevarication. Without Mel’s gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nudging and encouragement, he’d have been at a loss most of the time.

  “Now, are you a quitter, Connor Matthews?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “No.”

  “And you’ll try the class?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. That’s settled, then. I’ll send you the details. They’ll have you crocheting like a pro in no time. Then you and I can have crochet evenings. It’ll be such fun! Later.”

  Connor had barely set down the phone and started to scoop up the mess from the floor before a bright ping announced a new message. Mel had wasted no time. He glanced over the information. The class was at seven on Thursday evenings at the local community center. According to Mel, it was “superfriendly and low-key,” and in true Mel style, she’d added that she was about to email Angela, the teacher, to tell her to expect him. So, it seemed there was no backing out. He was going to learn how to crochet whether he liked it or not.

  WHEN THURSDAY evening came, Connor was a bag of nerves. Despite what Mel had said, he anticipated a room full of women aghast to see a man in their midst. Well, perhaps not aghast, but certainly surprised, which was just as bad. No one would know what to say to him, and he’d feel out of place. But he didn’t dare fail to show. Mel would never let him hear the end of it.

  The journey across town was swifter than he’d anticipated, the late-autumn drizzle apparently keeping most people off the roads. However, upon reaching the community center car park, he had to search to find an available space, as the place was packed. All the lights in the multiroom venue were blazing; it was the brightest spot around. That confused him. When he passed by in the daytime, the building always looked deserted. He’d hardly expected to find it was a heaving nightspot. Yet all evidence pointed to that conclusion.

  A frisson of anxiety ran through him. Were all these people here for the crochet class? No, it seemed unlikely. Hell, he hoped it was unlikely. He’d not anticipated being on display to more than a handful of spectators. He wasn’t sure he could face exposing his appalling crochet skills to a greater number. And what if…. And just suppose….

  He was thinking himself into more knots than currently graced his crochet project! Before he could talk himself all the way back home, he got out of the car and retrieved his small duffel bag from the rear seat. He hadn’t known what to bring, so he’d simply grabbed his beginner’s hook set and the bundle of tangled yarn from the other day.

  Still he hesitated.

  Face the unknown within these walls, or face Mel’s wrath?

  He chose the lesser of two evils and strode, head down, toward the entrance.

  As he opened the door, the sound of laughter and chatter was like a roar. So many people! Was he ready for these kinds of crowds? In daily life, he could manage well enough, but generally he liked to be prepared to face large groups, particularly when all were strangers. He prevaricated, and half turned back toward the doorway, through which the dimly lit car park looked ever more welcoming.

  A few steps to the car. In half an hour, he’d be home. Central heating. A cup of hot chocolate. Something mindless playing on the television. Alone.

  And then do what? Not crochet, because he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. That’s why he was here, after all. He was being stupid. What was the worst that could happen? It was only for ninety minutes. If he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to come again. Perhaps the other students would laugh at him, but chances were slim he’d ever see them again after tonight if it all went to hell.

  Determined to face his fears, Connor swung around… and slammed straight into someone.

  The “someone” let out a surprised humph, just as Connor made a terrified squeak. Then the stranger laughed.

  “Careful. You pack quite a punch. I guess you’re here for the boxing?”

  “I—”

  Words dried up as Connor straightened and took in the stranger. The guy belonged on a magazine cover, or in a movie, or maybe in a pantheon of Greek gods. Blond locks, artfully disheveled, led to pale blue-gray eyes, which, in turn, led to the most beautiful lips Connor had ever seen, framed by perfectly angled cheekbones. Below that, the stylish sweater fit like a glove, highlighting upper arms that would make even the straightest of males salivate.

  “Say….” The god frowned. “Are you okay? You look kinda lost.”

  “I, uh… I’m here for a class. I’m new.” Connor wished the earth would swallow him whole, but the embodiment of his every fantasy simply smiled.

  “Figured as much. I’m an old hand. Maybe I can point
you in the right direction. What class are you taking?”

  Warning signals fired in Connor’s brain. He couldn’t say crochet. He’d never live it down, not in front of a guy like this. Surely no one with biceps as defined as those would think much of someone here to pursue arts and crafts. Thankfully his interlocutor had already provided the perfect solution.

  “Boxing.” He cleared his throat and strengthened his voice. “I’m here for the boxing.”

  “I thought so, given your bag. It’s about to start in the main hall. Go down this corridor, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, uh….”

  “Finn.”

  When Finn held out his hand, Connor took it and tried not to flinch at the strength in Finn’s warm grip.

  “Hi.” Connor attempted a smile. He thought he managed it, too, but his pounding heart was making it difficult to concentrate. “Connor. I’m Connor.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Connor. Perhaps I’ll see you around.”

  A final smile, a nod of goodbye, and then Finn was gone.

  Connor watched through the glass as Finn crossed the car park. He stared after him until he passed out of sight, at which point he finally came back to his senses. Damn, he needed to get a grip. One hot guy and he’d gone doolally.

  “Can I help you, dear?”

  He turned at the voice and saw an older lady, a little stooped but elegantly attired, eyeing him warily.

  “Oh, I’m here for the, uh, crochet.”

  All caution vanished as she gave him a broad grin. “Lovely. You must be Connor. I’m Angela, the tutor. Come along. I’ll show you the way.”

  BY THE time Connor arrived home that night, he was emotionally drained, having run a gamut of everything from anxiety to lust to surprise. After meeting Angela, he’d assumed his theory of a room full of sweet little old ladies would be proved right. But he’d been mistaken. True, a few had fit that description; however, the demographic had been much wider, incorporating ages from seventeen to seventy. There’d even been another guy: a burly, bearded fellow named Brian, who Connor pegged to be in his midforties. Far from looking at him askance, everyone had welcomed him warmly, and within a few short minutes, he’d felt at ease in their presence.

  Not even his evident lack of skill with a hook had altered the vibe. Instead Angela had spent a few minutes alone with him while the others worked, going over the basics, showing him where he was going wrong, and by the end of the class, he’d stowed in his bag not a tangled mess but several neat, even rows.

  Now, seated in his favorite chair, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in hand, Connor was caught somewhere between contentment and concern. Contentment at having mastered the single crochet stitch, but concern over next week.

  At the end of the session, Angela had announced a special project. With Christmas only a few weeks away, she’d finished writing up the pattern for a holiday-themed scarf, and she offered them all a copy of the instructions, suggesting they each make one as a kind of group event. There could even be a friendly competition to find the best piece. The general response had been enthusiastic, but Connor hadn’t been so sure, despite Angela’s assurances that it was simple enough even for a beginner to attempt. Yes, he’d mastered a few rows of stitching. That didn’t mean he was anywhere near ready to make an actual item of clothing. Although, if it didn’t work out, he supposed no one would ever know outside of the group, and maybe Mel.

  He looked again at the single page of text lying in his lap. He needed to buy three balls of yarn. That wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t too much to waste if it all went horribly wrong. What the hell, he’d give it a try. At best, he’d get a scarf out of it. At worst, it was all good practice, even if the end result proved unwearable.

  IN SHARP contrast to the previous week, when Thursday night arrived, Connor was eager to get to the meeting. He’d been practicing every evening, and he really thought he was finally getting the hang of it, even if his fingers still ached at the end of each session, unused to the activity. He’d gone into the office early that morning, so he could justify ducking out at five minutes to five. Once home, he’d downed a quick meal of reheated pizza, and by six thirty he was in the car and on his way, his progressing rows, new yarn, and the scarf pattern safely stowed in his duffel bag.

  Naturally, his excitement meant he arrived far too early. He considered waiting in the car, but tonight there was a distinct autumnal chill in the air, and the bright lights inside the center were too inviting to resist, so he locked up and strode toward them.

  Within, it was toasty. Clearly someone had cranked the thermostat to full blast. Whoever it was, Connor thought he might love them. He started down the corridor and met a small group coming from the opposite direction. They nattered happily and nosily, and among them was Finn.

  When their eyes met, Finn grinned and parted from the minithrong. “Hey! It’s Connor, right? How are those jabs and uppercuts coming along?”

  “Sorry?” Connor had been trying so hard not to stare, he’d missed everything Finn had said.

  “The boxing. You came back for a second week, so you must have enjoyed it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. It’s great.”

  “Excellent.” Finn cast a glance toward the still-swinging door through which his party had just exited. “Well, I’ve gotta run. It’s Rosalie’s birthday, and we’re having drinks. But maybe we’ll bump into each other again next week.” He paused for a second, then gave Connor’s shoulder a light, playful punch. “Later.”

  Connor stared after him, unsure what he should be feeling: lust, excitement, hopefulness… or guilt. He’d lied again. It had been the obvious moment to come clean, but he’d blown it. Faced with the thought of Finn’s disdain, he’d taken the lifeline offered.

  Finn had singled him out. The smiles. That playful punch. As hard to believe as it was, it looked like Finn had some kind of interest in him, whatever form that interest might take. But all that would vanish if he knew what Connor was really doing here. He’d acted correctly, he decided. For now at least, there was nothing for it but to keep up the pretense.

  He remained in a slight daze as he walked to class, but once Angela kicked off, his attention returned. She got the others underway, then came across to help him. The pattern required a long starting chain, but with Angela’s guidance he kept it untwisted as he made his way back along, putting in the first row of single crochet. That took most of the session—he was still superslow—yet he finished the night not unhappy with his progress. Before things concluded, Angela showed him how to form a triple crochet stitch for the next row and suggested he have a try going along row two before the next meeting.

  He ended the night unexpectedly happy. He couldn’t wait until the next week to continue with the scarf and, he hoped, to see Finn once more.

  “SO, FESS up. You like the guy, don’t you?”

  “What guy’s that?”

  Rosalie pouted prettily. “Don’t give me attitude, Finn. The guy who made you arrive too late to get in the first round.”

  “Perhaps I was simply looking for a way to avoid buying the drinks.”

  “Come off it. We all know you’re not that cheap.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Well, you deserve it if you aren’t going to indulge us. Though you really should spill the beans. It is my birthday, after all.” She batted her eyelids and then pouted again.

  Rosalie was a woman who knew how to use her good looks to her advantage. Like this—all sweetness and light, accompanied by the barest dash of petulance—she was hard to resist, and she knew it.

  Finn looked around the sea of expectant gazes and sighed inwardly. On the whole, he had a good time hanging with the girls, but on occasion he would have preferred them to be a little less single-minded when it came to getting the lowdown on his love life, or lack thereof.

  He shrugged. “He seems nice.” And smoking hot, his mind supplied, but he kept that bit to himself.

  “And?”


  “And what? We’ve barely exchanged five words. I’m not ready to pop the question just yet.”

  “But you do think he’s cute.”

  This time his sigh was audible. Apparently there was no getting out of it. “Yes, I think he’s cute.”

  A variety of oohs, ahhs, and squeals met this pronouncement.

  Finn shook his head. “There. I’ve admitted it. Is the subject now closed?”

  “Not yet,” Rosalie said. “First, we want to know if you’re going to ask him out.”

  “He’s taking boxing classes. I’m not sure we’re compatible.”

  Rosalie waved away the comment. “So what? That could be for any number of reasons. Doesn’t mean there’s no common ground, and there’s no way to tell unless you get to know him.”

  “Yes,” Jean chipped in, nodding sagely. “You need to give the young man a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  A flurry of verbal support followed, and Finn found himself promising he’d ask Connor out at the first opportunity.

  Strong-armed by a group of knitters! Still, he knew they were right. Just because previous relationships hadn’t worked out, it didn’t mean none ever would. He needed to put himself out there and take a chance. And Connor seemed sweet—not a macho jerk like the guys who usually pursued him. Seeing his fit physique, they assumed a connection and a viewpoint that wasn’t there. Maybe this time he’d finally found someone who’d like him for his personality as well as his looks. He supposed only time would tell.

  ON SATURDAY evening, Mel came over, and they ate pizza, chatted, and crocheted. As he got into a rhythm with his stitches, Connor had to admit that Mel had been correct: it was rather relaxing. It was lucky she was with him, though, as when he reached the end of the row, he almost forgot the chains on the turn. Luckily she spotted the error before he got too far along.

  “I’m such an idiot.”

  She shook her head. “Everyone does it once or twice when starting out. You wouldn’t believe how much work I frogged during the first month.”