Page 48 of Fight For Me

“Alex?”

I jerk, realizing I’m staring, and put all my focus into examining the work he’s done so far, hoping he won’t see the heat on my cheeks. “This actually isn’t bad, Wyatt. You just need to work on making your stitches more uniform. Getting the tension of your yarn consistent will help.”

He blinks at me. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

I shrug. “I’ve been knitting for years. My mom and I took a class when I was a teenager.”

“Huh,” he murmurs, looking thoughtful.

“Huh what?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just can’t picture you knitting. And Ireallycan’t picture your mom knitting.”

I smile. “She hated it. But she stuck with it for me.”

“Are you any good?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve never looked at our online store.”

“Of course I have.” He sounds a little offended.

“Then you’ve seen some of my stuff. Well, I stopped doing the knit work by hand a while ago, the orders got too overwhelming. Now we contract it out. But they’re still based on my designs.”

“Shit.” Wyatt shakes his head. “That’s really impressive, Alex.”

I try to ignore the little thrill of pleasure I get from him complimenting me. The truth is, I’m proud as hell of those designs. And it makes me happy that something my mom and I did in an attempt to help me deal with my sleep disorder turned into something so beautiful.

“So why are you up?” he asks, taking the yarn and needles back.

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get some work done.”

“You seem to do that a lot,” he points out.

I shrug. “There’s a lot to do. And I find spread sheets kind of soothing.”

“Man.” He shakes his head, a smirk lighting up his face. “Knitting and spreadsheets? You’re a party animal, Alexandria.”

Something lights up inside me at the sound of my full name on his lips. It’s very rare for someone to call me that. Everly does it sometimes, but only when she’s teasing. I like the way it sounds in Wyatt’s voice. Way more than I should.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the click of Wyatt’s knitting needles as I sip my tea. Then he swears under his breath and my attention goes back to his knitting. “That’s what I mean about the tension,” I say. “Your yarn is too loose and it’s getting tangled. Here, let me show you.”

I come around the table to sit next to him and take the needles again. I get the tension right and then do a few stitches. “See?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles in a raspy voice and I see him swallow out of the corner of my eye. I look over and notice that he’s staring at my hands—we’re sitting much closer than I realized. Heat floods my body and I’m not sure if I should run away or lean in closer to him.

“Sorry,” he says in that same low voice. “You were going to get work done. I’m distracting you with my shitty knitting abilities.”

“Distraction is exactly what I need,” I say without thinking.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to be distracted?”

“Uh…” I don’t really know how to answer that, and I’m regretting saying anything at all. I don’t like talking about my insomnia. Everyone always wants to give me advice, as if I already haven’t tried every single tip and trick ever published. Blue light blocking glasses? Have them. Screens off after eight? No difference. Valerian root? Melatonin? Sleep hygiene? Meditation? Exercise? White noise? I could write a damn book.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he asks in a low voice, and I look over to see he’s staring at me. The striking brown eyes that have filled my dreams since I was a teenager are so close, filled with so much concern for me. My heart rate picks up a notch.