Chapter Four
Samantha
“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I breezed through the door, smiling brightly at the students who milled around the front of the classroom. “Let’s get started.”
I set my things down on a nearby table, rifling through my bag to pull out the new student materials. “We have somebody new joining us today,” I said, not looking up as I dug deeper into my bag. I pulled out the sheet and looked at the name. “Ioannis Pallas?”
“Ian is fine,” a deep voice called out. A younger man’s voice, absent the raspy softening of age. That was surprising, I thought, looking up to see who spoke.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
There he was, his long, lean frame tucked into corner table across from Anita and Fumiko. The guy from the craft store the day before. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since then, not since he turned to me and looked like he was ready to collapse with relief when I helped him choose yarn and a pair of needles.
A flannel shirt, rolled up at the cuffs, exposed those heavily tattooed arms, and when he smiled up at me—oh, shit, it was devastating. He was devastating, with an almost angelically beautiful face and short midnight-dark hair. And he was looking right at me, smiling like he was absolutely delighted to run into me again.
“Hi, Ian,” I said thickly. I wished I’d worn something—well, cuter. Cuter than an old band t-shirt under my customary cardigan, anyway. “I’m Samantha. Sam. Welcome to knitting class.”
And his smile just widened even more, exposing even white teeth, and—oh, shit, was my heart speeding up? It was, in front of a classroom full of older folks, who all watched the interaction like it was the best show they’d seen in ages. And my traitorous libido had an exhibitionist streak, it seemed, because she just purred in the back of my mind, glad to have this beautiful man’s eyes on her. On me.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks. Oh no. Milk-pale skin like mine took no prisoners when it came to visible blushes. Everyone could see me turn bright red. I coughed and looked down, pretending to dig more things out of my bag.
“Everybody get out your projects,” I said firmly. “I’ll make the rounds to each table like usual.”
A few knowing chuckles cut through the heavy silence, and that was enough to break the tension—the chatter resumed as all the students picked up their needles and got to work, while I quickly crossed the room to get to the hot guy from the craft store—er, Ian’s table.
“Fancy seeing you again here,” he said, still grinning widely as I slid into the hard plastic chair next to him. “You took off from the craft store like wild dogs were chasing you yesterday. I didn’t even get your name.”
“Sorry about that.” I scooted my chair a bit closer. “I had to get home to meet a friend, and the time got away from me.” I looked up at him, returning his wide smile with a more tentative grin of my own. “It’s a little surprising to see you here.”
He looked around the room exaggeratedly. “Wait, do I not fit in?”
On the other side of the table, Anita and Fumiko watched our interaction in silence. Only Fumiko even pretended to knit—Anita’s project lay limp on the table in front of her.
I laughed and set a thin stack of papers down on the table. “Here are some reference materials, but we’ll go over how to start your project and basic stitches now.”
He pulled out the yarn that we picked out yesterday—bright red, along with a package with two silver needles—and watched with rapt attention as I walked him through how to start his project and make the first basic stitches, before I flicked all the yarn off the needle and had him try on his own.
For a big guy, his fingers were deft and confident, and after a few shaky misses, he started to make slow, confident stitches on his own. My attention wandered as he went, eyes landing on the tattoos that peeked up above his shirt collar and the cut lines of lean muscle, visible under the soft flannel. All of him was gorgeous and inviting, down to his scent—no cologne, just clean, woodsy man. And my libido encouraged—no, dared me to bury my nose in the soft fabric and inhale as deeply as I could, until he filled my lungs and oxygenated my cells.
Down, girl, I thought desperately.
And as far as the knitting—well, he held up that first pitiful row and grinned at me, looking so proud of himself, like he’d created the knitting equivalent of the Sistine Chapel. And up close, that smile was so sexy and masculine that for a second, I was tongue-tied again, almost tipsy with his nearness.
“Good job,” I finally said. I felt the heat rise in my face again, but didn’t bother to look away. Couldn’t look away from those warm, dark eyes. “Great.”
“I’m going to die of old age before you two finish flirting,” Anita cut in, her tone droll. “Sam, can you help me with this yarn over thing? I forgot. Again.”
“Basic stitch instructions are on this sheet.” I tapped the papers I’d given him earlier. “But if you have any questions, just come grab me.”
For the rest of class, I circulated around the tables, offering guidance and on-the-spot instruction as needed to all the students. Ian didn’t ask for my help with anything else, but periodically, I glanced over to catch his eyes on me, and saw his little knitted square growing, piece-by-piece, until he had a respectable rectangle with only a few visibly dropped stitches. When his eyes weren’t on me, they were glued to his work, like it was the most important thing in the universe to him in that moment.
Whowas this guy? I wondered. And not for the first time, I thought about whatever force prompted me to approach him the night before.
I didn’t usually walk up to strangers in public—not from shyness, but plain old anxiety. What if I said or did something weird? What if I totally misread the situation? My busy brain liked to pluck worries out of nowhere and breathe life into them for no good reason, and even my daily anti-anxiety medication never completely eradicated the rocky feelings. But the tall, hot guy at the craft store, the guy who bent over a crooked little square of knitting like it was his personal masterpiece, looked so adorably confused as he stared at the wall of yarn that I couldn’t resist lending a hand.
Class ended just before lunch, and I had a steady stream of student questions to keep me busy for several minutes after class finally ended. As the last students filtered slowly out of the room, I felt something behind me. Ian’s big, warm presence. I turned around and stared up at him, at the smile that played at the corners of his lips.