A Home by the Sea (7 page)

N
OAH PULLED HER
through the snow, working from memory. Up ahead he saw the decorated windows of a small shop, as beautiful as an art gallery. Bright balls of yarn gleamed inside as he read the hand-painted letters on the picture window.

Eat. Drink. Knit.

“Found it.”

Grace didn't answer. He realized that she was digging in her pocket and staring at a pair of intricately patterned gloves.

“Something wrong?”

“I thought of another project. I was going to make a pair of these for a friend back in Summer Island. She's a middling knitter, too, but she never makes anything for herself, and I know she would like them. Then I ran out of yarn. Look—there in the right side of the window. The exact yarn I need.” She glanced up at him and gnawed at her bottom lip, sounding resigned. “So that would make two things to look for. Would you mind?”

An alarm bell went off in Noah's head. She was
too serious for a simple request like this. So what if she had two things to look for?

The English Creep, Noah thought grimly. Grace had asked him to stop for something and he had been surly.

Noah hated the man even more now, if that was possible. And if he had dared to lay a hand on Grace, mocking or threatening her, Noah would—

What could he do? The man was dead, and there was nothing anyone on earth could do to punish him now. As his anger cooled, Noah realized that Grace had too much self-respect and intelligence to stick around someone who abused her. He decided it was probably a pattern of condescending jokes and careless derision. And that was still bad enough to make his temper rise.

Grace was staring at him uncertainly. The wariness in her eyes made him bite down a curse.

One thing was certain. Tonight Noah was going to smooth away every negative memory that James had left behind.

“Not a problem. I'm very curious about this dark hobby of yours. My mother used to do a lot of knitting and crocheting and I've been thinking it would be good for her to start again. Maybe you can help me pick out some yarn and a project, something fairly easy. They make patterns for things, right?”

Instantly, Grace's face lit up. Noah had to draw a sharp breath at the radiance and energy that filled her eyes. She wasn't jaw-dropping gorgeous. You
felt her presence and her intelligence, not her beauty. Noah had definitely dated more beautiful women. And yet right now, with the snow dusting her hair and color swirling through her cheeks, she was the most striking woman in the world.

She gave a husky laugh. “Patterns? Oh, they make patterns, my friend. Thousands of them. You're in very good hands with me. Let's go.” She took his arm and pulled him toward the door into the elegant, welcoming store. “Get ready to take a walk on the wild side.”

 

H
ER EXCITEMENT WAS INFECTIOUS
. Noah was caught up in her laughter and her pure joy in helping him find absolutely the right project for his mother. But she really wasn't kidding about it being wild. As he walked along aisles jammed full of little balls in a thousand colors, he felt as if he'd entered a strange, alternate universe. This wasn't yarn the way
he
thought of it.

He flipped over the tag on a ball of eye-popping coral yarn. “Soy? And angora? That's rabbit fur, right? They mix soy and rabbit fur? How do they do that?”

He was totally confused now.

“Sustainability and choices are what people want today. You name it, they've tried it. Sugar, banana leaf, bamboo, even milk.”

“No kidding. What happened to good old wool?”

“Still here. But now it can be mixed with cotton
or bamboo or silk. Let me show you.” Grace moved quickly, a woman with a mission. Noah liked the thoughtful way she ran her hand over a rainbow display of yarns and then settled on three balls of blushing peach. “This is what I need for those gloves. They're alpaca mixed with silk. Feel how smooth.”

There was a shine in her eyes. She radiated like a kid at Christmas.

“Very nice. But I don't know if she would like this.”

“This project for your mother.” She hesitated. “It might be expensive…” Her voice trailed off. “Good yarn will be more than you expect. I just thought you should know, in case you want to change your mind.”

There it was again. The uncertainty and wariness. Noah watched her gnaw her lip and was sure that the English Creep was to blame.

“So there may be sticker shock? I'm game, but I don't have a clue.” He peered around him. “Where do we start?”

Grace smiled slowly. “Well, does she knit or crochet?”

“Both,” he answered easily. Grace stared up at him, looking surprised by his certainty.

“I know the difference,” he said with a lift of his brows. “You knit with sticks. You crochet with that short kind of hook.”

“Two needles, long and straight like this, for knitting.” Grace held up a pair made of dark, polished
wood. “For crochet a hook, shorter and curved at the end like this.” She pointed to a nearby display.

“Needles,” Noah said with a nod. He had seen his mother use metal ones.

“Okay, so she's a knitter. Now what kind of things does she like to make? Clothing? A blanket or an afghan? Socks or slippers? Or maybe a nice scarf?”

Noah rubbed the back of his neck. As a boy, he remembered his mother kicking off her shoes after dinner, settling down in a big wing chair, and pulling yarn from the basket near her feet. He remembered handmade socks at Christmas and sweaters at birthdays. Funny, his mother hadn't gone for anything tame or sedate. Everything she made had been a riot of color and texture. She was as fearless in her hobby as she was in her life, he realized now with the eyes of an adult.

“She always made us socks at Christmas, but the last thing I saw her working on was a blanket. It was sky-blue with squares. Lots of texture. Sorry, but I can't tell you much beyond than that.”

“No, that's good. So she liked that color of blue?”

“She likes anything with deep, rich colors. One year we all got lime-green socks. The next year it was purple hats.” Noah frowned at a sudden rush of memories. Every Christmas his family gathered together, joking and jostling and catching up on news while they opened presents. One year their socks were all dyed with Kool-Aid, his mother had explained proudly. His younger brother, Matt, had
pulled his sock onto the dog's tail, and they had tumbled over laughing as their big Lab raced through the house, tail high, sock waving. Matt had said—

Sadness hit Noah like a body blow.

Matt was gone. They'd never laugh together again. There would be no more pranks, no more snowball fights.

No more anything.

Grace cleared her throat. “Is something wrong?”

He summoned a smile. The only way to deal with loss was to get on with living. His job helped. Noah knew that every day he had a chance to save someone else from dying the way Matt had died.

“I'm good. Let's go for the bright colors. She likes deep blue and sky-blue. Maybe some paler greens. Almost silver—whatever that's called.”

“You've got an excellent eye. That will make a wonderful mix. Now for a pattern.” Grace twined her fingers through his, leading him down one aisle and up another. She stopped in front of a bookcase that was jammed with yarn, sorted in shades from light to dark. “Let's choose three or four colors to take with us. That will help when we look at patterns.”

Noah saw a perfect color of blue. He knew his mother would like this one because it was on her favorite set of china. Idly, he flipped over the tag—and whistled. “Twelve dollars? That's the price for
one
of these? So how many does it take to make a blanket? Five or six maybe?”

“More than that.” Grace glanced at the printed tag wrapped around the ball of yarn. “At this yardage, even a small blanket would take a dozen.”

Noah did a quick calculation and whistled again. “So this is going to get expensive. You were right. Well, if you can't splurge on your mother, what kind of son are you? Let's go for it. Twelve it is.”

Grace squeezed his arm. Something came and went in her eyes. “I think she's going to love this yarn. Now for a pattern.” She picked up a book, flipped through the pages and then held it out. “What do you think of this one?”

“I don't know. It looks pretty complicated.”

“Actually, each block is knit separately. You sew them together at the end. The sewing is probably the worst part.”

Noah looked at the different textures and wavy squares. “She'd like this. It reminds me of something she made a long time ago. I think her mother and sister had started work on a marriage quilt. They were collecting squares like these. Then she told me the soldiers came. All their blocks got left behind. She's always regretted that.” He nodded. “Yes, this is the one. But why don't I get just two sample colors. I'll buy her a gift card so that she can choose other colors if she doesn't like mine.”

“We can give you a gift card in any amount.” Footsteps tapped closer. A tall woman in a striking lace shawl nodded approvingly at the pattern Noah was holding. “I couldn't help but overhear, and I
think your mother is a very lucky person. Does she need knitting needles, too?”

“Beats me.”

The owner chuckled. “You can wait on that. She may prefer metal or wood, or she may have a set stashed away.” The woman studied Grace. “I've seen you here before, I think.”

Grace nodded. “I've been in a few times. You have a lovely store.”

The owner beamed. “Why don't you drop by on Wednesday night? Our knitting group meets upstairs. I provide tea and coffee. Everyone brings a different dessert.” The owner raised an eyebrow at Noah. “Maybe your mother would like to come, too.”

“I'll ask her. Thanks.”

“Fine. Now, I'll get this all rung up for you. What I need to know is the amount of the gift card, sir.”

Noah thought of the pain and loss he had seen in his mother's eyes. Maybe this would help. In fact, he should have thought of it sooner. “Make it an even hundred.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Be still, my beating heart,” she murmured.

Noah made a mental note to remember the name of the yarn shop. It was a nice place and well organized, but who knew that a few balls of yarn could make a woman go dreamy-eyed like this? In a smooth movement he took the yarn Grace was holding and handed it to the store owner. “Add this in, too.”

“Noah, you don't have to—”

“That's right, I don't. Now be quiet and let me make you smile.”

She started to say something else. Then she shook her head. “You're a dangerous man, you know that?”

More dangerous than she knew, Noah thought. He was fighting a losing battle. If he didn't touch her in the next five minutes, he might not survive.

 

S
NOW STILL DRIFTED
down gently as Noah took the bag of yarn and tugged Grace outside.

Grace felt oddly giddy as the door closed behind them. Noah hadn't laughed at her request to visit the yarn shop. In fact, she was fairly certain he had enjoyed himself.

She was intensely aware of his broad shoulders as they brushed hers on the narrow sidewalk. With out any warning all that restless awareness turned sharp and focused. She hadn't expected to feel this race of yearning. She could tell by the tension in his face that Noah felt it, too.

She felt his hand open and press into her back.

Silently, Noah drew her closer. She heard the drum of her heart.

He didn't push her, sliding one hand slowly through her hair. Grace felt that touch all the way to her toes. Her cheeks were hot and she took a sharp breath, trying to be sane and in control, all the things she prided herself on.

His mouth brushed the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. Suddenly, control fled.

Their bodies were close, and she wasn't quite ready when his mouth came down on hers, searching and open. He didn't take. He didn't demand. He simply offered her the promise of pleasure and belonging.

She closed her eyes, feeling his mouth skim hers. His body was hard, but his hands were very gentle, and Grace wanted to pull him closer until she found the warm muscles beneath his clothes.

Here in the darkness she felt the strangest mix of safety and danger. To touch him was dangerous, challenging her need for balance and order. Yet on some deep level, Grace knew that she could trust this man completely.

The problem was whether she could trust herself—or her very vulnerable heart.

She opened her hands on his chest. Instantly, Noah went still. A muscle clenched at his jaw.

Grace felt the taut line of his body. He was very aroused. But he didn't move, didn't push her response.

She wasn't confused now, only maddened by the need to feel his mouth again. Breathlessly, she pulled his head down to hers and whispered his name. When his mouth opened on hers, slow and hungry, Grace let herself fall into a sheer dive of pleasure.

Her fingers opened, sliding beneath his jacket. She heard his breath catch. Blindly, she rose, brush
ing the corners of his mouth as she tasted him slowly. She hadn't expected the heat or the need.

She had never been reckless or blinded by hunger in a man's arms like this.

Now Grace was all those things. She wanted to laugh, but she could barely breathe as Noah wrapped his arms around her. She was crushed against him on a public street, her heart slamming and her knees shaking, and she didn't care a bit. She didn't have a word for the storm of emotions whirling through her. When he kissed her again, Grace gave up looking for one.

She touched his face, feeling breathless and strong and impossibly alive, as if everything else in her life had been no more than a pale rehearsal for this moment.

“Noah, I—” She stopped as a shrill beep came from his pocket.

Noah frowned, digging in his pocket. “Sorry.”