He turned back. ‘I think you’re going in the opposite direction. I assume you’re going to the station?’
‘I’m supposed to be.’ Was she crazy? Violet would say no, of course, Violet would tell her to be brave, think outside the box. ‘I’ll take a walk and then call a cab.’
He nodded, and without a word they walked side by side to the end of the road and turned a corner. And as their steps slowed, she felt Dylan reach for her. He pulled her to him and leaned back against a sturdy trunk of a wide sycamore tree, set back from the sidewalk. The hug melted their bodies into one with a closeness Cleo hadn’t felt in a long time, entwined them like the branches above, wrapping round each other. Her lips rested against the warmth of his neck, and when he pulled back and smoothed her wavy hair away from her face, his green eyes held her attention. She wasn’t listening to the voice that warned of the complications.
‘We should call you that cab.’ His hands still held her face, his thumbs rubbed the sides of her mouth so tenderly she thought her legs would buckle beneath her. ‘Otherwise I might kiss you.’
‘We should call a cab,’ she agreed, although her body was telling her to say something else entirely.
‘Okay then.’ Neither of them moved.
And then there was no gap between them. His lips found hers and it was a kiss that reminded her she hadn’t been kissed like this for years, maybe not ever. It was a kiss that fizzed all the way through her body from her mouth to the tips of her toes and left her dizzy when they eventually drew apart.
Dylan’s gaze never left her face. ‘This is the part where I’d usually ask a woman back to my place, or go to hers. But it’s complicated.’
Instead of running a mile as she knew she should, all Cleo kept thinking was that this guy’s day had been shit. And since she’d opened that letter, hers hadn’t been much better either. She leaned in and kissed him again and he didn’t pull away. He sunk into the kiss more and more, they moved around to the other side of the tree where they were less likely to be seen, their mouths never parting even for a second. And when his kisses trailed down the side of her neck, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She felt him unbutton her jacket and his hands trace her collarbone, her shoulders, skimming her skin that felt like it’d been charged with a major volt of electricity.
Cleo undid his jacket and his shirt, and when she reached the last button, she ran her hands across his chest, toned, defined and with enough hair to bury her hands in and let her know he was all man. Her fingertips glided across his belly button and just below, through his jeans, she felt his physical reaction to her. It was only when the lights of a car passed them by that they both started giggling.
‘I don’t think it’d be a good idea for us to get arrested.’ Dylan pulled her against him and she buried her face in the warmth of his chest.
‘I guess not.’ She smiled and started to pull his shirt together, doing the buttons up one by one.
As soon as she reached the top, he grabbed her hands and kissed the tops of her knuckles. ‘Can I see you again?’
The warning bells were there but they were being drowned out by another voice, the one that told her it’d been years since she’d experienced the scent of a man, let alone done or felt anything else.
‘I’d like that,’ she answered.
They swapped numbers, and when they called her a cab and she waved to Dylan as she set off for the station, Cleo wondered whether this could possibly be the start of something real. Because no matter how much she loved the Little Knitting Box, real was something she’d wanted for a very long time.
4
THE LITTLE KNITTING BOX, WEST VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY
‘Something’s put a smile on your face.’ Rita, the manager who served Cleo a hot chocolate at the café next door, loved to banter with her customers. She pushed the plastic lid onto the cup.
‘I went to a party at my friend’s place last night.’ Cleo clutched her takeaway cup between her palms to warm them up at this early hour. She was due to open the store in fifteen minutes but hadn’t been able to sleep last night, so had been at the Little Knitting Box so early she’d already dusted, vacuumed, got the cash register sorted and even taken a delivery and replenished most of the shelves.
Rita was right. Cleo couldn’t stop smiling, it was ridiculous. She was in her thirties, not her teens.
Rita leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘You hooked up! I can tell. You’ve got that look on your face. And I want details later,’ she demanded with a knowing grin.
Cleo held a hand up in acknowledgment as she left the café to go back to her store. She presumed Rita had had the same letter from the owner of the building that housed both of their businesses and more. But this morning, Cleo didn’t want anything to ruin the euphoria of Dylan and her memories of last night. She’d deal with anything else later. And if she could get another year out of the Little Knitting Box, as the letter had suggested, it gave her plenty of time to think about what she needed to do. Maybe she could work it out and not have to leave New York City and the life she’d built.
Cleo allowed herself some time to enjoy her hot chocolate out the back of the store and checked her phone again. She wasn’t sure whether she was hoping Dylan had called or that he hadn’t. She guessed if he didn’t contact her, she could remember last night for what it was, a bit of fun. But if he did, she’d be forced to think about whether she wanted to see him again. She’d walked home to her apartment from Penn Station last night, determined not to let complications scare her off, but now she’d slept away the wine and the buzz had eased off enough to show a glimpse of reality, she wasn’t sure whether getting involved with him was a good idea in the long run.
3 Cranberry Close, Stamford, Connecticut
Grandpa Joe wasin fine form when Cleo went to see him that evening. ‘You didn’t have to cook for me, Grandpa. Thank you.’ She could’ve picked something up for both of them, but as this was the second evening in a row of catching the train and heading away from Manhattan after work, she was tired and glad of a home-cooked meal.
Grandpa Joe winked. ‘I didn’t cook. Maggie from number seven made it.’
Her grandpa had always been a sociable thing, and now the neighbours were falling for his charms. In his mid-seventies, he was still able to make new friends, something she’d always envied. ‘Well, thank you Maggie from number seven,’ said Cleo, tucking in.
‘I told her my granddaughter was coming over and she insisted. I didn’t want to upset her and tell her not to,’ said Joe with a twinkle in his eye.
‘I’ll bet.’ Cleo laughed.
