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His mum pursed her lips in disgust. “Before you leave this town, the women and I are going to make sure you have some skills under your belt for your future. That way, you won’t get into a mess like this again.”
Agnes opened her mouth, most likely to complain, but his mum held up a hand as she took out her phone.
“Margaret?” she said once she’d tapped the screen. “We have a couple of dozen blank sweatshirts that need to scream Christmas by tomorrow morning. Dougal has put our girl on the spot, and we can’t let her lose a round to that old fart. Raid your shop and bring what we need. All Agnes has is tinsel and glue sticks.” She paused. “Aye, clueless. We can’t let this go on—we need to take her in hand.” Another pause. “I’ll call the others, but bring everything you can think of. Dougal’s going to get the best damn Christmas jumpers on the planet. And he can take them and shove them right up—”
“Okay!” Logan took the phone from her hand and ended the call.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this,” Agnes said. “I don’t think Dougal did it intentionally. There’s also the possibility he told me about the jumpers and I forgot.”
Logan chuckled, attracting an irritated glance from his mother. But he couldn’t help it—that was funny. He’d seen how Agnes worked, and she forgot nothing.
His mum’s eyes narrowed. “Did you forget, or did he spring them on you last minute to see what you’d do? From what I hear, he regrets hiring a manager, even for the year. It’s driving him nuts to give over control of his baby.” She hesitated before adding, “I mean the hotel, not the dog.”
“Then why doesn’t he fire me? It would be a whole lot less hassle for both of us.” Logan thought he saw relief flash in Agnes’ eyes.
“And upset Lake Benson and Callum McKay? I don’t think so. No, he’s playing dirty. And he should know better.” His mother’s eyes blazed as she looked at Agnes. “We were talking about you in the pub the other night, the Knit or Die women and me, and we were saying how we planned on making you a member whether you wanted to become one or not. A girl like you needs a posse at her back while she stirs things up around here.”
Darcy giggled, while Agnes gaped at his mother. “Whether I want it or not?”
Her question had no impact on his mother, who was on a roll. “That old fart must have heard us, but he still had the audacity to pull a stunt like this. Well, he’s no’ picking on one of ours. This is war.” She shoved up her sleeves in a clear sign she was ready to fight, only her jumper wouldn’t cooperate, and the sleeves fell again. She shoved them back up. They fell. Now, she was irritated, but it seemed she wouldn’t let the jumper win any more than she’d let Dougal win.
Logan caught Drew’s eye, and they grinned at each other. The women of Knit or Die had been looking for a reason to start up their war with Dougal again, and Agnes had handed it to them on a plate.
“I don’t understand,” Agnes said again.
“What’s to understand?” his mother asked, still fighting with her sleeves. “You’re one of ours.” At last, she got the sleeves to
stay up, and she grinned triumphantly before patting Agnes on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back. Now, give me that phone, Logan, so I can call the others.”
“But, I’m not a member of Knit or Die,” Agnes protested.
“You don’t choose knitting,” his mum said solemnly. “It chooses you.”
Really, there was nothing anyone could say to that.
There were two sewing machines set up on Logan’s kitchen table, one operated by Heather, the other by Jean. They were attaching applique shapes, cut from fabric Margaret had brought from her craft shop, to the front of sweatshirts. Around the long folding table Drew had put up in the center of the living room, Shona, Margaret, and Darcy sat finishing off the sweatshirts the women in the kitchen had already done. They added detailed embellishments with an assortment of crafty things that Agnes had a hard time identifying. The only thing they’d used that she’d bought was the tinsel.
Logan and Drew were in charge of the fabric markers. It was their job to add witty slogans to the sweatshirts once everything else had been done. After reading some of their efforts, Agnes wasn’t sure they were the right people for the job. Meanwhile, after much discussion about Agnes’ craft skills, she’d been tasked with making tea.
She’d never felt more useless in her life.
“Do you need help with the tea?” Logan asked as he came into the kitchen.
“Aye, because it’s sooooooo hard.” She rolled her eyes at him.
She liked his house—it wasn’t cluttered, but it wasn’t minimalist either. It was just…homey. The walls were a warm cream, the floor a polished wood, the kitchen appliances were white and, in general, the furniture looked sturdy. The living room sofa—an oversized, overstuffed monstrosity—made her want to curl up in the corner of it and sleep in front of the fire. The house was a lot like the man, she decided—uncomplicated, warm and inviting, with some interesting quirks. It was a house that beckoned you in and invited you to stay for a while.
Bloody Logan. Even his house was seducing her.
“How did I become a member of a knitting club when I can’t knit and I never applied for membership?” Agnes glanced at the two women at the table, but they couldn’t hear her over the hum of the sewing machines.
“Apparently, knitting chose you.” Logan’s grin was wide.
“How does that work, exactly? Do they don robes and sneak down to their basement to light candles and chant to a big ball of wool?”
“With this lot, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Is there some sort of initiation for new members?” Not that she considered herself a new member. She just wanted to be prepared for whatever was coming her way.
