Claws & Crochet

Part 9

ZOEY

Warner followed me to my crafters meeting.

The ladies' disquiet begins to make sense. My bet is this group of crafters is not used to having guys from the local motorcycle club approaching them while they're gathered here.

I've brought an interloper.

"Yes, Warner," Amy says. "We know who you are. You've decided to join us for Sip 'N Stitch?" While some of the women look uncomfortable, or downright hostile, Amy gives Warner an almost maternal smile as she questions him. "May I ask what project you brought to work on?"

"Got my project right here." His shoulder bumps mine, and I glance back at him with surprise.

Caught off guard, I find myself stammering. "I-I didn't bring anything for you to work on." I scowl at him. "I didn't even know you until a half hour ago."

Warner's cheeky grin makes another appearance. "You're my project. Goal is to be your best friend by the end of the night."

The women in the group titter. That's right. They titter, like a cluster of ladies in a regency ballroom.

I sigh. Warner is a puppy. He's just too enthusiastic and cute to deny.

"Fine." I face the Sip 'N Stitch gals again. "If we're quiet, would it be all right if we both join you?"

"I don't—" A particularly pinch-mouthed woman starts, but Amy cuts her off.

"Of course. This group is open to any who would like to join. Our only rules are to be respectful"—Amy's eyes flit over to the woman who had begun what I think must have been a protest—"and to have fun. Please, pull up some chairs."

Before I can search the surrounding tables, Warner is already sliding a seat against the back of my knees. I plop down on the cushion, and the women on either side of me shift their chairs until my new biker buddy has space to add his to the mix.

For a moment, awkward silence hangs over the group. Then one woman asks another about a book she recently read, and the conversations all start up again, slowly at first, but gaining momentum.

The lady next to me, Cathy, compliments my crocheting, and I show her the progress I've made on my hat. Well, not my hat. I plan on giving it to one of my brothers. Probably Donovan, with his close-cropped hair. She shows me her cross-stitch, a beautiful cluster of colorful flowers, and I have no trouble complimenting her skillful needlework.

The exchange is polite, but pleasant, and I feel like I'm making a successful effort to step out of my hermit cave.

Taking a sip of my drink requires juggling, and I find myself adjusting my legs again and again to keep my yarn in my lap. The set up isn't optimal, making it hard to enjoy the sip aspect of this gathering.

Glancing to my left where Warner sits, being quiet and well-behaved, I can't help the envy that spikes through me at the sight of his spacious lap. Under his jeans is a lovely set of muscular thighs. He's basically got a sturdy shelf automatically built in.

If he wants to be my friend, then that means helping me out. Right?

I lean over to whisper in his ear, "Can you hold my balls?"

Warner chokes, doubling over to cough out some beer he breathed in. I slap his back a few times, wondering if this aggressive aid has ever really helped. Once his throat clears and he's done wiping tears from his eyes, Warner gives me his full attention.

"Could you repeat that?"

"My balls keep rolling everywhere." I indicate the yarn in my lap that even now teeters, just a second away from falling onto the floor. "Do you mind holding them? In your lap?"

The biker doesn't hesitate. He plucks the yarn from me and settles it in the dip where his legs meet. As if he doesn't care that he's not only the lone man in our group, but I've now asked him to be my yarn assistant.

Warner takes another swig of his beer and grins at me.

Damn. This man is dangerous.