Page 54 of Proof Of Life
Holding up the six inch wooden stick, I tease, “I guess you could turn this into a weapon, although the only thing I’m stabbing is this worsted weight yarn.”
Slowly, his grin returns, and he flips open the laptop and brings the screen back to life. The woman with flaming red hair and a pretty smile comes back online. “Now that you’ve mastered the ins and outs of insertion, let’s work on your technique.”
“Dude, you can’t blame me for thinking this was porn. Who is this chick?”
“Betty Beasley’s tips and tricks for sexy stitches. She’s showing me how to work my wool. McCormick recommended her.”
He laughs and clicks on another of her videos. “She’s working the wool, alright. Betty Beasley is a naughty little knitter. It doesn't surprise me that McCormick is obsessed with her.” And then it dawns on him. “When did you ask McCormick for knitting tips?”
Mild heat warms my cheeks. “I may or may not have activated the phone tree while you were in the shower.”
His eyebrows rise, and his grin stretches wider. “Yeah? I’m dying to know who answered first.”
No way was I giving in that easily. “I guess you’ll have to implement it yourself and see.”
Brandt looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time through new eyes. It’s unnerving, this small thrill I feel from pleasing him. Like I’m some good boy looking to be rewarded for behaving.
“Maybe I will,” he breathes, his voice turning husky. Fuck, that makes my dick harder than it should. “So, what prompted this sudden desire to knit?”
“Nothing,” I say airily, brushing it off. “Just thought it would be nice not to sit and mope like a moron during group while everyone else is knitting.”
“So you’re ready to make nice with your new friends?”
Why does he have to say it in a way that makes me want to smack him? “I’m not fucking twelve. You know, it’s nice to have something to keep my hands busy. I guess you could say I’ve become a fidgeter. Keeps my mind busy, too.”
“Imagine that,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk. “I guess there’s a reason the Bitches knit, and I have a feeling it’s not because they like to wear homemade sweaters.”
He pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand and retrieves a ball of blue yarn. “Well, let’s see what other tips and tricks the sexy Betty Beasley has up her sleeve.” He hits play on the video and for the next hour, we lose ourselves in the mindless complacency of working our wool.
“You think she’s hot?” I ask, transferring my stitch from one needle to the other.
“Who, Betty?”
He’s acting as if I asked if he thinks the mailman is hot. “Yeah, Betty. Who else?” I don’t even know why I’m asking. What do I care if he thinks she’s hot? She is. With her curly red hair and cleavage for days, I’d definitely do her. So why do I care if Brandt agrees with me?
“Yeah, she’s hot. She’s got that whole girl next door, good girl in the streets, freak in the sheets, thing going on. Totally my jam.”
An irrational spike of jealousy stabs my chest. What the fuck is my problem? I’m being ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from asking, “Anyone else you think is hot? Anyone at BALLS or the hospital?” I cringe, adding, “Liza, maybe? Or Annalise?”
“Annalise? Your occupational therapist?” He eyes me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “She gave me her number.”
He didn’t answer my question. I’m familiar with sidestepping and evasion. Brandt is excelling at it to avoid this conversation, which makes me want to have it all the more.
“You gonna ask her out?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Now my heart is hammering away at my chest like a jackhammer. “Because she’s hot. And she’s single. She's obviously interested in you.”
“I don’t give a fuck. I’m not interested in her. I’m interested in you.”
He’s saying the words I want to hear, so why don’t I believe him? I used to have all the confidence in the world, and now I’m suspicious of my best fucking friend when he gives me a simple compliment. My head is so fucked. And I’m so mixed up about my attraction to him that I’m behaving like a teenage girl with her first crush.
“In me?”
He lays his knitting aside and turns his body so that he’s facing me. “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
Feeling embarrassed of my low self-esteem, I blow out a frustrated breath. “Your injuries aren’t like mine, you know? You could have anybody you want still.” I swallow hard and lay my knitting aside. “So why the fuck are you wasting your time with me?”