The Billionaire's Island Bride (South Shore Billionaires 3)

Marvin was nowhere to be seen, but that was okay. He didn’t need the dog to be chasing the cart or anything. Still, he’d wondered about her. What was she doing to fill her days?

He wandered toward her place, trying to think of an excuse for dropping in. He was nearly at her yard and still hadn’t come up with anything plausible. Maybe he should turn around and go home again.

Instead he found himself on her front step.

He knocked. There was a flurry of barking, and then her footsteps as she came to the door and opened it.

Her hair was gathered up in a messy nest on the top of her head, and she wore a stained sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?” A strange, sharp odor permeated the air.

“I’ve been dyeing yarn the last few days,” she answered. “That’s the smell. Do you want to come in?”

He didn’t want to intrude, but he was incredibly curious. How did someone hand-dye yarn? Marvin was standing just behind her, tail wagging, no longer barking in alarm but as if waiting to greet a friend. “Hey, Marv,” he said, stepping inside. “I have to admit, I’m curious. I’ve never seen hand-dyed yarn before.”

She led him through the house, to a back porch that had lots of natural light and counters. Several basins were lined up, and maybe four had dye inside and swirls of yarn soaking. On the other side of the room, drying racks were set up, with hanks of yarn lying across the wooden spindles. A small fan kept air circulating, and Cole spied one of the windows cracked open, even though the day was cool.

“This is it. My custom yarn business happens here,” she said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I usually take three or four days and do a bunch at a time. Some are custom orders, and others are colors I’ve done before that are good sellers.” She nodded at the drying racks. “Today I’ve done a lot of holiday ones.”

Indeed. One looked like blocks of candy cane colors—red, white, green. “I didn’t think of it being dyed in chunks of color,” he said, wandering over toward the drying rack.

“When you ball it up, you’ll see it’s actually variegated. This one I call Peppermint Stick.”

He grinned. “Cute.”

“I do solid colors, too.” She pointed at a deep, vibrant red. “That one is a big seller. This year I’m adding something new to my online shop, too. Kits. Comes with a pattern, the right amount of yarn, and any notions needed. I’m pretty excited about that.”

“What sort of kit?” He was fascinated by the whole thing.

She picked up the red yarn. “A Christmas stocking, for example. This is a gorgeous color. I’ll add some white with a pattern to knit a snowflake into the front and back. Then some white kind of trim for the top, and the pattern, and voilà. A home-crafted stocking for your mantel or as a keepsake for your kids or grandkids. I’ll even include instructions for sewing in names with the white yarn.”

“That’s really, really neat.” He was impressed. Even though her setup was low tech, clearly it worked fine. “Would it be easier if you had more space? You could do more at a time. How many can you dye in a day?”

“The rack holds five and I have two racks. Plus, the yarn has to sit in the dye for a good while, and then there’s all the rinsing. I also only use eco-friendly dyes. It makes the cost go up a little, but my customers are willing to pay.” She looked up at him, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Most people think of the fiber being sourced, but don’t consider the dyes that are used in production.”

She went over to the rack and picked up a circle of yarn. “When it’s dry, like this is, I twist the hank into a skein.” She deftly pulled the circle taut in her hands, started twisting it tightly and folded it in half so that it twisted around itself. Then she tucked one end inside the other and—poof!—it was done, just like that. “I put a tag on it and it’s ready for shipping or knitting.”

“You did that so quickly.” He was still awed at the setup, and it wasn’t just the fumes coming from the dye basins.

“I’ll show you. Here.”

She picked up another circle. “Okay, so put your hands inside the hank here.”

“It’s called a hank?”

“It is.” She held his hands and spread them until the yarn was tight. “Now, make an L with this hand, and use one finger on this hand.”

She maneuvered his fingers and he tried not to think about how she was touching him. But she was in her comfort zone now, wasn’t she?

“Okay. Now take this finger and make a twist.”

He did. The motion and the thickness of the yarn made it awkward, but he twisted again, and again, each time a little more difficult as the twist tightened.

“Now bend your elbow and use it to halve the twist.” She took his arm and helped him. The moment he bent the yarn, it wrapped around itself. He laughed. “Well.”

“Seriously.” She was smiling at him. “Now look. You tuck that end under so it stays together.” She touched his hands again, helped him secure the skein. When it was done she smoothed it out. “Congratulations. You did it.”

He grinned back at her. “It’s really neat that you do this. That you make a living at it.”

“It’s an okay living. I’m a staff of one and my facilities are my great-grandma’s summer kitchen, but it works.” She met his gaze evenly. “I live a pretty simple life. I don’t need much.”