Fuzzy by Josephine Myles Page A

of. It looked like... no, surely not. I looked up at Steve, whose complexion was doing an impression of a tomato.
    "Would you care to explain what this is?" I started to lift up the item in question.
    "No, don't! The stitches might fall off the needles." Steve grabbed the... thing, and clutched it to his lap defensively. He glared at me and I couldn't help but smile, no matter how hard I tried not to.
    "Steve, is there anything you want to tell me? Taken up any new hobbies I should know about?"
    Steve looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. "Look, it was meant to be a birthday surprise, but seeing as how you've gone and spoilt it now...."
    Steve lifted the thing up and I tried to make sense of it. The two long sticks at the top were definitely knitting needles, although I'd never seen them made of wood before. And dangling underneath was some kind of fuzzy, dark grey... thing. I know it's the thought that counts, but what the hell was he thinking of?
    "It's a hat. Well, it's going to be a hat. One of those great big tams that will fit over your dreads but hopefully not make you look too much like a Bob Marley wannabe. I thought, since you're always complaining about your ears getting cold, it would be a good gift. Besides, you did me that gorgeous painting for my birthday, so I wanted to make you something too."
    I stared at him. I really didn't want to show him just how mushy that made me feel inside. "You're knitting me a hat for my birthday? That's not for another month."
    "Yeah, well, I'm a bit out of practice. I didn't know how long it would take."
    "Out of practice? How come you can knit? You never told me you were a closet knitter." I don't think I'd ever met a man who could knit before. Well, certainly not one who would admit to it.
    "That's the whole point of being closeted, though, isn't it? No one knows." Steve smirked at me. "Since I've now been outed, I may as well knit on the train to work."
    I gaped at him, trying to picture Steve in his pinstripes, primly clacking away with his needles and counting stitches—or whatever it was you did while knitting. He'd instantly go from being the most anonymous man on the train to the person everyone was secretly watching, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I rather liked being the only one watching him—sitting in the seat opposite and pretending he was still that handsome stranger with the lurid socks I'd been obsessing about for months.
    Steve gently closed my jaw and smiled fondly. "Don't worry, Poppet. I won't do anything to embarrass you."
    Yeah right. Except calling me Poppet, perhaps. Mostly he just did it at home, but it had "slipped out" down the pub last week and our friends didn't let me hear the end of it for the rest of the night. I took a long swig of my beer and examined the "hat" in Steve's lap. "It's not very bright, is it? I'd have thought you'd have gone for something more colourful."
    "It's for you, not for me. Anyway, this is luxury yarn – an alpaca/merino blend and all the colour comes from the natural fleece. See? Give that a squeeze."
    He handed me the ball of wool, and I inspected it closely. What had seemed like a plain dark grey was revealed to be several strands of subtly differing shades spun loosely together. It was incredibly soft and silky – nothing like the awful stuff Gran used to knit with, which practically squeaked it was so synthetic.
    "Yeah, nice. So... how long have you been knitting?" And more importantly, was Steve going to surprise me with any other secret talents? If so, I was hoping they might be ones that would prove more useful in bed.
    "It's not like I've 'been knitting'. My Nan taught me when I was ten and off school with glandular fever. She'd always wanted to teach mum, but as she never wanted to learn, I was the next victim in line."
    I tried to picture the ten-year-old Steve knitting away. I'd seen the pictures of him at that age when we visited his folks. That had been a weird couple of hours, I can tell