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CLAWS AND CROCHET

by Lauren Connolly

CLAWS & CROCHET

She’s used to hooking yarn, not hooking werewolves…

When Zoey's estranged grandmother passes away, the crafty crocheter volunteers to venture to Pine Falls, Colorado to clean out the woman's cabin. But when a confusing flyer lands Zoey and her balls of yarn in the middle of a motorcycle club's bar, she becomes tangled with the residents of the mysterious small town. One handsome biker in particular seems hell bent on tying her up in knots.

Warner Jameson wants Zoey. She smells like the perfect mate with a side of maple syrup and her laughter is the sweetest sound he's ever heard. When the woman appears in the Dark Moon Riders' bar toting a bag of crafts and showing no fear toward the mass of intimidating bikers, it's all Warner can do to keep from kneeling at her feet. The problem is, not only is Zoey an out-of-towner, she's human. And he's...not.

Unwilling to let his supernatural secret ruin his happiness, Warner decides to show Zoey just how lovable a monster can be. It helps that she needs rescuing a time or two. But what start out as unlucky accidents, soon become clear actions of sabotage against the woman he's falling for. Someone in Pine Falls doesn't want Zoey sticking around…

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CONTENT WARNING

This book deals with emotionally difficult topics, including loss of a loved one, depression, self-harm, attack by a wild animal, fighting, biting, and physical injury. Any readers who believe that such content might upset them or trigger traumatic memories are encouraged to consider their emotional well-being when deciding whether to continue reading this book.

1

ZOEY

The Rabbit Hole wouldn’t have been my first choice for hosting a crochet club. The building is all old wood with small windows illuminated by neon beer signs. I mean, I knew I was going to a bar. The flyer on the library’s bulletin board that shouted Sip ’N’ Stitch described a gathering of people interested in crocheting, knitting, sewing, and drinking.

Sounded like a group I could get along with.

To fulfill the sip half of Sip ’N’ Stitch, a bar makes sense.

But I imagine this place sits on the darker end of the watering-hole spectrum.

Maybe it’s a hipster bar, I reason.

Back home in Denver, I visited some beat-up-looking places, only to find them filled with people wearing designer jeans, hundred-dollar flannel shirts, and glasses with rims so thick that you’d think half the grad-student population was dealing with glaucoma.

The Rabbit Hole could be one of those. Once I open this battered door, I might find myself in a speakeasy with artisan cocktails.

In that case …

My hands brush over my sweater and jeans, then finger-comb my hair. Only one stray twig falls loose, which I count as a victory after walking a mile and a half through Colorado country. Part of that on a dirt road with trees crowding in on every side.

At least I had the fading afternoon light on my way here. The return trip is going to be trickier.

But I push that thought to the side as I finally pull open the door.

Okay. Definitely not a hipster bar.

The Rabbit Hole is just as rough-looking on the inside as it is on the outside. Which only makes me more curious about the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch.

I scan the large room, taking in the heavy wooden bar against the back wall, various furniture that I’d label steampunk meets Wild West, a pool table with two leather-clad ZZ Top–looking older dudes playing a round, and a general feel that says, We happily serve criminals of all kinds.

Interesting.

Other than the pool players, the only person in the place is a tatted-up guy behind the bar. A quick glance at my watch reveals that despite my hike to get here, I’m still fifteen minutes early.

“Okay. That’s fine. Early is better than late,” I mutter to myself, making my way toward the booze.

The guys playing pool ignore me, but the bartender tracks every one of my steps, thick brows lowered, as if my approach confuses him.

Maybe the Sip ’N’ Stitch ladies have a particular table they usually claim. Still, it seems better to wait at the bar for them to arrive.

“Hello.” I try a winning smile.

The guy grunts, his eyes tracing over my form. The gesture doesn’t seem sexual, more like a cataloging of information.

I climb up onto a stool, settling my bag of supplies in my lap. “Could I have a bourbon on the rocks?” Bourbon always makes me friendly, and if I only get one drink tonight, I’m ordering a good one. “Something local, from Colorado, if you’ve got it.” Crap, now, I sound like a hipster. “But really, any bourbon is fine.”

Another grunt, and then he turns away. A moment later, I have some liquid courage in a short glass. He didn’t give me the name of the brew. But he hasn’t said any actual words to me, so maybe that was expecting too much.

I try not to look pretentious as I sniff the amber liquid before taking a sip.

Whatever he gave me is good. Under the burn of the alcohol, there’s a soft hint of caramel, teased with vanilla.

As I enjoy the play of flavors over my tongue, I angle my chair toward the front door.

Soon, I catch a hint of female laughter carrying from outside. I smile in anticipation, but lose some of my enthusiasm when the door opens. A group of women saunter in, but I doubt they’re at The Rabbit Hole for fiber crafts.

They’re dressed for a night out. Of course, it’s night, and I’m out. But I’m not out like they’re out. Specifically, I dressed to combat the growing chill in the air. These three women are dressed as if they’re ready to tell the cold to go fuck itself.

Their Daisy Dukes and midriff-revealing tops make me wistful for hot summer days. Ones I’ve sadly waved goodbye to for the year. Ones these women cling to in an admirable manner.

Now, it’s completely possible the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch treat the gathering like a tailgate party. But the bar’s newest arrivals also have no kinds of supplies. Not even a purse between them.

Not the group I’m waiting for, but I still offer a friendly smile when their sharp eyes settle on me.

One smiles back with a wink, and the other two dismiss me in favor of leaning on the bar to call out drink orders to Grunt. He has no name tag, so that’s what I’ve named him. A small twinge of worry in my chest disappears when he doesn’t talk to these women either. At least I’m not the only one unworthy of verbal acknowledgment.

I go back to door-gazing.

The girls get their drinks and claim a table, their laughter bringing brightness to the dingy bar.

Five minutes pass. I sip my drink.

Ten minutes go. I realize I’m halfway through my glass and tell myself to slow down.

Another five.

Shouldn’t someone have shown up by now?

Could they have canceled this week’s get-together?

The flyer said Sip ’N’ Stitch meets at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday night at seven p.m. No mention of blackout dates, and today is not any holiday that I know of.

I’m about to check if my phone gets service here so maybe I can look up announcements on the library’s website when a soft roaring rumbles from outside the bar.

The girls’ chatter pauses briefly, then starts up again with renewed vigor. I take another precious sip of my bourbon as the familiar sound grows louder, giving me an unexpected taste of home.

Away for less than a week, but I guess I’ve been missing it.

Soon, there’s an almost-orchestra-level of roaring engines, the chorus practically surrounding the bar.

That’s when I realize they are surrounding the bar.

Apparently, in small towns, holding a crocheting club at a biker bar is no big deal.

The bikes begin to cut off their roaring engines, and I can envision a crowd of them lining up on the blacktop I crossed—I glance at my watch—a half hour ago.

Fifteen minutes late? Time for me to call it.

Looks like my attempt at subverting my introverted tendencies has failed. I glance at the girls, wondering if I should go over and introduce myself. Try to make some friends anyway.

But their smoky eyes continue to skitter toward the entrance, and I sense that I’d just be an obstruction to their evening entertainment.

Instead, I face the bar and focus on the last of my bourbon, satisfied that I at least left the cabin and found myself a decent drink.

Without anyone’s prompting, Grunt puts two pitchers under the taps, filling them to the brim.

Seems the regulars have arrived.

Some bikes are still settling down when the front door’s hinges squeak and deep voices fill the room. The once-quiet bar is now overwhelmed with the noise of rowdy men. Or maybe I’m just the one feeling overwhelmed. The shouts and ribbing and grumbles and laughter shouldn’t be unpleasant.

Only it’s like taking a week vacation from work, then finding out your boss booked a stay in the same hotel.

I came to this town to get away from rambunctious men.

Picking up my drink, I swirl the remaining liquid, considering finishing it off in one large swallow.

But that’s wasteful, and it’s not as if the bikers are doing anything to me.

In my peripheral vision, I watch the group claim a handful of tables. I can practically smell the leather—there’s so much if it. Black jackets and vests, each with a huge patch on the back. Probably the name of their club. I’d have to turn and stare at one of them to find out, but that might result in unintentional eye contact. I try only to meet someone’s eyes if I want to make conversation with them, and while I considered making friends with the small group of women, this massive crowd of bikers is not my speed.

Give me a handful of friends, and I’m good. A crowd? Hello, Irish goodbye.

But the tiny group is lost to me, having thoroughly enmeshed themselves in with the larger. They aren’t the only women in the bar. The sight of some ladies in leather makes me smile against my glass. Good to know I’m not surrounded by a bunch of misogynists that don’t allow women in their club.

I mean, they still might be misogynists. It just seems slightly less likely.

A flash catches my eye, tempting me to turn enough to seek out the errant sparkle. That’s when I realize one of the Daisy Dukes girls has on a set of cowboy boots covered in crystals.

Bedazzled boots. Now, there’s a project. I file it in the back of my brain for future consideration.

Tearing my gaze away, I accidentally snag it on something even more distracting.

A set of eyes.

Oh no. Unintentional eye contact.

Abort! Abort!

But I can’t. Not right away. Not when I’m staring at a set of irises the same beautiful gold as the liquid in my glass.

Caught as I am in the bourbon stare, for the first time tonight, I start to feel tipsy.

2

WARNER

The bar smells different.

There’s the normal mixture of beer, leather, old wood, motor oil, and the scents of all my pack mates. Courtney and her sparkly boots brought some friends, and one was liberal with her grapefruit perfume. But she’s hung around The Rabbit Hole before, so I’m used to the smell.

The hint that lurks underneath all those is what catches my attention.

Something sweet and earthy. Like maple syrup tapped directly from the tree.

Doesn’t take long to realize what’s different about my normal haunt.

She’s sitting at the bar.

A few of the other guys notice too. Every one of them has as good of a nose as I do. As we settle in, multiple heads turn toward the stranger.

She keeps her face angled away from us, as if fully focused on her drink. The opposite reaction of Courtney and her two friends. We’ve barely got our butts in chairs before they’re mixing in with us.

The smallest of the group, one with red hair and big blue eyes, focuses on me. Not perfume girl. This one is new, although I’ve seen her around town.

Not like the woman at the bar.

The redhead’s interest is flattering, and another night, I might have folded myself into the larger group and flirted with her. But tonight, I want to solve the mystery of the newcomer with the tantalizing scent.

I sidle over to my older brother. Roderick leans against a wall, performing what I am convinced is his favorite activity—emulating the unmoving intimidation of a stone gargoyle.

But even as he holds himself still, I can sense the energy thrumming off him. We’re all a little high after our ride. Soaring down the open road on our bikes is almost as good as a full-moon run.

Still, as our leader, Roderick would never let his baser nature make him look like anything other than an unwavering hard-ass.

“Who’s that?” I settle on the wall next to him, a little too close on purpose, my shoulder knocking into his.

He doesn’t even wobble.

I’ll have to try some other way to set him off-balance.

He glances toward the woman at the bar, then shrugs. “Outsider.”

“Really? That’s your best guess?”

“She’s not from here.” My brother points out with a judgmental note in his voice. Anyone who isn’t a local automatically lands on his shit list.

“Wow. You are a fount of information. Seriously, you should charge money for that kind of insider knowledge.”

Roderick growls at me, and I smirk at him before retreating. Normally, his grumpiness wouldn’t faze me, but if I piss him off too much, he might decide to kick the stranger out.

Moose owns the bar, but everyone knows who’s really in charge.

“Hey, Warner. Why don’t you come sit with us?” Courtney has made her way over to me, grinning like she’s about to do me a huge favor. “My friend Missy”—she tilts her chin toward the redhead—“wants to meet you.”

“Of course she does. I’m a charming guy.” I offer my cheekiest grin, not making any promises.

Courtney and I have been friends since we were in diapers, and at some point, she made it her personal mission to act as my wingwoman. Probably because it exasperates me, which she finds hilarious.

“Nice boots, by the way. I’ve always dreamed of wearing a disco ball on my feet.”

She returns my smile with a saucy one of her own. “You like? If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll make you a pair.”

She stretches out her toned, tanned leg, letting the little jewels on her boot catch the light. Something in her movement snags the attention of the mystery woman. Her head turns, stare seeking out Courtney’s boots.

She’s cute.

If there was a battle for the descriptor of hot, Courtney would win.

But the woman still holds my focus with her dramatically curved Cupid’s bow lips. Probably aware of just how interesting that lip is, she went so far as to pierce it. A tiny golden stud, like a beauty mark, makes it hard to convince myself to leave off staring at her mouth.

Everything about her is brown and gold.

Brown eyes. Golden lashes. Brown and golden brows, bright against her pale skin.

She’s maple syrup poured over a perfectly cooked waffle.

Then, she meets my eyes.

Finding me staring at her, she jerks back slightly.

I expect her to blush, maybe duck her head. Or if she’s looking for a good time, give me an inviting smile.

Mystery Woman chooses none of the above.

Instead, she stares back, just for a moment, before tightening her mouth into a polite smile. Then, after a shallow nod that seems to say, I saw you staring, but we’re done with that now, she turns back to her drink.

“Ooh. Denied.” Courtney chuckles, having watched the barely existent exchange.

About to retort, I’m distracted when Mystery Woman reaches into the bag on her lap and pulls out what appears to be a mess of string. She fiddles with it for a moment, finally dislodging a metal implement. Her fingers manipulate the item until I realize she’s making something. Like she’s knitting.

In a bar.

A biker bar.

I … can’t.

I cannot see any reality where I end this night without speaking to a woman who brings crafts to one of the most dangerous places in town.

“I don’t give up easily,” I murmur, maneuvering around Courtney.

Unfortunately, on my way to meet Mystery Woman, the redhead named Missy acts as a roadblock, stepping into my path. I consider dodging around her too. But I’ve never been the type to blow people off. She deserves respect, even if I don’t want to date her.

Every woman is interesting in her own way, but none have ever knitted while they flirted. Maybe that’s why my hookups have dwindled over the past years.

“Hi, Warner, right? Courtney told me about you.” Missy blinks at me, hopeful.

“Don’t listen to anything she said. She’s a notorious liar.”

I smile so the girl knows I’m joking. And girl is the right word to describe her. This close, I’m able to see every detail of her sweet, round face, and I’d put money down that she’s only been able to legally get into a bar for a handful of months.

I might even guess younger, but everyone in this town knows it’s a colossally bad idea to try a fake ID at The Rabbit Hole.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I can already see she was telling the truth about some things.”

Her gaze trails up and down my body, and I try not to sigh in frustration.

Mystery Woman sips her drink. Her glass is almost empty.

When she finishes, will she leave? When she leaves, will she disappear?

“Jim!” I reach out to grab the arm of the newest member of the club.

He’s a nice guy. Nervous but nice. His eyes immediately land on Missy’s low neckline, but then quickly jump up to her face.

“Jim, this is Missy. Missy, this is Jim. Did you know that Jim got into a fight with a bear?”

I’m not even lying. It’s a badass story.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows curve up. “Really?”

Jim reaches back to scratch his neck, self-conscious, but he grins at the girl. “Yeah …”

“I’ll let you tell it.” I give him an encouraging push, relieving myself of any guilt about abandoning the guerrilla-warfare dating setup.

The Rabbit Hole has never seemed so crowded before. It’s like every member in the club wants to call out my name or stand in my path.

By the time I reach the bar, it’s all I can do not to collapse into the stool beside Mystery Woman. Pulling myself together, I sit down and lean my elbows on the bar. Like I’m more interested in getting Moose’s attention than catching her eye.

My act crumbles the second she turns her head to look at me. I’m not about to play hard to get when all I want is to hear her voice.

Will it sound as good as she smells?

She’s fucking intoxicating. And she’s also silent, which means my mouth takes the lead.

“You looking to join the club? Because I gotta tell you, it’s a rigorous initiation process, and I’m not convinced you’re up for it.”

Her maple-brown eyes widen as she stares at me. “Which club?”

“The Dark Moon Riders.” I turn my back to her briefly, showing off the patch on my vest, then lean in close, doing my best to be subtle about the fact that I’m breathing in more of her scent. This close, I could easily drown in it and die happy. “You’re in our bar, you know?”

Some other guys here would add an edge to their voice. A warning.

But I keep my words light. She’s the last person I want to scare.

And why is that?

She glances behind me at the group that’s getting rowdier with every pitcher of beer, then scans the entire bar. There’s only a shadow of curiosity on her face. Not a single bit of fear.

Not that I want her to be afraid. But sometimes, fear is the smartest reaction to have.

“Is this a bar you all happen to drink at, or is it your bar?” She watches me, her fingers still moving, looping and hooking the yarn, as if all she needs is touch to create whatever she’s making.

“It’s mine. It’s ours. The Rabbit Hole is Dark Moon territory.”

I can’t take my eyes off her hands. The motion is hypnotizing.

I imagine her fiddling with her project in front of a warm fireplace, curled up in an overstuffed chair, the flickering light playing with the gold in her hair. And when the night grows cold and the fire isn’t warm enough to keep her from getting chilled, she’ll look around for a blanket. But I’ll have the only one, and she’ll have to crawl under it with me. So I can keep her warm.

“Territory? That sounds a little possessive. But I guess you’re not too restrictive on who you let in, right? Since the crochet club meets here?”

This stops my mind on its imaginary trip. I examine her face, trying to decipher if she’s joking. But there’s no playful smile or silly wink. She just watches me, waiting for a response.

“Crochet club?”

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