A Perfect Fit Read online

  Aden had texted earlier with a location, an event and a time where one of his potential Cinderellas was going to be.

  Jilly Bean Coffee House - Thursday Night Knitting Circle - 7pm.

  He knew Aden and the gang were laughing their asses off at the idea of him going to a knitting circle. They still thought of him as being exactly the same as he’d been when they were teenagers: A loveable idiot, a jock who never really had girlfriends.

  That wasn’t wrong, but he was more than that.

  All of the years of playing football had taught him the importance of everyone having a job to do, a role to fill. He was happy to be the easy-going and jocular guy, always up for whatever. He knew they didn’t think he was dumb or ridiculous, they just didn’t see him as a man.

  And that was totally fair, since they were his friends, his family too.

  So, he was going to go to this knitting circle and see if any of the single women roughly his age sparked a memory from the reception.

  Instead of wearing his usual winter outfit of sweatpants, tee shirt and a hoodie, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept the nicer clothes his mom and sisters had bought him. He rifled through the button-downs and sweaters until he found a collared dark blue sweater with heavier knitting at the cuffs. After slipping into an undershirt, he tugged on the sweater and fucked with the collar until it lay right. He pulled on dark jeans, socks and boots and checked himself in the mirror, combing his hair, which was still damp from his shower.

  “I look like a douche,” he muttered, but he knew he looked good. If he could coach hormonal, egotistical teenagers at football and survive a bowl game, then he could wear something nice and date-like and knit at a cafe.

  Heading outside, he took a breath of the fresh country air.

  The night was clear, a slight breeze teasing his hair, so he decided to walk, carrying the bag of knitting stuff he’d borrowed from his mom. He had no idea what any of it was for, but she’d given him some string or yarn or whatever in Maybelle’s school colors and some chopstick-things.

  Jilly Bean’s seemed busy for a Thursday night to him, but, then again, he wasn’t really a cafe sort of guy. He hardly ever came in here unless he was craving their banana nut muffins. The knitting circle was easy to spot, since it was a bunch of women with big bags around a table with a little sign on it for the meeting. Their mugs of coffee and tea were grouped in the center of the table, probably to avoid getting spilled on their projects.

  He detoured to the counter for a hot chocolate with double whipped cream and a muffin, then looked over at the group. It was not intimidating. Just seven women chatting, starting to get out their things. Four of them were grandma-aged and one of them was Mrs. Lee, the very pregnant wife of his boss. That left two potential sex Cinderellas, one with long black hair whose back was to him, and one cute little thing swaddled in a giant sweater.

  But when he came up to the table wearing a smile, he realized the black-haired woman was Delicia Torres. Jesse had once neither confirmed nor denied that Delicia had snuck into her bed—which totally meant that she had. So that left the little thing as the potential Cinderella—a woman he’d never met, a rarity in a small town.

  “Hey, ladies,” he said as everyone looked over at him, eyeing his appearance curiously. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Dunk McCoy,” said one of the grandmas in surprise.

  His smile doubled into a giant grin as he recognized his kindergarten teacher. “Hi, Mrs. V.,” he said, easing his body onto the small wood chair between her and Mrs. Lee, opposite the Cinderella.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Mrs. V. asked curiously.

  He held up his bag and said, his voice guileless, “My mama thinks I need a hobby.” He looked around at all of them, then focused on the Cinderella and amped up the charm. “She said workin’ out doesn’t count,” he added.

  The grandmas cackled and the one on Mrs. Lee’s other side cooed, “You look like working out is still your job, Coach.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, winking at her.

  “Do you know anything about knitting?” Delicia asked.

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I brought this stuff, but I thought for my first time, it would be good to watch y’all and see how it works.”

  The tone hadn’t been all that suggestive, but the little thing blushed hard behind her big glasses. Dunk tried to remember glasses, but all he knew for sure about his mystery sex Cinderella was that her skin was pink and she’d been several inches shorter than he was. That hadn’t exactly narrowed it down for him, especially since she could’ve traded her glasses for contacts.

  “I’m making a bunch of hats,” Mrs. V. told him, pulling his attention away from the potential Cinderella. She held up a squashed dome in pink and yellow and orange stripes, some orange string trailing out to wrap around her chopsticks. “Hats aren’t for beginners and neither are stripes.”

  “Bet this is the first time you’ve been a beginner in a long time,” one of the other grandmas, who he thought worked at the florist’s, piped up.

  “Oh my God, Abuela, no,” Delicia groaned, muffling the noise behind something that looked like a cross between a vest and a dress.

  Dunk slouched a little, knowing it only made a buff guy look buffer, instead of paunchier like an out-of-shape guy would look, and grinned.

  “I know that I need a tool,” he started shamelessly, “and I need to have a good imagination so I know what I want to do. I’m betting great hand-eye coordination can’t hurt.” He twirled one of the chopsticks— knitting needle, fine, he knew the right word—with his non-dominant hand, showing off. “Oh, and good lighting. Can’t do it in the dark.”

  The girl in the big glasses meeped.

  “You’re shameless,” Mrs. Lee laughed indulgently, her beautiful belly shaking like a Jell-O cake under her tight top.

  “Want to teach me how to do it right?” he quipped with another wink.

  “Did you seriously come to a knitting group to flirt with chicks?” Delicia asked, but she was laughing, kicking his shin lightly with her shoe.

  He sighed dramatically and confessed as he picked up his forgotten hot chocolate, “Your sister Daniela always laughs at my flirting too.”

  Delicia and Daniela’s grandma clucked sympathetically and complained, “Daniela’s too picky. You’re so tall and you have a good job.”

  Dunk smiled and shrugged, feeling sheepish now. “I’m pretty sure that most women like a tall guy with a good job. There’s billions of us.”

  “Don’t go fishing for compliments, Coach,” Mrs. V. chastised him, whapping him on the back of his hand with her knitting needle.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, licking up a big dollop of the melting whipped cream and letting his eyes drift back to the girl in the glasses.

  She was resolutely knitting, her cheeks still red, only pausing in the rhythmic, kind of soothing movements to nudge her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She really was cute, but she was so shy that he couldn’t imagine her having sex with a stranger in Wild Harts during a reception.

  With an easy-going sigh, he let it go. The ladies were all really nice and he was intrigued with the knitting, trying to figure out how they knew what to do. “Okay, so do you make stitches? Is that the right term?”

  Mrs. V. reached over and plucked up the plastic bag Dunk’s mom had given him, pulling everything out and dropping them on his lap. “Alright, Coach, let’s us ladies teach you a little something about knitting.”

  So he spent an hour learning about warp and weft, plain and purl stitches, and how to figure out how much yarn it took to make a scarf or blanket. Mrs. V. was a firm believer in explaining, demonstrating, and then assisting to teach. Dunk took a similar approach to coaching, so he figured he did a better job of starting to figure things out than some other random guy might have. Of course, at the end of the hour and a half, he had something lopsided, holey, and smaller than a handkerchief, but he s
till admired it before he packed everything back into his plastic bag.

  “Now what?” he asked, looking around at the women.

  “Now we go home,” Delicia replied, shaking her head.

  “After all that hard work, y’all don’t walk across the Square to the Three Brothers for a pint or next door to have cosmos at Lorenzo’s?”

  The grandmas and Mrs. Lee all chuckled.

  “I have an early class tomorrow,” the girl with glasses muttered, hauling her giant bag up onto one slim shoulder. “See y’all next week.”

  Dunk stood up and looked down at her. “Can I help you carry that to your car?” he asked solicitously, not reaching for it before she said yes.

  Finally she looked up at him, her eyes blinking kind of like a deer in headlights. “Oh,” she stumbled, “that’s real nice, but I’m parked just there.”

  “Sure,” he agreed easily. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Y-you too, Coach,” she almost whispered before she headed out.

  “Oh Dunk,” Delicia sighed exaggeratedly, batting her eyelashes and making everyone snort, “since you’re offering, can you carry my things, please?”

  Dunk scooped up her knitting, her purse, and her to-go box of pastries. “My pleasure, darlin’,” he said, then surveyed the others. “Anyone else? I can bench press three hundred pounds, so…”

  “My back is killing me,” Mrs. Lee snickered, “and I’m probably three hundred and ten pounds right now. Will you carry me?”

  He knew a dare when he heard one, so he raised an eyebrow at Delicia, who laughed and took her stuff back. Then he grinned at Mrs. Lee and scooped her up almost as easily as he’d picked up Delicia’s things.

  She squawked and giggled. “Duncan McCoy!” she blustered.

  “Light as a feather,” he told her. “Beautiful as ever.”

  “Stealin’ my wife?” a deep voice asked behind him.

  He pivoted easily and grinned. “Hey, boss,” he said to his principal. “She practically levitated. You want to take over?”

  He bounded a few steps until he reached Mr. Lee, who slid his arms next to Dunk’s and took his wife. “See you in the morning, Dunk.”

  “Bye, honey,” Mrs. Lee called, blowing him a kiss.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Mr. Lee growled grumpily.

  Delicia threaded her arm through his and said, “Come on, smooth operator, I’m parked behind the bank. You need a ride home?”

  They all headed out together, the grandmas heading to where Mr. V. waited in an ancient station wagon, all gingerly climbing in and waving.

  Dunk grinned down at Delicia as she pulled him towards her truck.

  “So, Dunk, are you going to come back next week?” Delicia asked, her big eyes crinkling at the edges.

  “I liked knitting,” Dunk said. “I could make Jack a real classy scarf. He’s always complaining the six-pack I get him for his birthday is lacking.”

  She laughed, just like he’d wanted her to, and told him, “I’m sure we’ll all enjoy a nice boy like you joining our circle. Miss Shy might even look at you eventually.” Her truck unlocked with a muted beep and they got in. “You still living at your mama’s?” she asked as she pulled into the street.

  “You bet,” he said, lacing his fingers together and straightening his arms until his shoulders and elbows relaxed in a slow series of pops. “It always smells like pie and cookies, plus I get as many hugs as I want.”

  It was his canned explanation, because it really wasn’t anyone’s business. But he’d moved in a year ago after his mom had had a health scare that racked up so many medical bills, they would’ve lost the house if he hadn’t started paying the mortgage, while they all pretended he didn’t.

  Thinking about that health scare freaked him out, so he distracted himself slinging a lazy insult at Delicia. She slung one back, and they kept it up until she pulled up behind his truck.

  “Thanks,” he said as he got out. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he leaned in the open window to ask, “Should I bring Jesse along next week?”

  “Shut up, Dunk McCoy!” she cried, throwing an empty French fry carton at his head, her face heating up.

  But he just caught it without looking and gentled his voice to say, “Forget I said anything. Really. Goodnight, Delicia.”

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, feeling guilty that he’d teased Delicia about Jesse, he loped inside and settled on the couch. He called Aden to let him know that while the potential Cinderella was cute and all, she wasn’t his Cinderella. Aden laughed and said he’d get back to him soon.

  Chapter 4

  Dunk

  Dunk’s job as a gym teacher and football coach at MHS left him with plenty of time to involve himself in local events and charity things. He couldn’t donate the way the Riveaus did, since he didn’t have that much disposable income. But he volunteered at plenty of things to help give back and support the community, from chaperoning school dances to emceeing Maybelle County Hospital charity events.

  So when Aden told him that his next chance to discover—or rediscover —his sex Cinderella was at the vet hospital’s annual Free Adoption Day, he was genuinely excited. The thought that there could be dozens of women who fit his vague memories of the mystery woman only dampened that excitement a little bit. There was nothing to lose by signing up to volunteer though; even if he didn’t figure out who his Cinderella was today, he would have a great time helping animals and people find each other.

  This time, he didn’t dress up, knowing he’d wind up covered in dog and cat hair, not to mention rabbit crap and hamster pee.

  The vet hospital wasn’t very big, but it had almost an acre fenced in where most of the dogs and the volunteers were. Dunk checked in with the vet and was assigned to the kittens for the first few hours, then he’d get to move outside and help with the big dogs after lunch.

  For a second, as the vet went over some reminders about how the adoptions went with the volunteers, he wondered if it had been her that night. But when she smiled, it was small and tight, and he had this gut feeling that whoever he’d been with had smiled like he did, real big.

  Soon the event had started and he was sitting on one of the plastic folding tables, legs dangling. Two white kittens were batting at his shoelaces while he bounced his feet, one fat gray furball was kneading his thigh like it was a pillow, and one teeny tiny calico cat was sprawled on its back across his forearm. It wriggled and purred, legs kicking more like a kangaroo, its front paws raking and catching on his tee shirt.

  Families came in and out, the kids racing all over, sticking their hands through cage wires. They shrieked when the cats batted their fingers, giggling when they got their faces licked by little pink tongues. Dunk grinned, talking with the parents, more about football than the animals, but he loved talking about football, so he didn’t care.

  It had been a while since he’d been social in such a low-key way, and for some reason, it made him notice the way women looked at him and talked to him more than usual.

  They were always friendly and flirty with him, and they touched him casually much more than they seemed to with other men. It never mattered if they were twenty or forty, married or single or whatever else, or if they were shy or brassy or cool. Women had always seemed to have some magical sixth sense that let them know that he was safe, that he didn’t have an agenda, that he would never make fun of them or brush them off. They knew that he’d always smile, always laugh, always flirt.

  And if they wanted more—the single ones only, of course—then he’d give it to them, no strings, no regrets. He knew they liked his muscles and all of that, but he had always gotten the sense that they would’ve treated him the same way even if he were shorter or beefy or had crooked teeth. They knew he loved everything about them, and sometimes they just wanted to be appreciated, to be sampled. They didn’t want to be taken or taken apart, didn’t want lovemaking or fucking. When they wanted to be a little silly, a little selfish, a little adventur
ous, they invited him to play.

  He loved kissing—he’d do it for hours, honestly, if someone wanted him to—and he had a reputation for what his mouth and fingers could do. He genuinely didn’t get what other men were—and weren’t—doing, but it wasn’t magic. He’d been a pretty good athlete because he learned early on how to read body language, to sense tension, and to anticipate movement.

  And he wanted to make people happy.

  Really, he wanted to be happy right along with them.

  So when they teased and cooed and smoothed their hands up his arms, when they dragged their nails lightly down his abs to take one of the kittens from him, he only beamed. He stayed close, not minding at all when they inhaled the way he smelled. He just asked them how their kids were, or their job, or nudged them into adopting one of the cats.

  “How do you do that, man?” Shane Rhys asked while they washed their hands, getting ready to eat pizza that had been brought in for the volunteers.

  “Do what?” he asked as they went over to the food.

  Shane flicked a hand at the four roommates who’d come to adopt a cat together. They were giggling and checking him out in between squeals of excitement as they went through the adoption process for their new cat.

  Dunk grinned. “It’s a gift,” he said, because it was the answer everyone expected, one everyone was comfortable with. He wasn’t smarmy or condescending about it, he just played up his man-ditz jock persona.

  “How do your friends put up with you?” Shane laughed.

  “You gotta know I’m going to make a coaching joke here,” Dunk replied. “Practice, practice, practice,” he went on cheerfully.

  “Hey, Coach,” the vet said, sidling up to the two of them. Her eyes flickered over Shane, covertly but not that covertly, not that Shane noticed. “Can I move you over to the puppies after you eat?”

  Dunk swallowed his bite of crust. “No problem,” he assured her.

  She offered him a tiny smile and then oh-so-casually turned to Shane. “Are you doing alright?” She dug her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. “B-because I always like to check in with first-time volunteers.”