The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 12

“No, not like that.” Judith laughed. “It’s knit one, purl one, not knit for the whole row.”

Polly looked down at the knitting in her hand. “I thought you meant knit a row, then purl a row.”

She was only here as an extra pair of hands; knitting squares to make blankets for the homeless wasn’t exactly her thing. She preferred ringing around hostels until she actually found someone a home. She hated craft, but Judith was down a staff member and frankly, with a quiet afternoon ahead, it stopped her antennae trying to locate Solo.

It was Friday, and other than a quick, stilted discussion about the PTSD group, they’d managed to avoid each other for the past two days. There had been a lot of unwell people admitted, and Solo had also been on call to ED, so their paths had rarely crossed.

Trouble was, that antsy feeling inside her didn’t seem to be abating. Which was just not like her at all.

It was a great big blessing, Polly told herself, as she frowned at the offending bit of knitting, that Solo had been a scarce commodity on the ward.

Fuck it. How could it take this long to knit three rows?

From across the table Esme Yates let out a loud chortle. “Go, girl,” she hollered. “At this rate you’ll be finished by Christmas.” Esme was on the upward swing, which was better than having her shuffle around the ward gently sobbing.

Polly gave her a thumbs-up. “You know me, Esme, a whizz at this stuff.”

After Judith had “tinked” Polly’s row, and informed everyone that tink was knit spelled backwards—frankly, the only fact about knitting that could be construed as even vaguely interesting—Judith went to help Jenny Blaine with her felt teddy bear. Jenny had over-stuffed the poor thing until its button eyes had taken on a look of abject horror.

Polly tucked the knitting needle under her arm and smiled brightly at her table of three.

“So, who’s going home this weekend?”

“Me!” Esme said with glee.

“Not me.” Clarke looked at her balefully over the top of his painting.

“Oh, why not?” Polly asked.

“I went AWOL last night.”

Polly raised an eyebrow. “For how long?”

Clarke looked sheepish. “Got back at 6 a.m. Trouble is, freakin’ Leon spotted me climbing in the bathroom window, didn’t he?”

Polly smothered a smile. Clarke was nineteen, in for the second time after another drug-induced psychosis. He was a great kid from a messed-up background. Often enough, she wondered what her own fate would have been if she hadn’t landed the job at The Book Genie when she ran away from home at sixteen. If Rowena hadn’t become like a second mum to her, and Alice her best friend, would she have fared any better than Clarke?

“The rules are the rules, Clarke.” She had a real soft spot for the young ones who found themselves in here. “I’m sure Judith will let you use the craft room to do some painting over the weekend.”

No-one, least of all Clarke, had realised his artistic talent, until he’d started to use the art room on his previous admission. His colourful canvases were now hung around the ward, something he was rightly proud of. And this, at least, was legal, unlike his spray-paintings splashed on shops and hoardings.

“I’ve got a leave pass for a weekend at home,” Celine Taggert said quietly, head bent over her tapestry. “Trent’s picking me up at five o’clock.” Her face had taken on a worried frown. Celine had three small children at home, and with this last bout of post-natal depression was in here with her baby. But today she looked fresher and a bit brighter than she had for the past week. Her hair was washed and she’d put on a new outfit.

“It’s just a trial, Celine,” Judith said as she moved around to check everyone’s projects. Celine gave her a wobbly smile and Judith plopped down on the seat next to her. “Drop the perfect mum story you’re telling yourself,” Judith said kindly. “The kids and Trent will just be happy to have you home. Remember the daily plan we wrote up? Stick to that and it won’t feel so overwhelming.”

Judith squeezed Celine’s arm. Watching her, Polly knew she could never match Judith’s saintliness, or creativity, for that matter. She sighed and turned back to her task. If Judith wanted her to be a role model for crafting, she was going to be sadly disappointed. At least her effort would make everyone in the room feel like they were doing fantastically. If it improved anyone’s self-esteem, Polly guessed she could cope with another thirty minutes of knitting hell.

Until, that was, she looked up to see Solo strolling through the door of the room.

The knitting needle fell out of her grasp, the stitches sliding off and landing in a spaghetti heap of wool in her lap.

Clarke laughed, Esme cackled loudly, even Celine giggled.

“Bat shit hell,” Polly muttered under her breath.

“Hi Solo, what are you doing here?” Judith sprang up with a great big welcoming smile.

Solo’s eyes held amusement as they met Polly’s, then dropped to the pile of wool on her lap. “The ward’s pretty empty, I thought I might find a few people in here.”

“Where else would they be on a Friday afternoon?” Judith chirped.

An eyebrow jagged up. “Didn’t know you were such an accomplished knitter, Polly.” His lips twitched.

Polly put on her best scowl. Did he have to look so edible? His white shirt casually undone at the collar, cuffs rolled up to his elbows and eyes so luminous it was as if they’d been backlit.

All the other women in the room seemed to notice it, too.

The thing was, Solo didn’t. He appeared oblivious to his appeal, unlike so many men she’d met. And somehow that only served to make him sexier.

Oh god, he was actually strolling over. Polly ducked her head. He went around the room, smiling and commenting on everyone’s masterpieces. He picked up Jenny’s teddy bear and agreed that it was just about the right cuddliness for her granddaughter. He said all the goddamn right things in just the right way. All the patients looked up at him adoringly.

Polly stifled the urge to shout, “He’s not a demi-god, you know!”

Finally he reached her table and complimented Celine on her tapestry. Clarke was looking at him warily; he would have had the hard word from Solo this morning about his escape from the ward, but Solo grinned and complimented his painting in a way that had the kid grinning like he’d just won the Archibald Prize.

Polly focused on ramming the stitches back on her needle.

Too late, his shadow loomed over her. “Let’s have a look at your project, Polly.”

She tried to cover it with her hands.

“Go on,” Esme crowed. “Show him what a pig’s ear you’ve made of it.”

“Thanks, Esme,” Polly gritted darkly.

With all eyes on her there was nothing to do but plonk it on the table. Only three stitches remained, hanging onto the needle like they were clinging to a precipice.

“I acknowledge it’s a disaster,” she remarked airily. All eyes around the room peered over. She added, “For the record, the social worker on Echidna Ward can’t knit for toffee.”

Quick-smart, Solo’s hand shot out and grabbed the needle and spaghetti of blue wool. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

She gaped in amazement as he reached over, grabbed the other knitting needle off the table and wielded them both in his long fingers like chopsticks.

Silver eyes glittered. “Let’s put this right, shall we?”

Polly’s mouth went slack.

Swiftly, he cast on the stitches. “How many?” he directed at Judith, who was smiling at him like she’d gone a bit daft.

“Oh, um, forty.”

He nodded, lips tight with concentration. Polly leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to notice the way the muscles of his forearms stood out as he worked the needles. How could a guy knitting be this hot?

A frown etched his brows as he counted stitches, then started to knit rows, his movements fast and fluid.

As he got the third row done, the place she had finally lost control, Solo held it up.

The room burst into applause. Esme put her fingers between her lips and whistled like she was barracking for her favourite footie team.

Polly gave a shrug, muttered, “Where did you learn to knit?”

“My nan taught me.”

“You took it in better than her baking tips, obviously.”

Apart from the quirk of those gorgeous lips, he ignored the obvious jibe. “I enjoy it. I knit scarves, the odd beanie for friends.”

“We’ll get you in here to run the group, if you’re not careful,” Judith threatened.

Esme chortled. “Never gonna look at you the same way again, doc.”

Solo winked, and Esme’s round face went pink with pleasure.

As Solo handed Polly her knitting, their fingers skimmed. A sizzle of heat licked at her core. As he rose from the chair, she caught the scent of him, washing powder, and warm, clean maleness. A particular smell that was all his, and suddenly she was transported back to tangled sheets and a vision of his features contorted with pleasure.

Twang.

This was so not the place, but she knew it was mutual as their eyes locked.

“I’ll leave you to get on with it,” he said, his voice husky-edged. “I’ve got to write up some discharge summaries.”

There was a general buzz of “don’t go, Doc Solo. Stay and teach us how to knit beanies”, to which Solo raised his hands and backed, laughing, out of the room.

“Don’t spread this around,” he said. “It might cost me my job.”

Then he was gone, leaving Polly staring at her knitting, aware that Judith was staring at her.

* * *

Walkingoff the ward at the end of the day, Solo had trouble keeping the grin off his face. Polly’s gobsmacked expression had been classic; he wished he’d been able to catch a snap on his phone. For the first time since their amazing, explosive night together, he was pretty sure he’d done something right.

Yep, he was proud to admit it, he was good at knitting. Nan had taught him. Perfecting cables and trying out new and intricate patterns had become a form of stress release since then. It had taken him a few years to walk into knitting shops with his head held high, but he’d got to the stage now where he went in to feel the wool under his fingers, the colours and textures, and had become comfortable discussing patterns with the sales staff.

He’d even knitted Emma a sweater. Back in the day.

He was just having a fantasy of what colour wool he’d choose for Polly when a footfall, light and swift, made him turn.

Wild curls tumbled out of her up-do, making her look dangerously cute, cheeks flushed as she bounded towards him. She must have literally run to catch up with him, and the realisation made him stand that bit taller.

“Hi,” she gasped as she came level.

“Hi.”

“That was some stunt you pulled earlier.”

He gave a little snort. “No stunt. Just clearing up the mess you’d got yourself into.”

Now it was Polly’s turn to snort. “I wasn’t in a mess.”

“No? You enjoy torturing balls of wool in your spare time, do you?”

“It just so happens”—she tilted her head at him, and he found his eyes dwelling on the creamy skin at the hollow of her neck—“some of us have better things to do with our spare time than knit.”

They’d reached his bike and he put his helmet on the seat and stared straight at her.

Polly shoved her hands into her pant pockets.

“Like what?”

Her brows creased and she nibbled on her lower lip. She wants to ask you on a date. The thought sent a zing of electricity along his spine. If that was the case, he wasn’t going to refuse. Professionalism be damned. He planted his legs wide and let his gaze drill into her. He was rewarded with a wave of colour shifting across her cheeks.

Her green gaze zoned in and sparked with his. “Like partying,” she said, chin kicking up. “And when I party, I party hard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He propped his hip on the saddle. “You think I couldn’t keep up?”

She popped her eyes at him “Is that a challenge?”

“Could be.”

“Phhttt, you haven’t seen my moves on the dance floor.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe not on the dance floor.” He let the ending hang between them.

He watched her throat move as she swallowed. Her feet did a little shimmy, like she wanted to rub her thighs together.

His fly obligingly tightened.

An image of their bodies grinding and bumping and covered in sweat in a nightclub had him even more uncomfortable.

He squinted into the lowering sun behind her shoulder. Tried to sound casual. “Maybe you should show me some of the hot spots around Perth sometime.”

He should have let her make the first move, but frankly, with Polly, you never knew which move she was going to make next. So what the hell if he hung himself with the tiny piece of rope she’d thrown him.

He saw her draw in a breath, the swell of her breasts under her plain blouse making his brain flash to the memory of her beautiful dark nipples. Was he hallucinating or was that the outline of them against the material of her shirt?

He flicked his eyes back to her face, only to see her lick her lips, leaving a gleam of residual moisture. What she could do with those lips… he stifled a groan.

The silence stretched loud between them. Was she ever going to answer? She pushed the hair off her face and said suddenly, “Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?”

“So, do you want to or not?”

Solo blinked and picked up his helmet, started playing with the catch. Shit, if she glanced below his waist it was embarrassingly clear he wanted to. He tried to sound super-casual. “Sure, I think I’m free.”

She threw back her head and laughed at that. “Oh yeah, I know what Carts will have planned for you. A night at the Shamrock with Dan and a curry, then on to the casino.”

Solo smirked. That had already happened, last week. And while Dan was a great guy, he had a one-track mind—that track being rugby. Carts, he was warming to by the day, except that he talked non-stop and wore seriously strange exercise gear. Solo was learning to zone out to the constant patter.

However, that did not make a night out on the town with the two of them more attractive than bumping hips with Polly on the dance floor.

“Okay, where? And what time?”

She tapped at her lip and rolled her eyes heavenward as if thinking hard. He drank her in. The line of her cheeks, the softness of her pale skin, the tiny little dusting of barely-there freckles on her nose.

She met his gaze squarely, her lips curving up at the edges.

“Meet me at the Ark. It’s a bar on the main drag in Fremantle. Then we’ll go on to the Fly by Night club.”

“Sweet,” he said, and then thought that was probably more the type of thing an adolescent would say. “Cool.” Frig, that was even worse. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

He swung his leg over his bike and hid a little smirk of satisfaction as he saw those green eyes fix briefly on the v of his thighs over the shiny metal chassis. “I’ll be there.”

Solo flicked the key and the engine roared into life. Polly stepped back, but she was smiling the sort of smile that women wore when they were secretly impressed.

He worked the throttle, let the engine rev. Shoved on his gloves.

“See you tomorrow, 8 p.m. at the Ark.” He grinned, and she grinned back, and then he slammed down his visor and left in a shit-shower of fumes.

They were in a power struggle. He knew it, and for once he was looking forward to seeing who came out on top.