Ten
“What’s that supposed to be?”
Malcolm eyed the snarl of bright red yarn in Charlotte’s lap and decided Gavin was a braver soul than he for asking.
“Well, if it comes out the way it’s supposed to, it will be a sweater.” She held up a picture of something that was definitely a jumper, then frowned down at the mess. “I think I’ve missed a step somewhere.”
The misshapen thing looked like the bastard child of Red Riding Hood and Cthulhu. No matter who she intended the thing for, there wasn’t a chance in hell it would fit. Not that Malcom would dare to point that out. Knitting was the third hobby Charlotte had tried out in the past month. The watercolor landscapes had been more Picasso than Monet. The needle felted replicas of the triplets hadn’t turned out any better, and her spare bedr
