I was grateful it was Thursday. Thursday was my favorite day of the week because it was when I hosted a weekly wine and crafting night at my apartment. I absolutely adored my apartment, especially when it was filled with friends. Ok, it was really small and really expensive, and I couldn’t fit more than half a dozen people inside, and even when I did, we all had to squeeze onto my tiny couch or sit on cushions on the floor. But none of my crafting ladies seemed to mind.

My place was cozy, they said, and I had done my darnedest to make it that way. Almost everything in the apartment had some sort of personal touch added to it. I had sewn the curtains myself, knit washcloths and throws that were spread everywhere. I had made my living room rug on a loom I borrowed from a client, painted the kitchen table with flowers and vines, stripped and refurbished most of my chairs, and sewn a collection of pillows for my lumpy, but still comfortable, couch.

And all of it was covered in cat hair, of course. I did my best to keep it clean, but Mr. Mistoffelees was a longhaired mix of some sort who shed incessantly. But when I rescued him off the street seven years ago, I hadn’t given much thought to all the fur he was going to bring with him. All I had seen was a scrawny, matted cat that needed a home.

A home that he now ruled. He was currently perched on the back of the sofa, looking out over his domain, waiting for his illustrious subjects to arrive and pamper him with chin and neck scratches. All of my friends loved him.

For a few hours every week, we would get lost in yarn and fabric and gossip and a few really good bottles of wine. On average, we polished off at least three bottles. But tonight, I had a feeling I would need at least one for myself.

Because I was still struggling to find the heart of the book I was trying to write. The interviews had been helpful, and definitely gave me something to use to breathe some life into Jack on the page, but it was still through secondary sources, and work sources, at that. Even though it was clear that everyone at his company genuinely adored him, it wasn’t special enough to showcase him in the way I felt he needed to be showcased.

I needed something more. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to give it to me.

By the time Georgia arrived, I had already gone through half a bottle on my own. She was followed shortly after by Cindy, Meredith and Jasmine, all of whom were armed with their own projects they were working on. I had been working on a lace shawl for the better part of the month, tricking myself into thinking I was ready for the extremely intricate and advanced pattern. I had done and undone it at least three times. Mostly because I kept working on it when I was drunk. Drunk knitting was never good knitting.

Unless you were Cindy. Cindy was an absolute knitting pro, and could do it anywhere – on the train, in the bath, in the movies. She had been working on the vest-thing that Katniss had worn in The Hunger Games because apparently her six-year-old child was going through a bow and arrow phase. She wouldn’t explain to any of us what a bow and arrow phase was. We had stopped asking.

Meredith and Jasmine had been working on socks for the past few weeks, and Georgia was always working on a bottle of wine. She wasn’t really a crafter, she mostly came for the gossip and the booze. If anyone needed to unwind after a long day, it was my best friend. One of these day, I was finally going to convince her to leave her job for a better one. Today was not going to be that day.

And by the way everyone immediately reached for the wine, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a very productive crafting night for anyone.

“My husband is driving me nuts,” Cindy told us, slumping on my couch next to Georgia. “Every time I leave to come here, he complains about babysitting the kids. And I always tell him it’s not babysitting if it’s your own children!” She took a long drink of wine. “He’s so not getting a tip tonight.”

Everyone laughed.

“I’ve just had the worst day at work.” Georgia grabbed the bottle and filled her glass to the top like it was water. “I hate that place,” she muttered, and then shot me a look. “And don’t tell me that I should just quit. I have a plan.”

“Yeah?” I took a sip of my own wine. “And how’s the working out for you?”

Georgia waved her hand at me, a scowl on her face.

“What’s the plan?” Jasmine asked.

Georgia leaned back, a smile playing at her lips. The only time I ever saw her happy in regards to work was when she was thinking about the job she was eventually going to get. Mr. Mistoffelees jumped off his perch on the back of the couch and snuggled up on her lap. Georgia obliged him with a long chin scratch. His loud purr filled the room.

“I just need to put a little more time in at American Express. One more promotion and one more year working at a higher salary with more responsibility will look really good on my résumé and then I can start looking at marketing jobs outside of credit cards and banks.”

“Are you up for a promotion?” Meredith asked, opening the second bottle of wine.

Georgia’s shoulders wilted. “No.”

“Is there an opportunity for one on the horizon.”

Georgia’s frown grew deeper. “No.”

I exchanged a look with the rest of the girls.

“Georgia, honey,” I reached out and patted her knee. “You have to stop waiting for them to appreciate your skills.”

“I know!” She buried her face in her hands, unseating Mr. Mistoffelees who came over to me, rubbing up against my leg.

I picked him up and placed him on my lap where he curled into a big fluffy ball.

Georgia looked morose. “But I don’t want to go somewhere else and have to start all over again. It’s not a perfect job, but at least I have seniority. Whenever a promotion becomes available, I’ll be the first one in line. That’s what my boss keeps telling me.”

“The same boss that keeps looking down your shirt during meetings?” Cindy asked.

Suddenly I had an image of a certain boss who I wished would look down my shirt. A certain tall, dark and brooding boss. A certain boss whose tie I wanted to untie. My skin got all hot and tight thinking about Jack’s burning gaze on me. All the intensity for his work could only mean he’d have the same kind of intensity in other areas.

“Libby, are you ok?” Meredith asked me.

I blinked and realized everyone was staring at me.

“Huh?”

“Your face is all red,” Georgia pointed out. There was a smile on her face as if she knew exactly what I had been thinking about. “You look flushed.”

I put a hand to my cheek even though I knew I was probably the color of a tomato. It was burning hot.

“It’s just warm in here,” I told the girls.

“Mmmhmm.” Georgia gave me a knowing look. “Warm.”

“I just got a little overheated.” I got up and opened one of my small apartment windows.

“I’ll say,” Georgia muttered and poured herself another glass of wine.

It was strange, for whatever reason, I felt myself wishing Jack was here. Not just because I wanted to strip him naked and have my way with him, but also because I kind of missed his brooding. Which was weird. And probably not good. I forced myself to stop thinking about my boss and opened another bottle of wine.

“Speaking of hot,” Meredith interrupted, “I have to tell you all about my date this week.”

I sat back down, and picked up my knitting, while the other girls giggled and kept a firm grip on their glasses. I sighed. Apparently I was the only one who was going to be getting any knitting down tonight.