I have two very specific critiques of this book that was otherwise very sweet and entertained my knittery self.

1) Jackson tries to lampshade the "romance isn't therapy" except that all of her characters—including, as far as I can tell, the romance in the previous book—deal with their stuff by committing to another person with whom they are in love. So either this is the therapy = talking about your things and just having the conversation helps (lol, nope) or the relationship deals with the very real trauma that these characters have experienced.
This is the inevitable problem of romance where there is an inverse relationship between the size of the stakes and the ability to resolve everything within 350 pages. So what do you do? I'm always impressed by authors who walk the line of ending it with "and they're working on it and it's not perfect but we're going to keep trying because we think we're worth it" and this book doesn't quite manage that for me.

2) Everyone spends WAY too much time inside their own heads and I realize that, coming from me, that's a wild critique because I absolutely spend way too much time inside my own head and the best I can say is...it doesn't sound like that. There's a lot of meditative exposition of people thinking about their choices and what got them to where they are now in a way that is very convenient for catching the reader up on everyone's life and, I just, it didn't feel like thinking to me. It felt like this book really needed a 19th century narrator to talk about their experiences for them, but alas, we don't do that anymore so characters need to do all that work for themselves and it comes out weird.

The little yarn shop in Harlem did absolutely delight me thought.