by Reid, Penny
I nodded.
“What did you talk about?”
I tilted my head to the side and allowed myself to study her features. She had a beautiful face, perfect lips, light freckles, big eyes. The color of her eyes was mossy gold, and it made me want to write crap poetry and hire a skywriter.
“Quinn?”
I blinked at her upturned face. “Uh…what?”
She blushed and glanced at me through her eyelashes. “What did you two talk about before I arrived?”
I cleared my throat to stall. I didn’t want to lie, I wasn’t going to lie, but I couldn’t give her the whole truth, either. Instead, I settled for what she called selective truth. In this case, I felt completely justified.
“We were discussing a project of mine. She thought she could help me as she has familiarity with the subject matter.” I shrugged and surreptitiously started to unwind her hair.
“Oh.” Her eyes moved between mine, searching, and I held her gaze boldly. “Are you going to let her help?”
I nodded. “Yes. She’s going to help me. I think it’ll be good.” I succeeded in releasing her hair and felt my body tighten at the openness of her expression framed by the mass of wild plumage.
Her smile was slow, delighted, and it made my breath catch. “I am so glad.”
I considered her for a moment, and seriously thought about falling to my knees and proposing right there in the luxury-plumbing fixture store on West Lake Street. I looked at this beautiful woman, and all I could think was Want. Mine. Need.
Before I could make good on the Neanderthal impulse, Janie gave me a quick kiss and stepped out of my arms. She slid her fingers between mine and tugged me toward the door.
“Come on; the sooner we go eat that horse, the sooner we can go back to your place.” Janie’s eyebrows wagged very clumsily, and I allowed her to lead me from the store. I was busy admiring her backside and the shape of her legs in the ridiculous stilettos she was wearing as she pushed open the door.
We walked down the street toward the restaurant and she held my hand. I was silent because my mind was still racing; the thought of her as my wife overwhelmed me. I was undeserving of her brilliance and sweetness, but I would marry her if she’d have me, and I would never let her go.
“Hey.” She poked me in the ribs. “Why is your face like that?”
I swallowed the thickness in my throat; my voice sounded raspy to my own ears. “Like what?”
“Like all serious and determined. It’s the look you get when you’re about to rain down a world of hurt.”
“Rain down a world of hurt? Where did you pick that up?” I tilted my head to the side, narrowing my eyes.
“From Steven. We were talking about how you rained down a world of hurt on Olivia last week.”
In fact, I’d fired her. I hadn’t been gentle either. I had no tolerance for incompetence.
I grimaced. “She was bad at her job. She needed to go.”
“I agree, but don’t change the subject; why is your face the world of hurt face?”
“It’s not—it’s not.” I shook my head then pulled her to a stop. My arms encircled her. I pressed her body against mine and kissed her, softly, catching her off guard. Despite her initial surprise, she responded beautifully and allowed me to take what I needed: her warmth and her blind acceptance.
Except she wasn’t blind—she was smart. She knew me and loved me anyway.
I pulled away, just far enough so that her eyes were in focus. Her lashes fluttered open and she gazed at me, trusting and happy.
My voice was a growl. “I love you.”
She smiled. “I know.”
I released a slow breath and lost myself in her mossy gold eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”
She licked her lips, her gaze lowering to my mouth, and her smile widened. “Oh, you deserve me.” She nodded, her eyes moving back to mine. “You’ve made me fearless.”
It was a confession, and I felt it like a heavy weight in my chest. I wanted to give her a confession too. I swallowed with effort then brushed my lips over hers. My words were a whisper that only she could hear.
“And you make me a good guy.”
THE END
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Neanderthal Marries Human
Contents
I. Setting the Trap
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
II. The Engagement
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
III. Planning the Wedding
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
IV. Meeting the Family
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
V. Vegas, baby. Vegas
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
VI. The Wedding
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
What happens in Vegas…the missing scene
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.
Copyright © 2014, 2015, 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
Second Edition: June 2014, June 2016
ISBN-978-0-9892810-6-5
eBook Edition
Dedication
Do you love Janie and Quinn?
If so, this book is dedicated to you.
*fist bump*
*high five*
*bottom pat*
… too far?
Part I
Setting the Trap
Chapter One
*Janie*
“You have Black Rod and Silver Stick?”
“Yes.”
“And Black Rod, what is his role again?”
“He summons the House of Commons—Parliament, you know—to the House of Lords.”
“But they shut the door in his face? The Commons?”
“Yes.”
“And he has to knock again?”
“Yes.”
I wrinkled my nose at this news. Ceremony, pomp, and circumstance were as baffling in their allure as Kim Kardashian’s fame. Neither made sense.
When Quinn had announced last week that we were traveling to London, one of my first actions was to look up a knitting group in the city. I found Stitch London, a group open to all who lived in the area or passed through it.
They rotated their meeting location all over the city and assembled several times a week; sometimes meeting at a wine bar in Covent Garden, sometimes knitting in a pub, and sometimes—like this fine Thursday evening—congregating during the dinner hour at a restaurant in Spitalfields Market, just east of the City of London.
Super double bonus: they didn’t care that I wasn’t knitting.
My ey
es lowered to the yellow scarf in Bridgett’s hands—Bridgett was a fast knitter—then to the cavernous expanse of Spitalfields Market behind her. Vendors that usually crowded the market had left about an hour ago, leaving an echoing and lonely void behind.
I frowned, fascinated. “But, then they open the door, right?—to let Black Rod in?”
“Yes,” Bridget responded.
“And they can’t actually keep him out, can they?”
She nodded, the skin around her eyes crinkled. Judging by the lines surrounding her eyes and mouth, her face appeared to be in its natural state while smiling.
“Yes. Quite. Commons has no authority to bar the man from their chamber. Merely, they can question his presence. In closing the doors, they are flexing their ceremonial muscle. It’s a reminder to the Lords and Monarchy that the Commons does not bow to their whims.” Bridgett grinned in a small way that bespoke her delight; then she chuckled. “It’s all rather silly, isn’t it? When one talks about it to a foreigner, it seems so silly. But then, I suppose, all traditions sound silly when explained or discussed.”
I nodded at this truth. It was a good thought, worth remembering, worthy of further contemplation. I tucked it away as a data point to be mulled over later.
Bridgett’s daughter, Ellen, smiled at me over her crochet work. “Don’t you have any oddities of government in the United States, or—as I like to call them—the wayward colonies?”
“Other than being completely ineffective and self-serving? Not that I know of.”
“Maybe if you installed a Black Rod and Silver Stick to slam the door in the face of the Senate you might find that your government miraculously improves in competency.”
“It’s worth a thought,” I said.
Bridgett gifted her daughter a wry smile; she turned her eyes back to her scarf while she continued to speak on the subject. “Truly, I believe these traditions—as silly as they might sound—have real merit. Tradition builds confidence and gives people a sense of security, safety. If you know what to expect, you become part of the process, even if it’s in a passive way. Rites of passage are essential, and traditions endure because they have value. I think your generation under values the importance of traditions lest anything be sacred.”
Halfway through her mini pronouncement I began to nod. Her words, again, made a lot of sense; before I could fully process their implications I discerned a buzzing sound to my left, felt the vibration against my leg, and fought against my initial desire to audibly growl.
It was my cell phone.
Someone was calling me.
Thor!
Here I was, sitting with approximately seventeen to twenty-three lovely ladies—I didn’t know the precise number as several ladies had come and gone over the last two hours, and I hadn’t yet re-counted—enjoying our discussion on the opening ceremonies of Parliament. Suddenly, a conversation absconder, likely halfway around the world, was interrupting my pleasant yet bewilderingly informative interaction.
I offered Ellen and Bridgett a remorseful glance. “I’m sorry. It’s my phone. Someone is calling me.”
Bridgett shrugged, entirely unperturbed by the interruption. “It’s quite all right, my dear. Go see to your business.”
I reached for my bag, still displeased at being interrupted despite Bridgett’s lack of indignation. I contemplated our discussion about Black Rod as I rummaged for my phone. If I’d been asked two hours ago, I would have said that enduring or supporting an action or behavior simply because it had always been done, without thought to its utility or necessity, seemed completely illogical.
This distinction, I recognized, was the line between progress and tradition.
I pulled the blasted device from my satchel and stood from my chair. Steven’s name flashed on the screen. If my phone hadn’t been set to silent, I also would have been listening to It’s Raining Men, which was Steven’s personalized ringtone. I didn’t have the wherewithal—or, honestly, the desire—to navigate the phone’s settings to change it.
Regardless of my warm feelings for Steven, my acrimonious aversion to answering the cell phone every time it rang was hardcoded in my DNA—much like my love for Cosplay or my ambivalence for reality television.
I swiped my thumb across the screen while I walked to the entrance of the restaurant. I might be saddled with the blasted device, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be that person who talks on her cell phone while within earshot of her companions.
“Hello?” I tried not to sound too grousey. I failed.
“Hey, Janie! Where are you? Is Mr. Sullivan with you?”
“No. I’m at a knitting group. He’s not with me.”
“Oh, I thought you two—wait, you knit? How did I not know that you knit?”
“I don’t knit.”
“But you just said—”
“Steven, is there a reason you’re calling?” I glanced at one of my guards, Jacob, and gave him a tight smile then took several steps into Spitalfields Market proper; my four-inch heels echoed on the cement. “Because this is definitely a conversation we can have at some point later and in person.” Impatience was building a treehouse in my chest out of rusty nails and splintery, arsenic-treated wood.
“Oh, sorry, Toots. I keep forgetting about your IPS—irritable phone syndrome. I’ll try to keep it short, but I really must talk to you, so you’ll just have to put up with me for a moment longer. Are you and The Boss having fun with the Britons? Have you attended a tea party yet? Raised a ruckus or the roof? Met the Queen? Run naked through Trafalgar Square? I hope the answer is no regarding Trafalgar Square, as I’d like for us to make the attempt together.”
I couldn’t help but smile at Steven’s teasing. “When you arrive tomorrow I’ll be sure to fill you in on all the very fascinating times we’ve had in London over the past two days, and don’t call me Toots.”
The truth was I’d barely seen Quinn in the last two days. The original plan was to fly over early, before Steven and the team, to have some time to ourselves before meeting with a large potential corporate client. Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems was the corporate client, and they were a big deal and big news. Quinn’s private client meetings were supposed to take less than two hours of his day; however, they’d ended up filling his mornings, afternoons, and evenings.
My feelings on my present state of Quinn-less-ness were a bit muddled; especially since—per Quinn’s crazytown insistence—I had to take three guards with me everywhere.
At best, I was disappointed. At worst, I was rabid with resentment. I hadn’t decided which sentiment more accurately described my mindset because my brain kept pendulating between the two.
“Good, good. I’m looking forward to it. They’re about to start the pre-boarding process for my flight.” His huff was audible through the line. “This will be the first time I’ve traveled on a commercial flight in two years. I forgot how much I hate the airside terminal, those weird neck pillows, and…people.”
“Steven, you’re flying first class. Do you know what percentage of the population ever flies first class? Less than six percent. Even Prince William flies coach.”
“You just made that up. Don’t think you can fool me. Seventy two percent of statistics are made up on the spot.”
I tried not to laugh. “You know I never make up statistics, and I think you can suffer through flying first class even if it means you have to be around people.”
“I’ll do my best.” He sniffed, sighed then sighed again. “The Boss must be rubbing off on me. His disdain for the human race might be contagious.”
A faint echo of footsteps resonated from over my right shoulder. I half turned toward the sound, searched the darkened expanse. Jacob must’ve heard it too because he crossed to where I stood and placed his hand on my upper arm.
“Ms. Morris, do you mind moving back inside the restaurant?”
I nodded at Jacob and turned toward the entrance to Cluckingham Palace, the chicken curry establishment where my new kn
itting acquaintances were gathered. “I have to go now, Steven.”
“Fine. That’s fine. I’ll find you tomorrow, though, and we’ll scope out how long it will take us to sprint across Trafalgar Square.”
I rolled my eyes even as I grinned. “Goodbye, Steven.”
“Goodbye, Toots.” He ended the call with a kissy sound.
Jacob had released my arm but he stilled hovered. The footsteps were closer now, and for some inexplicable reason, I shivered.
Then, I saw him.
I couldn’t be certain as he was still approximately forty yards away, but his blue eyes seemed to glitter and flash when our gazes met; at least my toes, ears, heart, and internal organs thought so. His steps, as usual, weren’t hurried; but his movements were adroit, marked by a careless confidence and grace that straddled the line between self-possession and arrogance.
Twisting pleasure pain followed by shortness of breath held me in place—my expected companions every time Quinn initially came into view.
Even after our five months of dating, I always felt a little helpless and flustered by his presence—especially at first—as though I’d been blindfolded and spun in a circle then subsequently told I needed to write a eulogy for Dr. Seuss in iambic pentameter.