The Neanderthal Box Set: A Workplace Romance, 2020 Revised and Expanded Edition

by Reid, Penny

I’d read several articles in wedding magazines about the phenomenon experienced by brides when they found The Dress. It was like angels singing, they said. A dress that might look unremarkable on a hanger would be put on the bride-to-be and the clouds would part, the heavens would open, and little cherubs would sprinkle magical rose petals from their place in the sky.

  I thought this was ludicrous wedding propaganda. Weddings were big business; billions of dollars a year were spent trying to create a fairy tale day in a consumer-driven world. The perfect dress didn’t exist. It was a myth, like Bigfoot or string theory—which everyone but wackos knows is more of a philosophy than a science.

  That was, I thought it was a myth until I tried on the fifth dress.

  The heavens opened, the sky parted, and the cherubs must’ve gotten rose petals in my eyes because I had trouble believing the reflection in the mirror was me. It was the perfect dress.

  My suspicion was confirmed when I walked out of the room and Desmond glanced up from his cell phone, poised to insult with as few words as possible whatever travesty Ramona had put me in now.

  Instead, he did a double take, started, stared, his eyebrows meeting his hairline. Then he whistled, but not a catcall. He whistled a single note, low and long.

  “Whoa.”

  Ramona grinned. “Yes. Well said, you beastly man.” Then she turned to me. “We have two more to try on, but this one I think will be it.”

  Then she pushed me back into the room and we tried on the other two dresses while I gazed longingly at my number five.

  When all was decided and number five was the winner, Desmond ordered lunch for three.

  To me it tasted like maybe the best pastrami sandwich in the entire world, but this impression might have been caused by the lingering scent of magical rose petals.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Desmond and I drove to the restaurant together. We swung by home to pick up Katherine on the way.

  A funny kind of standoff occurred when Stan tried to insist that I should drive with him.

  Desmond didn’t respond with words. Instead, he just stared at Stan for a beat, reached for my arm, and said, “Let’s go.”

  On the way over, I called my dad for the fourth time that day because he hadn’t yet contacted me. Each time I’d called before the phone had gone to voicemail. I hoped this meant he was on a plane. He knew about the dinner, and he’d said that he would come. But he never sent me his flight information so I had no idea when he was getting in.

  This time my dad picked up his phone just as we were pulling into the parking lot.

  “Hello?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hi, Dad. It’s Janie.”

  “Hi.”

  “We’re just pulling into the restaurant.”

  “Okay.”

  I waited for a second then asked, “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the airport.”

  “Was your flight delayed?”

  “No. It was ten minutes early. I’m getting my bag. I checked it because I don’t like having to lift it into the overhead bin. The charged me $25. Will you be able to reimburse the cost?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Do you need a receipt?”

  “No. No, just tell me how much you need.”

  “Okay. When can you give me the money?”

  I swallowed, tried not to sigh again, and kept my eyes lowered so I wouldn’t have to meet Katherine and Desmond’s eyes. “How about tonight at dinner?”

  “Sure. I’m hungry anyway. Where?”

  “You know, the dinner. We’re having a dinner tonight so you can meet everyone.”

  He paused, and I thought I heard him exhale. He sounded irritated when he spoke. “I’d forgotten about that. Is that celebrity guy going to be there?”

  “Nico? Yes, he’ll be….”

  “Then I’ll be there. Text me the address. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

  “Okay.” I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate on suppressing the heated blush of embarrassment creeping its way up my neck. My eye caught on the hard plastic nob of the car radio. I started thinking about early plastics, tried to pronounce polyoxybenzylmethylenglycolanhydride in my brain. It helped.

  “Fine. See you later.” Then he hung up.

  I held the phone to my ear for just two more seconds before I pulled it away and placed it in my purse.

  I really hated cellphones.

  “Everything okay?” Katherine asked. She’d twisted in her seat and was giving me a small, sideways smile.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “He’s just running a little late. We should go in and order.”

  She nodded. “That’s too bad.”

  I shrugged, and the volcano of trivial information spewed forth before I realized I was talking. “Early plastics were created by accident. A scientist by the name of Dr. Baekland was trying to find an alternative for shellac—which at the time was made from the excretion of lac bugs.”

  Katherine frowned at me, and my eyes moved to the rear view mirror where Desmond was watching our discussion.

  “Bakelite was the first synthetic thermosetting plastic ever made. It was referred to as the material of a thousand uses. I have no citation for that claim, but I did read it in a textbook, and it seems likely that they would refer to it as such. Because it was nonconductive and heat resistant, they manufactured everything from kitchenware to electrical insulators, and radio and telephone casings out of it.”

  He studied me in the mirror.

  I continued speaking my thoughts as they tumbled through my brain. “It must be nice to be a plastic—being nonconductive. Some people talk about being cold like ice or numb as ice, but ice is conductive, and it can melt. True numbness is being a synthetic thermosetting plastic…and it’s so useful.”

  They stared at me as I bit my lip to keep from talking. I wasn’t making any sense. I glanced down at my lap then lifted my chin to apologize.

  But Desmond had turned in his seat, and he said as my gaze met his, “I think we have an old clock made out of Bakelite. Don’t we, Katherine?”

  She nodded, glancing between us. “Yes, I think so. I have buttons, too. They might be celluloid, though.”

  “We should get inside, Janie.” Desmond glanced at his watch. “On the way you can tell me what the difference is between celluloid and Bakelite.”

  * * *

  We had reservations at a neighborhood pub. Katherine had reserved the entire back room. She said this was so we could have privacy and a measure of quiet. Part of me wondered if it had to do with Nico Moretti being there—AKA Elizabeth’s new husband—more than the other reasons.

  Paparazzi and fanfare had been following them everywhere they went, especially since their quick elopement in Vegas. Elizabeth was hoping to keep their presence in Boston a secret, but I wasn’t sure how successful this plan would be.

  Dan and Quinn were already there when we arrived. They were both drinking Guinness draft, and Quinn was glowering across the table at his friend.

  “Hey.” I smiled at both of them, hugging Dan first then moving into Quinn’s arms. “We’re not late, are we?”

  Dan piped in, “Nope. Right on time.”

  I studied Quinn as he slid his eyes back to Dan. I guessed this was because Dan had prevented Quinn from coming back to the hotel room this afternoon by feigning inexperience with the layout of Boston’s streets. I would have to thank Dan for his help; I imagined it must’ve been difficult.

  The door leading to our private room was open, and I guessed that Elizabeth and Nico had arrived if the hubbub of activity taking place at the front of the restaurant was any indication.

  Quinn pulled me to a corner of the room as his parents took their seats and Dan moved to help Elizabeth and Nico find their way through the crowd that had abruptly gathered.

  “Hey,” Quinn said, leaning forward and giving me a kiss. Then he kissed me again. When he pulled away, his eyes were still closed and his jaw was tight. “I’m lo
oking forward to meeting your dad, but I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and spend some time alone with you.”

  I glanced down at Quinn’s tie and tore my top lip through my teeth before responding. “About that…um….”

  I knew he’d opened his eyes because I felt his gaze on me. “About what?”

  “My dad’s running a little late, but he said he’d be here in a few hours.”

  “Oh. Traffic?”

  I shook my head. “No, his flight just landed.”

  “Oh. Delayed?”

  “No…it was on time.”

  “Did he not know about the dinner?”

  I shook my head. “No. He knew.”

  Quinn made a sound like a growl in the back of his throat, and I peered at him. His face was stone, and he was watching me with a severe scowl.

  Then he sighed and just shook his head. He glanced at the table where his parents were sitting, and then his eyes darted to the door where Nico and Elizabeth had just walked in.

  “Come on,” he said, trying to give me a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s order before we all get mobbed by Nico’s adoring fans.”

  * * *

  I was proud of my fiancé for not finding my dad and punching him in the face.

  I know that’s a weird thing to be proud of, but there it was.

  My father never showed. Quinn called him around 10:00 p.m. and found out that he’d gone to the hotel, too tired for dinner, or so he said. Also, he asked about reimbursement again. Quinn told him that he’d be reimbursed at the church, the morning of the wedding, after he walked me down the aisle.

  I don’t think I was meant to overhear that part of the conversation.

  During the car ride after dinner and back to the hotel, I sat tucked into Quinn’s side, his arm around me, our hands at my shoulder fitting together. I leaned my head against him and could feel the tension in his muscles.

  I didn’t try to explain or defend my dad, because…he was my dad. That’s just who he was. There was nothing to explain or defend. Instead, I allowed Quinn to seethe in silence.

  He was still seething when we arrived at the hotel. He was seething when we walked through the door of the room. He continued seething as he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it to the couch, yanked at his tie, and undid the first two buttons of his shirt.

  I trailed behind him, set my purse on the table by the door, slowly pulled off my shoes. I wasn’t thinking about dinner. I was thinking about hemotoxins and the latest research I’d read on the use of snake venom in treating cancer, specifically tumors.

  Quinn turned, glowered at me, gripped the back of the armchair closest to him, and said, “You’re thinking about robots, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m thinking about snake venom.”

  My answer did nothing to improve his mood. “I knew it,” he said and hit the back of the chair with his palms, then turned from me and marched to the bedroom.

  A second later, before I could follow him in, he appeared at the door. He pointed at me. “You. Bed. Now.”

  My eyes widened and my feet faltered. “What?”

  He stalked to me and backed me up against the chair he’d just assaulted. “Take off your clothes.”

  I could only gape at him in stunned disbelief “You want to…?” I cleared my throat because I was having trouble forming my question. “How could you possibly be turned on right now?”

  His eyes flashed with irritation. “I’m not,” he said, and then he pulled me against him, quite roughly, for a kiss.

  A rough kiss.

  Well, at first it was a rough kiss. Then it quickly escalated into a slow, sensual, hot kiss, the kind that made my knees weak and my stomach heavy. His hands were moving, lifting my skirt, and he was rocking against me in time with the movements of his mouth.

  I pulled away, mostly because I lacked oxygen, and panted for breath. Our eyes met and the heavy sensation in my stomach became a twisting need.

  “Now what are you thinking about now?” he asked, then bit my shoulder.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know…you. Your hands. Your mouth.”

  His hot breath fell against my neck and I shivered as he whispered, “Wrong answer.”

  He tugged at the tie holding my dress closed and it opened to him, his hands moving at once to unfasten the clasp between my breasts so he could access more of my bare skin.

  My fingers were moving as quickly as they could to unbuckle his belt. Every time they grazed the hard plane of his stomach a jolt of want shot straight up my spinal column and down to my toes, electrifying everything in between.

  “What’s the right answer?” I asked, feeling a little frantic, mindless.

  He nipped at my jaw, and the backs of his fingers brushed against the center of my breasts, causing me to shudder.

  “I love you,” he said, kissing me quickly. “I adore you.” He kissed me again then pulled away, his palms moving to cradle my face.

  The ferocity of his words matched the intensity in his gaze, and both held me captive. “That’s what you should be thinking about,” he murmured in his kitten voice. “That you are loved and adored…that you matter. Not distracting yourself with robots and snake venom because your father is an asshole and is too fucking stupid to recognize how lucky he is to have a daughter like you.”

  I pressed my lips together and stared at him, how upset he was on my behalf, how desperate he was to show me my worth.

  I covered his hands with mine and nodded, “I know. I know you do.”

  His jaw ticked, his gaze still fierce and determined. “I’m not the only one. Those insane knitters that you call friends, they adore you. You matter to them. And they’re smart people…for the most part.”

  I swallowed. “I know.”

  He frowned, his eyes searching. “I love your preoccupation with facts and information and your insatiable curiosity. But it pisses me off when shit happens and you use it to hide. You should never want to hide.”

  “What if I promised not to hide for very long?” I gave him a small smile.

  “What if you never hide? What if you instead let me get you hot, show you how much I love you? Then you tell those assholes to…to….”

  “Eat shit and die?” I said.

  His expression finally softened, a barely perceptible curve claiming his lips. “Yes. That sounds about right.”

  My eyes moved between his, and my small smile grew. “I love you, Quinn. I love that…that you adore me…that I matter to you. But something you’ve taught me, and I don’t know if you did it on purpose, is that it’s more important that I matter to myself.”

  He searched my expression, and I took the opportunity to move my hands back to his shirt and pull it from his waistband. “So how about, instead….” I unfastened the bottom four buttons then moved to finish unbuckling his belt. “Instead, I’ll let you get me hot. Then, I’ll let you show me how much you love me. Then…”—I unzipped his pants and reached my hand into his boxers—“…I’ll get you hot and return the favor.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Friday before the wedding was a blur—bridal brunch, last-minute errands, pedicure and manicure with Katherine and Elizabeth, meeting the ladies from the knitting group at the airport, dressing for and attending the rehearsal, then rehearsal dinner, meeting the first fringes of Quinn’s extended family, then collapsing on my bed. My key phrase during the day was, “Just point me where I need to go.”

  Quinn, obviously recognizing that the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours were going to be insanity, hadn’t gone for a run that morning. Instead, he stayed in bed with me for as long as possible, making love to me over the course of an hour until my head was in the clouds and I couldn’t stop looking at him without silly grins. That made all the insanity bearable as I floated through the day on a happy Quinn-cloud of afterglow.

  My father didn’t show up to the rehearsal dinner. I overheard Dan and Quinn discussing the fact that they would be
paying him a visit that evening. I tried not to care. Either he showed up, or he didn’t. If he didn’t show then I was sure Elizabeth wouldn’t mind walking me down the aisle.

  I’d also given up hope that Shelly would miraculously appear. I wasn’t avoiding thoughts of her; I was just done wishing for things that might never be. She knew where we were, what we were doing. If she didn’t come to the wedding, I would eventually drive to her farmhouse and let her know she’d been missed.

  But I wasn’t going to waste this time of happiness or squander the opportunities to create lasting, joyous memories.

  I was in the bridal suite sharing it with my ladies. It was fun to feel their happy excitement for the coming day, like something big was going to happen, and I was at the center of it all. The thought made me nervous, to be the center of attention, but it was easy to be distracted when Sandra was telling jokes and Fiona was pretending to disapprove of her dirty limericks involving a man from Nantucket and his bucket.

  Surprisingly, we all fell asleep at midnight, and I slept straight through the night. I didn’t even have distressing dreams.

  The next morning I was awakened by a group hug. Really, it was a group pile, and someone had morning breath.

  I was pushed into the shower. Katherine arrived at around 11:00 a.m., bringing with her a room service cart and mimosas. Introductions were made and she fell right into the thick of things.

  Marie had arranged for a hair stylist and makeup artist to come. We all submitted to their capable hands. Katherine went first because she had to get to the church and greet family members who had flown in. I went last.

  After seeing my veil, the stylist pulled my hair up in the most badass—sorry, but there is no other word for it—Victorian-esque mound of awesomeness. She tamed the snakes by exploiting the thick unruliness of my hair. It was big, dramatic, and something out of a fairy tale. She left several curls free behind my ears and down my neck, which added to the effect of whimsy.

  When it came to getting my face done, I requested minimal cosmetics, opting for eye shadow, mascara, powder, and lipstick. The makeup artist was going to add blush, but then noted with a wink that my cheeks were already rosy.