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

by Reid, Penny

  “Yes. These, all of those, are cane toads. They’re an invasive species.”

  He blinked at me.

  Good news: Quinn looked less horrified.

  Bad news: Quinn looked more displeased.

  “So,” I rushed to explain, “I’ve been making traps for them around the island. Then I bag them and put them in the freezer.”

  Good news: Quinn looked less displeased.

  Bad news: Quinn looked more irritated.

  “Why are you putting them in our freezer?”

  “Because it’s the most humane way to kill a toad! I know, I know—I don’t feel great about murdering them either—but they’re really bad for the ecosystem. And they secrete poison, so they’re really like giant, ugly, serial-killing toads.”

  Good news: Quinn looked less irritated.

  Possibly more good news: Quinn looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  “Janie . . . ” Quinn shook his head, then closed his eyes. His long fingers pressed against his forehead, and I heard the beginnings of his rumbly laughter.

  I managed a half-smile and watched him warily. I hoped the laughter meant that he was no longer dismayed, horrified, displeased, or irritated. He took a step toward me but tripped slightly on one of the bagged toads.

  I reached forward and grabbed his forearms. “Watch out, there are giant, ugly, serial-killing toads on the floor.”

  Quinn charged forward, through the tripping toad landmines, and reached for me. I squeaked involuntarily as his hands gripped my thighs, wrapped my legs around his torso, and marched us back to the bedroom, biting, and licking, and kissing my shoulder and neck.

  “Wait! What about the vaginas?”

  “I got married so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone’s vagina but yours for the rest of my life.”

  He threw me on the bed, then gripped the two strings at my hips, pulling them and releasing my swimsuit bottoms.

  “B-but . . . ” I stuttered.

  Quinn peeled back the scrap of fabric, pushed my knees apart and up to my shoulders as he knelt between my thighs. He brought his mouth to my center.

  “Wait.” My words were breathless. “Don’t you want to help me pick a design?”

  “No.” He licked me with a flat, soft tongue; then he said, “Surprise me. I love your surprises.”

  I bucked, panting, watching the top of his head as he loved my undecorated and unadorned vagina with his mouth. “But—wait—we’ve done this position already.”

  “Shhh, Kitten. I’m hungry for you . . . ” Quinn gripped my hips and bottom with his large hands, staying any potential shift or modification to my position.

  One more pass of his tongue was all that was required for my unconditional surrender. With a deep sigh, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to him, just as I’d done countless times before.

  Paradise wasn’t an island in the Caribbean; it wasn’t a place. It was being with the person you love and working through the illustrated guide to the Kama Sutra, even if you repeat positions from time to time.

  I loved it.

  I loved him.

  And I planned to stay in this paradise forever.

  Extra Scene: Neanderthal and Human Seek Baby PART 1

  (CANON)

  Author’s Note: These scenes take place just before the action of Fiona and Greg’s book, Happily Ever Ninja, and were originally included in my May 2015 newsletter.

  * * *

  ~JANIE~

  I LOST IT in the bathroom.

  Sitting on the toilet, my mouth hanging open in wordless shock, my eyes wide in wordless wonder (and also shock), I stared at the dipstick of plastic clutched between my index finger and thumb.

  It displayed two pink lines. Two pink lines meant that human chorionic gonadotropin was present in my urine. And the presence of human chorionic gonadotropin meant that an embryo had implanted itself in my uterus.

  A person was in my uterus . . . right this minute.

  My hand holding the dipstick lowered to my bare thigh and I stared at the wall of the bathroom stall, thinking back to my last conversation with Quinn. Three days ago, before he left for his business trip to Los Angeles, we’d argued because he’d put the colander in the wrong cabinet.

  I didn’t understand why it was so difficult for him to put the colander in the correct cabinet. Every time he emptied the dishwasher, it was like a scavenger hunt for the week that followed. Meanwhile, I had spaghetti noodles going limp and squishy because he couldn’t put the blasted colander in the correct cabinet.

  Usually I’d shrug it off, or gently remind him of the colander’s proper placement. Not this time.

  After a frantic five-minute search for the colander, I lost my mind, dumped the ruined spaghetti in the trash, and started to cry. Quinn found me on the kitchen floor, sobbing. The ensuing conversation included a lot of screaming and accusations of purposeful pasta-sabotage (on my part) and a lot of stone-faced glares (on his part).

  He left for the airport forty-five minutes later, and we hadn’t spoken since. I’d been avoiding him. I sent his calls to voicemail and hadn’t responded to his text messages.

  I was still furious about his (seemingly willful) inability to put the colander back where it belonged. As well, I’d made a list of research articles on efficient kitchen design, organization, and synergy. Prior to right this moment, I’d planned to assemble a PowerPoint presentation for his return wherein I would prove that the best place for the colander was the cabinet to the right of the oven.

  But now . . .

  My attention flickered to the positive pregnancy test. For the first time in three days, I wondered if my initial volcanic (then lingering) anger had been a tad irrational. Perhaps it had been fueled by hormonal forces rather than my injured righteousness and strong feelings about intelligent kitchen-tool placement.

  Two pink lines. A person in my uterus, our person, one we made together. And Quinn off in Los Angeles with the last words between us being heated and harsh.

  The dipstick began to blur. I blinked, and fat, hot tears rolled down my cheeks. But before I gave myself over to what I suspected would be more irrational emoting, I decided to pull it together. I mentally searched my brain closet for my big girl pants and demanded that I form a plan of action.

  This wasn’t the end of the world. Quinn would return the day after tomorrow and I would explain about prenatal hormones. He would hopefully see that I had no choice but to throw slotted spoons at his head.

  Then we would move forward, together, all three of us.

  All three of us . . .

  “Thor.”

  * * *

  “So . . .?”

  Stephen was following me. In fact, he’d been waiting for me outside the women’s room when I emerged, his eyebrows arched over his gray eyes in meaningful suspension. He’d been the one to procure the pregnancy tests just after lunch, after I’d been unable to keep down a bowl of chicken soup and crackers, blaming the nausea on a persistent stomach flu for the sixth time in a week.

  In retrospect, mentally tallying the events and data points from the last two weeks, I must’ve been in a state of severe delusion and/or denial.

  Morning nausea?–Check.

  Irrational temper?–Check.

  Afternoon nausea?–Check.

  Late menstrual cycle?–Check.

  Evening nausea?–Check.

  Crying at fabric softener commercials?–Check.

  Midnight nausea?–Double check.

  When I didn’t answer him, Stephen fell into step next to me and wrapped his well-manicured fingers around my upper arm. He pulled me into his office, shut the door, faced me, and placed his hands on my shoulders.

  “Janie, this white man wants to know what’s going on inside your uterus.”

  I felt my face crumple as I shook my head.

  “You’re not?”

  I shook my head faster.

  “You are?”

  I expelled a sob, covering my face with my hands. I
was a mess. Why was I a mess? Why was I crying about this?

  “Are . . . ” I heard his hesitation, likely born out of confusion more than anything else, before he asked, “Tell it to me straight, am I the father?”

  My head whipped up at this ridiculous statement. “Stephen! How could you possibly be the father of this baby?”

  “I couldn’t, of course. But you’re standing there like a hot mess covered in Tabasco, saying nothing.” He tsked, giving me a sidelong glance as his hands fell away. He crossed his arms over his chest and sniffed. “So I take it you are with child, just as I suspected. But what I don’t understand is why you’re crying about it.”

  I shook my head again. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  “This wasn’t planned?”

  I sniffled, pulled a folded tissue from my pocket and wiped at my nose. “No—well, not exactly. I mean, we’ve talked about having children—more as a theoretical, future construct than a tangible here and now life choice. I mean, I talked to my doctor and she said it might take a while for us to get pregnant, for the ethinyl estradiol and synthetic progesterone to leave my system—up to a year or more—once I stopped taking birth control. I did some online research and, based on my age and years taking the pill, it seemed implausible that I would become pregnant so soon. So I stopped taking birth control last month, thinking we had another year . . . or so . . . ”

  “Does The Boss know?”

  “No. I didn’t tell him . . . that I decided to stop the pill.”

  “But he knows now.”

  “How could he know?”

  “I mean, he knows you’re pregnant.”

  “I just found out fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe you called him from the bathroom and that’s why it took you so long. People do that, use the restroom like an office. I once walked into a bathroom and overheard a man breaking up with his girlfriend. There I am, trying to pee in the urinal while attempting to ignore her sobs echoing all around me. I couldn’t do it. I’m a shy pee-er as it is, and why he thought it was a good idea to put her on speaker phone . . .”

  I was only half listening to Stephen’s rambling story—to be more precise, I was only 10 percent listening to Stephen’s rambling story—because fearful thoughts were erupting like a cinder cone volcano. I was . . . overwhelmed.

  Therefore, I interrupted his story as they spewed forth, my brain-panic having reached critical mass. “I don’t know how to mother. I’ve never mothered before. Is there a place where I can borrow children of different ages? Test them out? Maybe they could complete a post-care survey, evaluate my strengths and weaknesses so I’ll know where to focus my energy.”

  “You can’t rent children, Janie.”

  “Not rent. Borrow. I don’t mind being supervised. In fact, parental input would be welcome. They could observe, take notes.”

  “No . . . ” Now he was looking at me like I was crazy.

  I wasn’t crazy. This idea had merit. I was a genius!

  I couldn’t be the only woman who wanted to try motherhood and receive constructive feedback before taking the plunge. My mother didn’t teach me how to mother, I had no map, no experience or example from which to draw. Surely there were other scientifically minded females out there. We test drove cars, didn’t we? What was so strange about test driving children?

  Stephen’s expression softened. He took my hand and squeezed it. “Being a parent is one of those things where the less you know ahead of time the better. Kind of like transcontinental air travel, or a colonoscopy.”

  “That’s madness. Information is power.”

  “No. In this case information breeds only fear. There is no good that can come from educating yourself about having children. Everything you read will depress you—kind of like transcontinental air travel, or a colonoscopy.”

  I gave him a flat scowl, though I returned his hand squeeze. “I disagree. I think arming myself with the knowledge of what to expect will help me relax.”

  “There is no arming yourself about kids, there is only alarming yourself about kids.”

  I ignored him. “I just . . . I just need to start preparing.”

  “Don’t do it . . . ” He sing-songed the warning and shook his head.

  Ignoring him again, I pulled my hand free and took a deep breath, feeling more centered. I had a plan. I would research pregnancy and childrearing. I would make lists of different methods of childbirth and draft a pro-con list for each. I would evaluate peer-reviewed journals on child psychology, development, and potential childhood disorders.

  I would prepare for all contingencies.

  This was my plan.

  It was a good plan.

  I felt good about this plan.

  * * *

  ~QUINN~

  I FLEW BACK to Chicago early.

  Carlos stayed for the last day of negotiations, which were really just a cursory finalization of terms. I boarded the jet around 10:00 p.m. This put me at O’Hare well after midnight. I didn’t care. I’d had the deafening sound of Janie’s silence making the last several days unbearable.

  Prolonged silence over a colander.

  At first I took her at her word. She was pissed about the colander. Fine. Okay. Whatever. So I ordered fifty colanders, scheduled to arrive on Friday. We would have one for every closet and cabinet in the apartment. She’d never have to search for another spaghetti strainer ever again. Problem solved.

  But as the days passed and she continued to refuse my calls, I grew concerned.

  Her rage hadn’t manifested itself as the fact-spewing I was used to when she was trying to avoid dealing. No . . . she’d just completely lost it, accused me of hiding the colander on purpose, and wouldn’t calm down. And it had been building for a few days. All week she was losing her temper about stupid stuff.

  Yeah . . . This was different.

  Janie wasn’t an angry person. More so, she wasn’t an irrational person.

  Something was wrong.

  Since my late-night flight meant I wouldn’t get to the penthouse until early morning, I decided not to wake her up. My plan was to take a shower, remain up until she awoke, and keep her in bed with me until she told me what was really going on—and until I was forgiven. Maybe in writing.

  Working to this end, I slipped off my shoes as soon as I entered the penthouse and left my luggage by the front door. In the living room, I took off my jacket, tie, belt, and shirt; I left these on the couch, and dragged a hand across my face. I was tired. More than that, I was irritated.

  Irritated and tired, I silently walked to our bedroom.

  On the way I noticed the pale blue glow of a computer screen coming from her home office. This gave me pause. I waited and soon heard a mouse clicking. And a keyboard typing. I walked to the open office door. She was up, sitting cross-legged in sweatpants and a T-shirt, glasses on, hair in a bun, staring intently at her screen. I glanced at my watch. It was just after 3:00 a.m.

  “Janie?”

  She started, sucking in a breath as her hands flew to her chest, and blinked several times. I saw the moment she recognized me, and I saw the moment she realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “Where’s your shirt?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re home.”

  “Why are you up?”

  She blinked at me some more, and sagged in her seat, breathing out a loud huff before saying, “I didn’t expect you. I thought you would be back tomorrow night. And now you’re standing there, with no shirt on, and I’m not prepared to have this conversation with you and your abdominal muscles.”

  My eyes moved over her. Her words were concerning. I saw she was exhausted. I took a step into the office.

  “What conversation?”

  She took another deep breath, but this time she appeared to be gathering courage. “There are eight major categories of childhood cancer.”

  It took a full minute for me to de
code her words. They were not in the universe of words I’d expected.

  “What?”

  “And that’s assuming we make it past gestation. According to the March of Dimes, as many as 50 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, usually before a woman knows she’s pregnant or a menstrual cycle has been missed. Furthermore, approximately 15 percent of diagnosed pregnancies end in a miscarriage.”

  I stared at her silently because decrypting Janie-speak often took me several seconds. However, given the fact that I was operating on less than four hours of sleep over the last forty-eight hours, deciphering her meaning at present might take hours.

  “You should also know that autism runs in my family and prepare yourself for a child with neurocognitive diversity. I have two male cousins who were diagnosed around four years old. In retrospect, I realize we should have discussed our genetic predispositions prior to marriage. Based on my research, there may be a correlative link between wheat consumption, celiac, and—”

  “Janie . . . Are you telling me that you’re ready to try? You’re ready for us to have kids?” This was the only explanation that made sense.

  Her chin wobbled. I watched as she attempted to swallow. The pale glow from the computer screen highlighted her unshed tears and my chest tightened, an answer to the tangible—but mysterious—proof of her sadness.

  This was madness. I wasn’t going to be able to translate her meaning, not until I got some sleep. Unable and unwilling to spend another moment not touching her, I crossed to where she was perched and swiftly lifted her in my arms.

  “Oh, Quinn . . . ”—her voice was small—“I’m so afraid.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Janie. Be fearless.” I squeezed her, placed a kiss on her forehead, and turned for the hall leading to our bedroom. She heaved a watery sigh and buried her face in my neck. Her glasses were digging into my collarbone.

  I hurriedly made a list of tactical actions.

  First, I would remove her glasses and dispense with the bun.