Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  So what? You cuddled. Once. He’s off limits.

  And, lest you forget, Matthew Simmons is allergic to committed relationships with anything other than his job. And you’re not his type. And, and, and . . .

  I forcefully shook myself from my musings. I didn’t want to register second place to a person’s career. Matt’s heart belonged to his work and, even if he did want to date me—which he didn’t—I would never ask him to put me first.

  Because I shouldn’t have to. I wanted to be with someone who wanted to put us first.

  This thought put me back on solid footing.

  The side of his mouth hitched. “I hypothesize she’s still angry with me about the deception study, about you.”

  My mouth fell open and I scrunched my face at Sandra. “You don’t need to be mad at Matt, Sandra. I’m completely over that.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be.” The set of her jaw was stubborn. “Maybe you forgive and forget too easily.”

  “Listen to Sandra.” Alex turned from us and walked to the kitchen. “Holding grudges has done wonders for me over the years. Matt, do you want anything? Ladies, anything? Beer?”

  “Beer sounds great. Thanks.” Matt trailed after Alex toward the kitchen, but stayed on the living room side at the bar.

  “No beer for us. We have wine,” Sandra called to her husband.

  “The study was approved by an ethics committee. It’s not like it was personal. He didn’t single me out for his research. I was just one of many that fit a similar profile.” I’d lowered my voice so only she could hear.

  “That’s exactly my point.” My friend thrust her needle into the air.

  “What is your point? What exactly did he do that was so wrong?”

  “I said you were just like everyone else,” Matt supplied, accepting the beer Alex handed to him over the bar. “She chewed me out about it the last time I was here.”

  “Sandra,” I whispered harshly, feeling embarrassed. Especially since his comment about me being just like everyone else all those weeks ago still smarted.

  But I didn’t want anyone else to actually know that.

  “Don’t you Sandra me. Nobody calls Marie typical. Nobody. My God, look at you! You’re like the sexiest woman on the planet. You’re Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly and that delightful Kristen Bell from Frozen, except with better hair. And you’re also unfairly smart. And an excellent human. And an exceptional cook.”

  I couldn’t maintain my glower. She was my friend, so of course she was over-exaggerating the existence and the extent of my positive attributes, but she also made me feel awesome.

  “Again, I agree with Sandra on this.” Alex strolled out of the kitchen and lifted his beer bottle toward me. “That’s like calling Minsky’s Stochastic Neural Analogy typical.”

  “Nice reinforcement learning reference.” Matt held out his beer to Alex.

  “Thanks.” Alex clinked his beer with Matt’s.

  They both drank.

  Meanwhile, I was blushing because I was stewing in mortification.

  Why does this bother me so much?

  I left a short time later, wanting to get to the hospital around dinnertime just in case Quinn and Janie were in the mood for something not offered by the cafeteria. Saying my goodbyes to Sandra and Alex went as typical: hugs and cheek kisses with promises to see each other during the week.

  When it came time to say goodbye to Matt, he offered me a handshake and a smile that definitely wasn’t reflected in his eyes. I kept replaying the handshake in my head all the way down to the lobby, because the detached quality to his gaze irked me.

  Maybe he was still irritated or sore about the friend-zoning conversation.

  Or maybe he wasn’t.

  Maybe he just didn’t like me much.

  I honestly didn’t know. He was so difficult to read.

  As I exited the building, I decided to push thoughts of the professor from my mind. Not everyone was going to want to be friends with me, and that was fine. I’d made an effort and had been shot down.

  Moving on.

  My phone was in the bottom of my purse, so I paused just outside of the doors to send off a text to Quinn, asking if I could pick anything up on my way. I was just tucking it back into its place when Matt came running out of the building.

  I watched as he jogged past, stopped, then turned and craned his neck from side to side as though searching for something. He’d turned completely around when he spotted me, taking a surprised step back.

  “Oh. Hey.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There you are.”

  “Hey.” I pulled my purse strap more completely on my shoulder and met him halfway. “What’s wrong? Did I forget something?”

  “No.” He hesitated, licking his lips and biting on the bottom one before continuing. “I’m on my way out. We might as well walk together.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.” I examined him. His expression still struck me as cautiously dispassionate, I thought, as I picked the path that would take me to the El station. “Are you headed this way?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to stop by the hospital. You know Janie? The tall redhead from our knitting group? She’s having some problems with her pregnancy.”

  He fell into step next to me. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes. She’s fine now.”

  “You’re going to check on her?”

  “Yes and no. I’m hoping she’ll be asleep when I get there. I’m mostly going to check on her husband.”

  “Her husband? You mean that big guy who stares at people and doesn’t talk?”

  I’d forgotten that Matt had met Quinn when I’d made pizza and watched Jack and Grace. It seemed so long ago.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Why are you checking on him?”

  “Because he’ll talk to me. He’ll also talk to Fiona, but she’s got enough to deal with.”

  Matt gave me a weird look. “Talk to you about what?”

  “How he’s doing, how he’s coping, if he needs anything, if I can help.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because, Matt, I care about him. He’s my friend. When my friends need me—and even when they don’t—I’m there for them.”

  I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his eyes on me.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat. “You’re a good person.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your friends are lucky. You’re one of those people no one deserves to know. You’re too good.” He looked and sounded so earnest, such that the effect his words had on my heart caught me off guard.

  Matt turned away, and I found I was unable to drop my eyes. He looked . . . unhappy.

  “Hey,” I took a cautious step forward, “you know, we’re friends, too. Right?”

  Exhaling a short breath through his nose, he slid his teeth to the side before he nodded. “Yes. I know.”

  Studying him, I decided that if we were actually going to be friends, then we needed the clear the air.

  Lifting my chin, I asked, “Can we talk about the friend-zoning comment?”

  He sighed. Loudly. And began walking with a quickened pace. “No need.”

  “Well, I need. And you’re going to listen. So here goes.” I gathered a deep breath, preparing to launch into my monologue on why he shouldn’t have acted so strangely about being friend-zoned.

  Before I could, he said, “That was a friend-zone maneuver. I know a friend-zone maneuver when I see one.”

  “Yes. It was. But not for the reason you seem to think. I wasn’t trying to put you in a box or assign a label.”

  Matt made a slight scoffing sound.

  “I was making overtures to be your friend, not to be just your friend.”

  His eyes darted to mine, then away. I imagined his mind working as though he were a computer and he sought to compile this new information. “Meaning?”

  “I like you.”

  That made him stop, which made m
e stop and walk backward, because he was advancing on me, his gaze arresting mine. “You like me?”

  “Yes.” I endeavored to answer simply, but the look in his eyes made my answer less than simple. Forced to place my hand on his chest to cease his forward progress, I did my best to ignore how his attention was now singularly focused on my mouth. “Yes, I like you. You’re funny. Odd. Interesting. But even if I was attracted to you, nothing would—”

  “So you’re not attracted to me.” Something shifted behind his stare, giving me the impression that everything he’d wondered about me was now clear.

  Jeez, he was pushy.

  “Just listen. Regardless of attraction or lack of attraction, nothing can or will happen between us.”

  “And why is that?” He framed the question as though my words would confirm some theory he already held.

  “Because, you said yourself that you’ve read that book, seen that movie, and you don’t want to see it again.”

  “Meaning?” He blinked, his expression betraying confusion.

  “You’re not interested in something long-term, right? A committed relationship. Partnership. And,” I shrugged, beating back the butterflies in my stomach with a spiked club, “that’s what I’m interested in. That’s all I want.”

  Matt lifted his chin and rocked back on his heels, effectively disconnecting my hand from his chest. His gaze met and held mine. “I see.”

  He stared at me, a thoughtful expression on his features. I stared at him, an open expression on mine.

  “Correct.” His thoughtful expression persisted; I sensed that my response both surprised and confused him. “Friends it is.”

  “Good.” I nodded, forcing a smile. It felt unnatural, and I had to really think about how wide I should make it because I was distracted by a sinking sensation in my stomach. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  I wasn’t unhappy about his acquiescence. Yet I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t disappointed. Disappointed in the situation, disappointed in Matt, and disappointed in the entire male portion of the human race.

  But the situation was no more Matt’s fault than mine. He’d been honest about his lack of interest in a lasting relationship. I’d been honest about my lack of interest in a truncated relationship.

  See? Honesty. It gets the job done.

  And sometimes situations are just shitty.

  Moving on . . .

  Before I could stop myself, I asked, “So, why didn’t you return my text?” and then I winced, because that sounded needy.

  His eyes widened for a brief moment, and then he closed them and rubbed his forehead. “I apologize. Things have been busy at work and I—”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I waved him off, because his excuses hurt my feelings for some reason. I didn’t know why I suddenly felt so raw, exposed.

  I really needed to rethink this emotional bravery thing.

  “No. Not fine.” He caught my elbow, pulled me to a stop, then shoved his hands back in his pockets. “I promise I’ll return your text next time. I promise.” Again, he looked and sounded so earnest, my feelings caught in my throat.

  I couldn’t speak. Sincerity from Matt Simmons was apparently my kryptonite.

  Therefore, I nodded, giving him a tight smile.

  “Hey, so,” he shifted on his feet, gathering a breath, “what’s going on with you? Did you finish your story?”

  “Which one?” I began walking again, slowly at first so we could walk together. “I’m always writing and researching several.”

  “The cuddling story.”

  “Oh, yeah. I have a draft of that section. But it’s part of a larger series about replacing romantic relationships with either paid services or technology. Like robots.”

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, turning an incredulous, slow-spreading grin on me. “Look at you, sneaky Marie.”

  “Yep.”

  “My research is part of this series?”

  “Yes. We’ll use it for the technology issue.”

  “I can already tell you which approach is superior.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Robots. Paying other people to care about you doesn’t work.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He shrugged, scratching his chin, not answering, instead asking, “What other paid services are you going to check out?”

  “Um, let’s see. Have you heard of dry humping professionals?”

  He gasped, his hand clutching his chest. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Nope.”

  Matt blinked, his eyes moving all over the place, like he was trying to process too many thoughts. “Well, what else? Are you driving down to Nevada?”

  “No. No prostitutes. But I am planning to hire a male escort to take me to my ex’s engagement party.” If I ever can ever bring myself to actually RSVP or answer one of David’s calls.

  He stopped me again with a hand on my elbow. This time he didn’t let go. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.” I grinned as I assured him of my veracity. “And I made an appointment at an OM studio.”

  “What’s an OM studio?” He looked petrified.

  “Orgasm Meditation.”

  “Just stop. Stop talking. No more of this nonsense.” He shook his head, his delivery of these words reminding me of Ryan Reynolds in any of his comedic roles.

  The dramatics launched me into a fit of giggles, which felt good. The laughter eased some of the earlier sting.

  “Oh my God. Marie.” He didn’t let go of my arm. Rather, he pulled me into a hug, clutching me tightly, and whispering, “I’m so scared for you,” into my ear while he pet my hair, which only made me laugh harder. Truly, he was hilarious.

  “You’re funnier than I remember.” I wrapped my arms around his waist, noting that he felt better than I remembered, too.

  “And you’re crazier than I remember. I should lock you up, save you from yourself.”

  “Hey,” I halfheartedly pushed at him, “I thought you said I was brave?”

  “You are brave.” His strong arms squeezed me as he loud-whispered, “But you’re also craze-zeeee.”

  13

  Synthetic DNA (aka DNA Foundation)

  Artificial DNA made using commercially available oligonucleotide synthesis machines for storage and DNA sequencing machines for retrieval. This type of storage system is more compact than current magnetic tape or hard drive storage systems due to the data density of the DNA. Many believe it’s the answer to the growing problem of data storage needs. One gram of synthetic DNA has been demonstrated to hold up to 215 petabytes of information (1 petabyte = 1,000,000 gigabytes)

  Source: New York Genome Center, New York, NY

  After our walk and friend-embrace in Grant Park, I’d given Matt a large berth, deciding it was best for him to make the next move. I would do anything for my friends, other than force my friendship upon them.

  He’d texted me three days later.

  Matt: Are you dead? Or do you want lunch?

  His timing was perfect. I’d been working from home, baking bread for the week, and storyboarding the first draft of my article on his research. While arranging my notes, I’d discovered a few loose ends.

  Marie: I’ll bring lunch, are you allergic to anything?

  Matt: Cats, sadly. And teenagers, happily.

  Marie: How about shellfish?

  Matt: I LOVE SHELLFISH

  Grabbing the two jars of crab bisque I had in the freezer, disposable/microwavable bowls, and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, I met him at his office. We ate while I asked my questions. When we were finished, he suggested I stay and finish storyboarding, just in case I needed additional clarification.

  “Will you be able to work with me here?” I asked, scrutinizing his office.

  “No problem. Do you need a table?” He turned a contemplative frown to his desk and workbench, both of which were still covered with papers and various machinery debri
s. As he looked around his office, he pushed his fingers into his hair, sending it into disarray and drawing my attention to the muscles of his bicep.

  The man had to work out all the time. He had to.

  Unbidden, my attention moved over the rest of him. He was in his usual jeans, Converse, nerdy T-shirt attire, but the pants looked new. They were dark blue, and as a heterosexual woman with a pulse, I appreciated how they rested on his narrow hips, fit the curve of his backside and muscled thighs.

  “I actually work best on the floor,” I offered, feeling oddly hot.

  And, bonus, the floor was free of clutter. And free of Matt.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged, scratching his neck. “Do you mind if I play music?”

  “Fine by me.”

  We both assumed our positions, him at his desk in front of his wall of monitors, me kneeling on the floor, spreading my papers out in story order. “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” by The White Stripes played over his speakers and I smiled to myself, but said nothing.

  I loved The White Stripes. And I loved Jack White as a solo artist. Matt couldn’t have picked better music as the soundtrack for the afternoon.

  I sensed Matt glance at me a few times over his shoulder, but I studiously paid him no attention, pleased that I was already engrossed in my work instead of gawking at his physique and bobbing my head lightly to the music.

  For a time, we worked, saying nothing. Part of the time I moved the papers around on the floor, part of the time I wrote sections on my laptop. I glanced at my computer’s clock just as the song switched from “Seven Nation Army” to “I Fell In Love With A Girl” and was surprised to find forty-five minutes had passed.

  Pausing my work, I closed the laptop and placed it next to me. I stretched, arching my back and leaning from side to side.

  Matt spun suddenly in his office chair to face me, unsmiling, his arms crossed.

  “I have a serious question for you,” he said, sounding serious.

  “Shoot.” I glanced at him briefly, turning my neck from one side to the other.

  “If a woman wears a low-cut blouse—”