Neanderthal Seeks Extra Yarns (Knitting in the City Book 8)

by Penny Reid

  It had to be tonight. I would tell him tonight. In fact, I would find him right now. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’d been waking up with sea-sick stomach every morning, and now I was so hot, my upper lip was sweating. That’s right, ladies. I had a sweat mustache. Sexy.

  Tossing the paper towel in the trash, I fanned myself with my clutch and checked once more for pit stains in the mirror. Finding none, I dashed from the bathroom and into the dimly lit hall.

  Can I just pause here and ask, why were hotel hallways leading to shared bathrooms so rapey? Where were the lights? Did we need mood lighting as a precursor to an effective bowel movement? Were our intestines adversely sensitive to well-lit areas? Or maybe they wanted to scare us shitless . . . see what I did there?

  Yet again, I digress.

  I spotted Alex almost as soon as I reentered the ballroom. This wasn’t a difficult task. My husband was tall. He was also insanely hot, which meant women would always be looking in his direction. All I had to do was look where the women were looking, and voila! I’d find the big guy who kept me well stocked in emotional support, Star Wars memorabilia, and orgasms.

  His gaze lifted from where he’d been looking, at some device he’d been holding, and they scanned the room, snagging and stopping upon finding me. A barely there smile, one of intense mischievousness, lifted one corner of his mouth and his posture relaxed, his eyes holding an invitation.

  I loved his invitations. And yet, I found I couldn’t cross to him as I’d intended. Unfortunately, I’d caught a whiff of prime rib from the buffet, and in the very next moment, my stomach protested the existence of prime rib. It protested so hard, I felt certain it would have started a twitter account to organize an official protest if given the opportunity.

  Oh God. I’m going to puke. Again.

  Covering my mouth with a shaking hand, I turned and ran back the way I came. That’s right, I ran back down the rapey hotel hallway, all the way into the ladies’ room, making it to the sink—and not the toilet like I’d planned—before heaving up the water I’d sipped moments prior.

  My hands braced against the counter, I barely discerned the sound of footsteps entering the bathroom as I coughed and sputtered, but I did hear Fiona’s voice as she said, “Sandra? Are you okay? Oh, honey!”

  “I couldn’t make it to the toilet,” I rasped after rinsing my mouth with water, gargling and spitting, my eyes now closed as I tried to control the urge to throw up again.

  I felt my friend press a hand against my forehead. “You’re not hot.”

  “Gee, thanks, Fiona. We can’t all be ageless ninja sprites.”

  She huffed a laugh, and the next thing I felt was a wet paper towel against my neck. “Did this come on suddenly? Do you think you have food poisoning?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’ve had a stomach bug for a few weeks. I’ll be fine.”

  She seemed to hesitate, and I felt her eyes inspecting me, before she asked, “A stomach bug for a few weeks and no fever? What are your other symptoms?” There was no denying her voice sounded funny.

  So I opened my eyes and peered at her. “Why does your voice sound funny?”

  Fiona was giving me an expectant look, like I should answer my own question, when I caught movement and the sight of a new person in the mirror.

  Alex.

  A pang went through me as our gazes connected and I saw obvious worry in his.

  “Sandra?” He walked up behind me, holding my eyes in the mirror and placing a gentle hand on my back. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I croaked and smiled weakly. Turning to face him, I rested my cheek against his chest and closed my eyes, sweat mustache be damned. “I think I just have a stomach bug.”

  Alex wrapped me in his arms and squeezed lightly. But then, a beat of suspicious sounding silence passed, followed by Alex’s body growing rigid as though the hell had been shocked right out of him. My eyes flew open and I caught the tail end of Fiona giving Alex a meaningful look.

  “Wait, what? What just happened?” Leaning away, I shifted my attention from Fiona’s now inscrutable expression to Alex. He was staring at my friend, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide. “What did you two just say while I had my eyes closed?”

  “You should go home. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” Fiona gave me a warm, knowing smile, though what she thought she knew was anyone’s guess. She then moved her gaze to Alex, arched an eyebrow over suddenly sharp eyes before turning to leave the bathroom.

  I was too tired, and sweaty, to question my friend, so I let her go. Plus, Alex’s arms were around me, which made me feel infinitely better. Her suggestion was a good one, just the thought of smelling prime rib again made me want to knit utter hats and take to the streets.

  “Let’s . . . let’s go home,” Alex said, smoothing his hand down my back. “We’ll, uh, stop by the store on the way and grab something for your stomach.”

  I shook my head. “No. No. I’m really fine, and I know why my stomach has been bothering me.”

  His body tightened, his strong arms flexing. “You do?”

  I sighed. “Yes. The thing is,” I pulled from his grip and rested my bottom on the countertop, placing my hands on either side of my hips because I was feeling acutely dizzy. “I got a call from CFS a few weeks ago, and I didn’t tell you because I wanted to be certain, or as certain as one can be. Sorry, I know I’m making a mess of this. I should have had T-shirts made.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed as he listened, clearly trying to follow or hop on my train of thought. “CFS? You mean Child and Family Services?”

  “Yes.” I sighed again and managed a weak smile. “Congratulations. You’re going to—officially—be a dad.”

  Alex stared at me, his entire body taut as though suspended in time, the haziness of his eyes telling me that he was completely confused. So I waited, following the advice of my horoscope and giving him the time and space needed to process. But as soon as he did process, I just wanted to lay down and go to sleep.

  “Sandra . . .” he started, stopped, shifted his weight, pulled his hand through his hair as though befuddled. “What are you talking about? Are we fostering again?”

  “No. Katie and Luke.”

  A spark of uncontrollable and unfettered hope ignited behind his eyes. “Katie and Luke? What about Katie and Luke?”

  “It’s a long story, but their biological mother can’t take care of them anymore. They’ve been removed, and CFS is considering—well, more than considering—us for a permanent placement, for adoption.”

  “Oh my God,” Alex said on a stunned breath, covering his mouth with his hands. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Serious. I got the first call three weeks ago and I’ve been in contact with CFS daily. On Thursday they told me we should get the apartment ready for a permanent placement.”

  “Oh my God,” he repeated, grinning. The waves of restless and happy energy radiating from him were infectious and buoyed my mood. Alex lunged for me, wrapping me in his arms much tighter and less carefully than before. “This is so great. So great.”

  Despite feeling like a sweaty mustached vomit robot, I smiled and managed a laugh. Wrapping my arms around him, but unable to return the intensity of his embrace, I swallowed. An acute and powerful wave of emotion tightened my throat and stung my eyes.

  Yeah. I’m definitely going to cry. That’s going to happen in three, two, one . . .

  My chin wobbled uncontrollably just before my face crumpled.

  “Sandra?”

  Giant tears streamed down my face as forceful sobs were pulled from my chest. Now I was clinging to Alex. Clinging like my life depending on keeping hold of him. A renewed undertow of emotion swirled, sucking me under as he leaned away, holding my shoulders.

  “Hey. Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong? This is great, right?”

  “I’m just so happy!” I wailed.

  Holy guacamole, I was a mess. So. Many. Tears.

  “Honey, these don’t look like hap
py tears.” Alex rubbed my shoulders, his eyes once again narrowed but this time with an eerie kind of laser-like focus. “Sandra, are you pregnant?”

  I sniffed, frowning at him. “What? No. No. I’m not—”

  “Fiona said you’ve had a stomach bug for weeks with no fever.” He was staring at me with suspicion. “Now you’re crying uncontrollably. You never cry unless we’re watching Steel Magnolias or the Star Wars where Han Solo dies.”

  “Those movies are the saddest.”

  “Fiona thinks you’re pregnant.”

  I stiffened, blinked. “What? How could she possibly communicate that—silently—in less than five seconds?”

  Alex’s eyes swept over me, lingering on my stomach. “Are you sure?”

  Reflexively, my palm moved to my belly. “I’m thirty-eight, Alex. Of course I’m not-I’m not pregnant . . . ?” I said, but the response lacked conviction and ended up sounding like a question, because . . . Holy shit!

  I took a deep breath, my eyes moving to the wall behind my husband.

  Am I pregnant?

  No.

  No, no, no.

  We’d been married for ten years. We’d tried to get pregnant for seven of those years. Both Alex and I had seen three specialists, all of whom said there was no reason we shouldn’t be able to get pregnant. But it had never happened. It would never happen. And I was honestly a-okay with it. I was.

  “I was.”

  “You were? You were pregnant?” Alex’s tone now reminded me of a cross-examination.

  I made a face at him. “No. I wasn’t. I’m not. I mean, I’ve never been pregnant. You know that.”

  “But are you now?”

  “No?” Right? What the heck?

  “No?” He grinned. “Or, you don’t know?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it wouldn’t make any sense.”

  His grin widened, but then he immediately rolled his lips between his teeth, schooling his expression, and dropping his gaze to the floor. We stayed like that for at least a full minute, tears drying on my face, my brain going around and around in circles while Alex studied the carpet.

  Abruptly, he stepped forward, scooped me into his arms, and turned for the door. “Come on. We’re going home.”

  “Okay.” I said, nodding. “Good plan.”

  “We’re getting some food you can eat first. What do you want?” He used his foot to kick open the bathroom door.

  “Not prime rib.”

  He thought for a moment and I rested my cheek against his shoulder, happy to be carried.

  “What about a baked potato?”

  “Hey. Yeah. That sounds good.” I nodded subtly. “What made you think of that?”

  “It’s what Janie would eat when she was pregnant. It was the only thing that she could keep down with Desmond during the first trimester.”

  I gulped, closing my eyes, something like panic making my heart flutter uncomfortably. Crap.

  Neither of us spoke for a time, but I felt his eyes on me, checking in every so often. The car was pulled around and he placed me gently in the front seat, smoothing his big hand over my hair and waiting until I met his eyes before closing the door.

  As soon as we were both bucked in and on the road, he added softly, “We’ll pick up a pregnancy test.”

  “Okay.” My voice was shaky. Crap.

  “Sandra.” Alex reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. “If you’re not pregnant, we’ll deal with it.”

  “It’s not that.” Now my voice was watery, and I spoke the truth through tears. “Alex, what if I am pregnant and CFS won’t let us have Katie and Luke because of the baby? What if we lose them and they—”

  “Shh,” he squeezed my hand, “Don’t do that. Don’t think that way. Katie and Luke belong with us, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens. One way or the other, we’re going to be their parents. Okay?”

  I nodded, wrapping my free arm around myself while Alex placed tender kisses on the back of my knuckles. We drove in silence. He parked the car outside of a 24-hour grocery store. Since he hated plastic bags, I wasn’t surprised when he came back ten minutes later, juggling six potatoes and three different kinds of pregnancy tests. In spite of my emotional and physical upheaval, the sight filled me with warm affection and I knew I’d never forget the moment.

  Dumping his burdens on the floor of the back seat, he slipped into the driver’s side door and started the car. But he didn’t go, not right away. He stared forward, into the night. I studied his reflection in the glass windshield, his exquisite eyes lost in thought.

  He turned to me. “Sandra.”

  “Alex.” I’d reclined my seat while he’d been in the store, so I had to peer up at him now.

  His gaze moved over my body, returning to mine as he said, “I’m so in love with you.”

  I had no choice, I smiled. “I know.”

  He grinned too. So many grins in one night for such a typically stoic fella.

  “Everything is going to change.”

  “Yes. It is.” I nodded.

  Alex’s stare grew hazy, giving me the impression he was recalling something from our past, something meaningful and important to him, and I was proven right when he said, “I once was broken, and all those pieces were yours.”

  I took his hand and kissed it, and then cradled it against my chest, wanting to show him how much I loved all of him.

  But he wasn’t finished. “However, now . . . now I’m solid. Now I’m whole.” His voice was firm, confident, clear, and I felt new tears start behind my eyes.

  “I know that, too.”

  “Everything is going to change,” he said, his tone soft as he leaned forward and threaded his fingers into my hair. Pushing the strands away from my neck, he brushed a loving kiss over my lips and whispered, “But nothing will ever change the fact that the whole of me will always belong to you.”

  Part Four

  Ashley and Drew

  Deleted Scene: Beauty and the Mustache Deleted Scene

  Author’s Note: This scene was in a super, super, SUPER early draft of Beauty and the Mustache. When everything was said and done, it just didn’t fit, so it had to go.

  “WHY DO I need a guy? I get everything I need from my friend that plugs into a wall.”

  This statement appeared to stun him. Good. He was an ass.

  “You mean a vibrator.”

  “Yes, captain obvious. I mean a vi-brate-tor.”

  “That’s not a replacement for a man.”

  “You’re right. It’s better.”

  Drew gritted his teeth, tapped them together, then slid them side to side as his eyes narrowed. I imagined he felt his glare was menacing, challenging. I was not impressed.

  “Prove it,” he said.

  “Prove what?”

  “Prove it’s better.”

  I snorted. Rolled my eyes. This was a dumb conversation. I felt a flare of aggravation and, once again, my neck itched. He was incredibly irritating.

  “I don’t need to prove anything. I’ve been with a man before. In comparison to my vibrator, he was underwhelming, to say the least.”

  “Oh my god, can we stop talking about this?”

  “Shut up, Billy,” Drew and I said in unison, and our eyes locked. Neither of us glanced at my older brother.

  “Maybe you need to try a different guy.” Drew crossed his arms over his chest and stepped forward, inserting himself within my sphere. Less than a foot separated our bodies. I’m sure he thought he was seductive. Much to my aggravation, he was seductive. But he was also a Nietzsche-loving redneck.

  I shook my head. “See, that’s the problem. Men are inconsistent and I’m not willing to hold orgasm auditions. I’d rather just go with what I know gets the job done.”

  He shook his head, slowly at first, then more adamantly. “That’s bull.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  He ignored my question
, his expression turning intent. “I want you to prove it.”

  Exasperated, I let my hands fall against my thighs with a loud smack. “Well, how am I supposed to prove it? Do you want to watch me? Will that satisfy your scientific curiosity?”

  “Yes.”

  I frowned, squinted my left eye, and peered at him. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you can forget about it.”

  “Then I’m right.”

  “No, you’re not right.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Coward.”

  “Why? Because I don’t want you to watch me flicking through my furry purse? You’re a weirdo freak. I’m not doing that. This is why I don’t date.”

  “I’ll play you for it.”

  “Play what? For what?”

  “I’ll play a game of darts for it. Whoever wins gets to watch the other person.”

  I swallowed, then lied. “I don’t want to watch you.”

  “Then pick something else, anything else.”

  “Fine. Okay. If you win—which you will not—then you can watch me do my business with my magic wand. If I win, then you have to clean the area up around the house, haul away all that garbage.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

  Before I knew quite what was happening, we shook on it.

  Deleted Scene: Beauty and the Mustache deleted scene

  Author’s Note: Similar to the last deleted scene, this one was written early on. Though it fits (more or less) with who Ashley and Drew ultimately turned out to be, it jumps the gun on the action and would have pushed the story forward too quickly. Plus, Drew—I think—wouldn’t have pushed Ashley (except in the most subtle of ways) while her mother was sick.

  “YOU THOUGHT I was a boy.”

  “What?”

  “I overheard you talking to Momma the other day. You thought I was a boy.”

  His eyes flickered between mine, but otherwise he was motionless. In actuality, he was entirely too motionless, like he’d been caught in crosshairs or was listening for signs of a predator.