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

by Penny Reid

  Ugh. What a dumbass.

  What the fuck was his deal? I sneered at the back of his head, making a mental note to tell Quinn about Davis’s clown behavior and suggesting he be assigned elsewhere.

  After a super awkward moment where Stan and I shared a You believe this guy? look, the door opened, revealing the redhead with short hair and green eyes I now knew was Dr. Fielding.

  “Kat!” She reached for her friend, pulling her into the apartment, and then doing a double take as her eyes moved over the three of us, adding, “And boys?”

  This one would be a real handful.

  “They’re here for Janie,” Kat said and then disappeared into the apartment. I bumped Davis out of the way since he was still staring after Kat like a weirdo, and reached a hand out to Dr. Fielding.

  “Hi. Howya doing? I’m Dan, this is Stan”—I tossed a thumb over my shoulder—“And this is Davis. Quinn sent us to take a look at the perimeter. You won’t even know we’re here.”

  “Dan and Stan rhyme.” She grinned at me, then at Stan. “So you two can come in. But Davis”—she sent him an apologetic smile—“you’ll need to stay out here unless you have someone named Mavis in your pocket.”

  I laughed at the woman’s strangeness and I heard Stan choke on a surprised laugh. Meanwhile, Davis didn’t seem to know what to make of her and just stared blankly.

  “Okay, sounds good.” I gave her a nod, my eyes straying to the hall and room behind her. “We’ll be in soon, just need to finish with a few details out here.”

  “You do that, Dan the Security Man.”

  Dr. Fielding’s tone drew my attention. The woman’s green eyes seemed to sparkle as they moved over me—down and then up—and she gave me a saucy wink just before closing the door.

  Dan the Security Man? I stared at the pale-yellow door. This one was going to be trouble. I’d bet my Pats jersey on it.

  “She’s going to let me in, right?” Davis asked, sounding confused. “She was joking, right?”

  I ignored his questions, turning to face him and crossing my arms. “So . . . Kat. Who is she?”

  Davis glanced back to the door. “She’s real fucking pretty.”

  “I didn’t ask if she was pretty, dumbfuck, I asked who she was.”

  “You think she’s pretty?” Stan asked Davis.

  But before he could answer, I cut in. “What kind of question is that? You saw her, didn’t you? You were standing right here.”

  Stan shrugged. “Just not my type, I guess. Now Ms. Morris, there is a woman I wouldn’t mind—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence.” I sent Stan a warning look. Not a good idea to talk about Quinn’s special lady friend that way.

  “She is Kat Tanner.” Davis pointed to the apartment door and lifted his trusty tablet. “That’s what I was going to show you. She used to work with Ms. Morris.”

  “What? Where? At the Fairbanks building?” I glanced between the guys.

  “Yeah. She’s a secretary or something at the architect place where Ms. Morris worked. But that’s not all.” Davis handed me the tablet again and I took it, scrolling more carefully through her profile.

  Name: Kat Tanner, aka Kathleen Tyson.

  “Kathleen Tyson.” I looked to Stan. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  Stan checked his watch. “I donno.”

  “Huh . . .” I returned my attention to the info sheet, scanning the rest of the details.

  Age: Twenty-two

  Family: Father – Zachariah Tyson; Mother – Rebekah Caravel-Tyson (maiden name Caravel); Uncle –Haim Tyson (deceased); Aunt – Maribel Tyson (maiden name Smythe) (deceased); Cousin – Caleb Tyson

  Employer: Foster Architects

  Arrests: None

  It went on to list her last known three addresses and I immediately recognized the third. “Wait a sec. Isn’t this one a women’s shelter?”

  Davis, apparently out of patience, snatched back the tablet. “You don’t recognize the name?”

  I shrugged, eyeing him. He seemed agitated.

  “Like I said, seems familiar. Why? Who is she?”

  He huffed an impatient laugh. “That’s Kathleen Tyson. Kathleen Caravel Tyson.” Davis blinked at me, then at Stan, then at me again, gesturing to the closed door, rushing to say, “She’s the heiress to Caravel Pharmaceuticals.”

  Oh.

  “Oh.” I shrugged again, not really surprised she came from old money. I’d guessed as much earlier. “So what?”

  “So what?” Davis looked like he was going to jump out of his skin. “So what?”

  “Yeah. So what? So she has money.” Stan sounded bored. “I got a cousin who won the power ball in ‘06. He still has to take a dump once a day.”

  “Not just money, Stan.” Davis made an odd squawking sound, a combination of a choke and a short shriek, his eyes bugging out of his head as he leaned close—like whatever he was about to say was a game changer—and whispered, “That woman is worth thirteen billion dollars.”

  I grimaced.

  Thirteen billion dollars?

  Yeesh. That sucked. And here I was thinking I stood a chance. Old money was one thing, but being a billionaire heiress was another.

  “That would buy a lot of dogs,” Stan said distractedly after a long moment.

  I scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Davis laughed; it sounded a little hysterical. “That would buy a lot of everything.”

  “No. You don’t get what I’m saying. What I mean is, if she’s worth thirteen billion dollars, and she loves dogs . . .” Stan glanced between the two of us, as though to make sure we were both listening, “Then why doesn’t she have a dog?”

  Scene Two

  Fuck a Duck. . . in Vegas

  ** DAN **

  SOME MONTHS LATER

  KAT FLATTENED HER palm against my chest, pushing me against the wall, and then slid her fingers south.

  I swear, her hands had hands. Each time I caught a wrist, no lie, three more sprung out of nowhere. In my hair, unbuttoning my shirt, grabbing my ass, reaching for my belt. The woman had the agility of an octopus.

  Think of the nuns, Daniel. Think of Sister Mary Roseanne and her nose moles. All three of them.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  “I can’t.” I caught her wrist again. Yet I hesitated a split second too long. Her mouth covered mine and she moaned. I also moaned. She tasted great. So fucking great. And soft. And hot. And then I was cupping her jaw, tilting her head back, and kissing the hell out of her.

  But then I remembered: alcohol, absinthe, hash.

  Off limits. No touchy. Or else you’re a douche-baggy.

  I tore my mouth from hers and someone whimpered. It might have been me.

  I know, I know. I’m a terrible bastard. I’m going straight to hell. Pray for my soul. But not yet! Don’t pray for me quite yet. Just give me another ten minutes . . .

  She nuzzled my neck. “You want me, I know you do.”

  I could only groan in response. I did want her. I’d wanted her since the first time I saw her. But I wasn’t a creep.

  “If you want me, take me,” Kat pleaded, doing this lithe, rocking thing with her body against my leg and hip like a pole dancer. I set my jaw.

  The nuns. Think of the nuns! Sister Francesca, Sister Theresa, Sister Madeline. They’re all dead and they’re all watching you. And they can see your hard-on. So let’s make it a hard-off, okay buddy?

  “Kat, honey, you need to stop. Think. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to do this.”

  She lifted her head and BAM, the ground shifted. I felt it in my chest, painful and sharp. All sobering thoughts of my parochial childhood fled, left me bare to her beauty. Raw to it.

  I sucked in a breath. J. H. Christ, she was stunning. Her lips were red and swollen. Her eyes were wide beneath absurdly thick, dark lashes. Whiskey eyes regarded me, heavy with lust. And trust. And too much alcohol.

  Her pupils were still dilated.

 
“I don’t want to think,” she whispered, “I just want you inside me.” Her voice was velvet. Dark, sinful velvet. It made me think how my hands would look on her naked body. And that made me think of her naked body. And that made me think of . . .

  Fuck a duck. God hated me.

  I grabbed her wrists with both hands and tightened my grip. I’d been gentle up to now, but shit was getting real, and shit needed to stop.

  “Stop,” I growled, louder than I’d intended, and harsher. Much harsher. But so it goes when all your blood is below the belt and desperation to feel anything other than desire makes you crazy.

  She flinched, lifting her face from my neck, her movements finally ceasing. I was breathing heavy. Like I’d run ten miles with Quinn, and that asshole was fast.

  Kat blinked at me. She was trying to bring me into focus. Her mouth opened and closed a few times. I lost myself in her. Again. It was too damn easy to swim in her eyes.

  The moment went on and on. Her staring. Me breathing, lost to her. My hold grew lax.

  And then she stiffened, wincing, and wrenched her wrists away. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and took a step back, away from me. She looked horrified.

  Even though I’d spent the last fifteen minutes wishing (and not wishing) I was anywhere else, the terror in her eyes made me act without thinking.

  I took a step forward. “Kat—”

  “Oh my God.”

  I reached for her.

  “Don’t!” She held up one hand and covered her mouth tightly with the other.

  It was a terrible moment. I didn’t move. Her face had gone white. My heart stuttered as I assessed the situation. Was she pissed? With me? Embarrassed? I knew she was shy, but . . . She better fucking talk to me after this.

  But then she tilted to one side, tried to right herself, and had to fumble for the wall to stay on her feet. Real fear gripped me. She was sick. She wasn’t okay.

  I need her to be okay.

  “What? What’s wrong? What can I—?”

  Then the freaking lightbulb went off. She was about to puke.

  No time to think, I grabbed her, scooping her up in my arms as gently as possible, given the fact she was seconds away from foaming all over the carpet. And, you know, these clothes I was wearing.

  I ran to the bathroom. I placed her on the floor in front of the toilet. Her hands gripped the bowl. I lifted her hair. She trembled. She threw up.

  I turned my face away, still gripping her hair, and gathered a deep breath. Holding it, I turned back to ensure she was safe.

  The sound of her heavy breathing and bracing gags filled the bathroom. Watching was difficult, and not just because witnessing another person vomit is on the bottom of my list of pastimes, right next to hearing news about Justin Bieber, and listening to Justin Bieber music, and thinking about Justin Bieber.

  That guy seems like a giant bag of dicks.

  Watching Kat throw up wasn’t gross. I mean, it was gross, but it was also difficult. It reminded me of times that were not so good, when I’d been a kid and held my mother’s hair in a similar way while she got sick.

  But that was years ago.

  Here and now, Kat was in pain. I was helpless. I hated being helpless. I wasn’t used to it, not anymore.

  So I whispered stuff, like, “You’re okay” and “I’ve got you.” All the while rubbing soft circles on her back.

  Apparently, even while she emptied her stomach, I wanted to touch her.

  I’d never had the opportunity to touch her before. We’d only just met a few months ago, while I was keeping an eye on Quinn’s piece of ass at the time, girlfriend a week later, and fiancée now—Janie Morris.

  Kat had been shy; not just with me but with everyone. Chief among the things this job has taught me is that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. So I did. I’d watched her. I’d stand in the hallway of Janie and Elizabeth’s apartment, or in the kitchen of Sandra’s place, or sit on the bench in Marie’s small studio. I’d watched and I’d listened and I’d told myself she was completely out of my league.

  She was a fucking billionaire heiress, for Christ’s sake. And who was I? Dan the Security Man. It would never work. Out of my league? Try out of my universe.

  But still.

  I watched.

  I liked to give Quinn shit about it, but watching the girls had never been a hardship. Despite me knowing she was beyond my reach, it had turned into time spent troubleshooting how to ask Kat out without scaring her off.

  Reconnaissance.

  At present I, after what felt like forever, was pretty sure Kat was finished being sick. She’d rested her forehead on her forearm, which was resting on the toilet bowl. And she wasn’t gagging anymore. I gently pushed her hair to one side, trying to see her profile.

  “Hey, I’m going to get you water. Okay?”

  “Uhhhh. . .” she said in response, which I recognized was pre-hangover speak for “yes.”

  I squeezed her shoulder, then stood, crossed to the sink and filled a glass from the faucet.

  A mumbled “I hate this” met my ears.

  “Excuse me?”

  She shook her head; the movement was sloppy. “I hate this. I hate being drunk. I hate this.”

  I smiled at her—a small smile, because she didn’t need a dumbass toothy grin right now—and assessed her prostrate form. “I’ve never met a person who likes it.”

  “I promised myself I would never do it again.”

  “What’s that?” I shut off the faucet.

  “Praying to the porcelain gods.”

  My eyes flickered over her. “You used to do this a lot?”

  She moaned rather than responding. It was a pitiful sound and made me move next to her, pulling her backward and into my arms. Kat moaned again. I pressed the water glass into her hands, then brushed her hair back, gathering it in my palm. She had nice hair, long and thick and fluffy looking. It was the color of dark chocolate.

  Her hair had wilted since our dash into the bathroom. I didn’t care, I still liked it. And, to me, she was still beautiful.

  Kat sipped the water, her eyes closed, and I held her. Her body was limp, pliant with exhaustion. I studied her profile. She was still pale, which was fine. People are pale after they throw up. Pale and tired.

  “Mmmm. . .” A pleased sound rumbled from her chest. If I hadn’t been holding her I wouldn’t have heard it.

  “The water helped?”

  She shook her head weakly. “No. What you’re doing.”

  I frowned. What am I doing?

  I looked at my hands. One was resting on her hip, the other was in her hair. I’d been brushing her hair with my fingers without realizing it, caressing her cheeks and temples.

  “Don’t stop. Feels good.” Her words were slurred—but sleepy slurred, not drunk slurred—and she pressed back against my arm and chest where I cradled her.

  “Okay,” I said, reinitiating the movement. I drew the strands away from her neck, barely resisting the urge to press a kiss against the beauty mark under her ear.

  Because only freaks make the moves on a drunk woman.

  You hear that, girls? Only. Freaks.

  “Mmmm,” she rumbled again, which made me laugh.

  I was laughing for two reasons: first, oddly enough, I was having a good time; and second, I was an idiot. I should have asked her out before now.

  Kat didn’t talk much during the knitting group meetups, but her velvet voice had me hoping she would. Plus, she was sweet. Kind. Always looking out for others. She was patient with her friends, wise in unexpected ways, and loyal.

  So goddamn loyal.

  I know, I know, women hate it when they’re called loyal, it irks them. Like I’m inferring she’s a dog.

  But people need to understand, until recently, loyalty has been the major commodity in my life. So loyalty, being able to trust that a person isn’t a devious sneak, is a big fucking turn on.

  But her shyness—and inheritance—made things tric
ky. So I waited. I had a plan: ask her to dance at Quinn’s wedding. Dance with her. Kiss the hell out of her. Ask her out while she was breathless and turned on.

  Bing-bang-boom, coupledom. Who cares if she’s worth billions? Billionaires need to get laid, right? They like movies, right? Who doesn’t like movies?

  I bit my bottom lip, pulling it into my mouth, and tasted her from earlier. I’d already kissed the hell out of her, just a few moments ago. I wondered if she’d remember tomorrow, or if she remembered now . . .

  “Hey, Kat?” I craned my neck to see her expression better and stopped short.

  She was asleep. She’d fallen asleep in my arms.

  On the bathroom floor. After puking her guts out. And you’re the guy who held her hair, like a friend-zoned shithead.

  Fuck a duck.

  Scene Three

  Søren Kierkegaard Is Wise. . . in Vegas.

  ** KAT **

  THE NEXT MORNING

  OKAYOKAYOKAYOKAY . . . DON’T PANIC!

  Oh God!

  It was on repeat between my ears, over and over in my brain, the only words that would form.

  Oh God!

  “Kat?” Dan was staring at me, his mouth parted slightly with surprise. His eyebrows were hovering above dark brown eyes, presently wide and confused.

  I flinched but could not move because my entire body was so engrossed with the Oh God chant, I was paralyzed by it.

  “Kat,” he tried again. I felt the brush of his fingers on the back of my hand where I touched him. “What are you doing?”

  I gasped, yanked my hand back, rolled away, and fell to the floor.

  “Ow!”

  Oh God.

  I heard the sheets rustle and I stiffened, closing my eyes and bracing for . . . whatever came next.

  Please. Please let him leave. Pleaseohpleaseohplease.

  If he didn’t leave then I would likely have to make eye contact. I wasn’t ready for eye contact with Dan the Security Man. I might never be ready for eye contact with him ever again. I might live my life with the darkest of sunglasses at the ready, prepared to shield my eyes from his for the rest of my life.