Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  Neanderthal Marries Human

  A smarter romance

  By Penny Reid

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.

  Copyright © 2014 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  June 14, 2014

  eBook Edition

  ISBN-978-0-9892810-6-5

  Dedication

  Do you love Janie and Quinn?

  If so, this book is dedicated to you.

  *fist bump*

  *high five*

  *bottom pat*

  … too far?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part 1: Setting the Trap

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  Part 2: The Engagement

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  Part 3: Planning the Wedding

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  Part 4: Meeting the Family

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  Part 5: Vegas, baby. Vegas.

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  Part 6: The Wedding

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  What happens in Vegas…the missing scene

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Sneak Peek: Beauty and the Mustache, by Penny Reid

  Sneak Peek: Missionary Position, by Daisy Prescott

  Sneak Peak: Scoring Wilder, by R.S. Grey

  Part 1: Setting the Trap

  CHAPTER 1

  *Janie*

  “You have Black Rod and Silver Stick?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Black Rod, what is his role again?”

  “He summons the House of Commons—Parliament, you know—to the House of Lords.”

  “But they shut the door in his face? The Commons?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he has to knock again?”

  “Yes.”

  I wrinkled my nose at this news. Ceremony, pomp, and circumstance were as baffling in their allure as Kim Kardashian’s fame. Neither made sense.

  When Quinn had announced last week that we were traveling to London, one of my first actions was to look up a knitting group in the city. I found Stitch London, a group open to all who lived in the area or passed through it.

  They rotated their meeting location all over the city and assembled several times a week; sometimes meeting at a wine bar in Covent Garden, sometimes knitting in a pub, and sometimes—like this fine Thursday evening—congregating during the dinner hour at a restaurant in Spitalfields Market, just east of the City of London.

  Super double bonus: they didn’t care that I wasn’t knitting.

  My eyes lowered to the yellow scarf in Bridgett’s hands—Bridgett was a fast knitter—then to the cavernous expanse of Spitalfields Market behind her. Vendors that usually crowded the market had left about an hour ago, leaving an echoing and lonely void behind.

  I frowned, fascinated. “But, then they open the door, right?—to let Black Rod in?”

  “Yes,” Bridget responded.

  “And they can’t actually keep him out, can they?”

  She nodded, the skin around her eyes crinkled. Judging by the lines surrounding her eyes and mouth, her face appeared to be in its natural state while smiling.

  “Yes. Quite. Commons has no authority to bar the man from their chamber. Merely, they can question his presence. In closing the doors, they are flexing their ceremonial muscle. It’s a reminder to the Lords and Monarchy that the Commons does not bow to their whims.” Bridgett grinned in a small way that bespoke her delight; then she chuckled. “It’s all rather silly, isn’t it? When one talks about it to a foreigner, it seems so silly. But then, I suppose, all traditions sound silly when explained or discussed.”

  I nodded at this truth. It was a good thought, worth remembering, worthy of further contemplation. I tucked it away as a data point to be mulled over later.

  Bridgett’s daughter, Ellen, smiled at me over her crochet work. “Don’t you have any oddities of government in the United States, or—as I like to call them—the wayward colonies?”

  “Other than being completely ineffective and self-serving? Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe if you installed a Black Rod and Silver Stick to slam the door in the face of the Senate you might find that your government miraculously improves in competency.”

  “It’s worth a thought,” I said.

  Bridgett gifted her daughter a wry smile; she turned her eyes back to her scarf while she continued to speak on the subject. “Truly, I believe these traditions—as silly as they might sound—have real merit. Tradition builds confidence and gives people a sense of security, safety. If you know what to expect, you become part of the process, even if it’s in a passive way. Rites of passage are essential, and traditions endure because they have value. I think your generation under values the importance of traditions lest anything be sacred.”

  Halfway through her mini pronouncement I began to nod. Her words, again, made a lot of sense; before I could fully process their implications I discerned a buzzing sound to my left, felt the vibration against my leg, and fought against my initial desire to audibly growl.

  It was my cell phone.

  Someone was calling me.

  Thor!

  Here I was, sitting with approximately seventeen to twenty-three lovely ladies—I didn’t know the precise number as several ladies had come and gone over the last two hours, and I hadn’t yet re-counted—enjoying our discussion on the opening ceremonies of Parliament. Suddenly, a conversation absconder, likely halfway around the world, was interrupting my pleasant yet bewilderingly informative interaction.

  I offered Ellen and Bridgett a remorseful glance. “I’m sorry. It’s my phone. Someone is calling me.”

  Bridgett shrugged, entirely unperturbed by the interruption. “It’s quite all right, my dear. Go see to your business.”

  I reached for my bag, still displeased at being interrupted despite Bridgett’s lack of indignation. I contemplated our discussion about Black Rod as I rummaged for my phone. If I’d been asked two hours ago, I would have said that enduring or supporting an action or behavior simply because it had always been done, without thought to its utility or necessity, seemed completely illogical.

  This distinction, I recognized, was the line between progress and tradition.

  I pulled the blasted device from my satchel and stood from my chair. Steven’s name flashed on the screen. If my phone hadn’t been set to silent, I also would have been listening to It’s Raining Men, which was Steven’s personalized ri
ngtone. I didn’t the wherewithal—or, honestly, the desire—to navigate the phone’s settings to change it.

  Regardless of my warm feelings for Steven, my acrimonious aversion to answering the cell phone every time it rang was hardcoded in my DNA—much like my love for Cosplay or my ambivalence for reality television.

  I swiped my thumb across the screen while I walked to the entrance of the restaurant. I might be saddled with the blasted device, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be that person who talks on her cell phone while within earshot of her companions.

  “Hello?” I tried not to sound too grousey, and yes, I failed.

  “Hey, Janie! Where are you? Is Mr. Sullivan with you?”

  “No. I’m at a knitting group. He’s not with me.”

  “Oh, I thought you two—wait, you knit? How did I not know that you knit?”

  “I don’t knit.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Steven, is there a reason you’re calling?” I glanced at one of my guards, Jacob, and gave him a tight smile then took several steps into Spitalfields Market proper; my four-inch heels echoed on the cement. “Because this is definitely a conversation we can have at some point later and in person.” Impatience was building a treehouse in my chest out of rusty nails and splintery, arsenic-treated wood.

  “Oh, sorry, Toots. I keep forgetting about your IPS—irritable phone syndrome. I’ll try to keep it short, but I really must talk to you, so you’ll just have to put up with me for a moment longer. Are you and The Boss having fun with the Britons? Have you attended a tea party yet? Raised a ruckus or the roof? Met the Queen? Run naked through Trafalgar Square? I hope the answer is no regarding Trafalgar Square, as I’d like for us to make the attempt together.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at Steven’s teasing. “When you arrive tomorrow I’ll be sure to fill you in on all the very fascinating times we’ve had in London over the past two days, and don’t call me Toots.”

  The truth was I’d barely seen Quinn in the last two days. The original plan was to fly over early, before Steven and the team arrived, to have some time to ourselves before meeting with a large potential corporate client. Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems was the corporate client, and they were a big deal and big news. Quinn’s private client meetings were supposed to take less than two hours of his day; however, they’d ended up filling his mornings, afternoons, and evenings.

  My feelings on my present state of Quinn-less-ness were a bit muddled; especially since—per Quinn’s crazytown insistence—I had to take three guards with me everywhere.

  At best, I was disappointed. At worst, I was rabid with resentment. I hadn’t decided yet which sentiment more accurately described my mindset because my brain kept pendulating between the two.

  “Good, good. I’m looking forward to it. They’re about to start the pre-boarding process for my flight.” His huff was audible through the line. “This will be the first time I’ve traveled on a commercial flight in two years. I forgot how much I hate the airside terminal, those weird neck pillows, and…people.”

  “Steven, you’re flying first class. Do you know what percentage of the population ever flies first class? Less than six percent. Even Prince William flies coach.”

  “You just made that up. Don’t think you can fool me. Seventy two percent of statistics are made up on the spot.”

  I tried not to laugh. “You know I never make up statistics, and I think you can suffer through flying first class even if it means you have to be around people.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He sniffed, sighed then sighed again. “The Boss must be rubbing off on me. His disdain for the human race might be contagious.”

  A faint echo of footsteps resonated from over my right shoulder. I half turned toward the sound, searched the darkened expanse. Jacob must’ve heard it too because he crossed to where I stood and placed his hand on my upper arm.

  “Ms. Morris, do you mind moving back inside the restaurant?”

  I nodded at Jacob and turned toward the entrance to Cluckingham Palace, the chicken curry establishment where my new knitting acquaintances were gathered. “I have to go now, Steven.”

  “Fine. That’s fine. I’ll find you tomorrow, though, and we’ll scope out how long it will take us to sprint across Trafalgar Square.”

  I rolled my eyes even as I grinned. “Goodbye, Steven.”

  “Goodbye, Toots.” He ended the call with a kissy sound.

  Jacob had released my arm but he stilled hovered. The footsteps were closer now, and for some inexplicable reason, I shivered.

  Then, I saw him.

  I couldn’t be certain as he was still approximately forty yards away, but his blue eyes seemed to glitter and flash when our gazes met; at least my toes, ears, heart, and internal organs thought so. His steps, as usual, weren’t hurried; but his movements were swift, adroit, and marked by a careless confidence and grace that straddled the line between self-possession and arrogance.

  Twisting pleasure pain followed by shortness of breath held me in place—my expected companions every time Quinn initially came into view. I watched him as he crossed to me.

  Even after our five months of dating, I always felt a little helpless and flustered by his presence—especially at first—as though I’d been blindfolded and spun in a circle then subsequently told I needed to write a eulogy for Dr. Seuss in iambic pentameter.

  I noted that his pace slowed as he neared and that his eyes were snagged on my shoes. I was quite proud of them to be honest. They were red satin with an oversized matching bow at the toe. The heel was severely spiked. But since they were slightly platform, the four-inch heel was really only three inches, max. I’d just acquired them earlier in the afternoon from a remarkable shoe store in the fashionable alleyway behind Liberty of London.

  The purchase had cheered and warmed me at the time. Now, under the level and pointed heat of his gaze, I was nearly burning up.

  He stopped some two yards from where I stood and slowly tucked his hands into his pockets. His eyes were still pointed at my feet when he said, “Nice shoes.”

  I let that statement and the delicious timbre of his voice dance between my head and heart; then predictably, it settled between my hipbones in the vicinity of my ovaries. If my body were a map, the area currently suffering prolonged side effects was just south of my uterus and north of my thighs.

  So, my vagina.

  Hence, my helplessness.

  Before Quinn, my vagina and I were acquainted but not really friends. It seemed like a bother mostly, a mystery, always underperforming or causing me pain. I reflected that my troubles were likely user error; but I wasn’t certain how to operate it. Admittedly, I’d never successfully navigated the labyrinth known as the labia, never mind the confounding clitoris.

  However, since Quinn, I’d become willingly powerless against all of its parts (not to mention his parts).

  “Thank you.” I watched as his languid perusal began at my ankles and climbed to my legs, thighs, and upward. Aside from my shoes, I was wearing the outfit he’d picked out for me earlier that morning. He’d left it on the edge of the bed along with black lingerie accompanied by a note that simply stated Wear me.

  The little black dress with white polka dots was much tighter and shorter than I was accustomed to wearing. But he’d never explicitly requested that I wear anything before. In fact, all of my clothes seemed to irritate him, my underwear especially. Therefore, as it was no bother to me, I dressed as requested.

  Finally, his eyes met mine. Judging by the ferocity of his gaze, I’d made the right decision to wear the outfit he’d prescribed. My chest dually tightened and expanded. The sensation was discombobulating, and his eyes, so blue, had arrested my breath and brains.

  “Your eyes are blue.” I said.

  He blinked once, his mouth hooked subtly to one side, and he leisurely strolled three steps closer to me. “Yes. That is true.”

  “I have brown eyes.” I said; the words fell from
my mouth like chunks of unmasticated food—clumsily and with the inattention that accompanies being mesmerized and brainless.

  Quinn bit his top lip and glanced over my shoulder at Jacob. I knew he was fighting a smile. This was how he frequently reacted to my strange blurts of nonsense.

  “We’re going out.” Quinn was now addressing Jacob. “Bring the car.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sullivan.” The guard’s curt reply was soon followed by the sound of his retreating footsteps. I noted that only Jacob was departing; this left us with my other two guards, not counting any that might be trailing Quinn.

  Not for the first time since we’d arrived in London, my confusion at the need for such a breadth of security snagged my attention. However, my disgruntlement at being saddled with a nuisance of men (where nuisance is the collective noun) dressed in nicely tailored suits dispersed the longer I gazed at Quinn.

  I watched as he scanned the cavernous space, his gaze lingering for a brief moment on two distinct spots over my left shoulder. His eyes seemed to be a source of light and were more than visible in the dimly lit expanse. They were the exact color of glacial ice—as filmed by National Geographic in their very informative IMAX film on the retreating solid formations of the Antarctic.

  “Why is Dan here? Where’s Pete?” he asked me, his attention still over my shoulder.

  I blinked twice, pulled from my recollections of the Antarctic as related to Quinn’s eyes, and glanced behind me. I attempted and failed to find Dan (or Pete) in the shadows.

  “Is Dan here? Where is he? I don’t see him.” I squinted and asked the echoing vastness. “Are you here, Dan the security man?”

  Quinn’s hands were suddenly at my waist, and I started, jumped at the unexpected contact, and turned back to him. He was in my space. I didn’t hate that he moved silently or that he had a habit of suddenly appearing where before I was alone. But I hadn’t yet been able to acclimate to it.

  He gazed down at me. I gazed up at him. A soft sigh—at his nearness, his warmth, the smell of his lovely cologne, the small whisper of a smile hovering in his eyes—passed between my lips.

  Then, in his quiet way that always disarmed me, he said, “I missed you today.”