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

by Penny Reid

  Quinn dipped his mouth to my neck, bit my jaw, and whispered, “I’ve also heard it helps to only fight while naked.”

  “Then we would never fight,” I responded distractedly. “I would just stare at you and drool and you’d win.”

  “You’d drool?”

  “You know I drool. What do you think those stains are on my pillow? Drool during sleep can be indicative of poor digestion or eating too late, but it can also be saliva manufactured during sex dreams.”

  He blinked at me. “Your drool is because of sex dreams? You have sex dreams?”

  “Yes, of course…don’t you?”

  “Yes!” He responded as though the mere question were a slight against his manhood or a question of his sanity.

  “Well, good. It’s normal, you know, to have sex dreams. It’s reported that they’re more common—that is, they occur with more frequency—in men than in women until the age of thirty-one. Then women out-pace men until thirty-eight. Then it’s about even.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. I thought about telling him that women’s sex dreams were usually about foreplay and erotic situations, whereas men’s sex dreams typically involved penetration, but decided against it. Maybe I’d share that later.

  At length, he sighed as if he was confused and frustrated. He kissed my neck and shoulder, nibbled my ear, then pulled away. Setting me away with obvious reluctance, he released another heavy sigh. “What were the other things?”

  “Other things?”

  “Yes. The other things, when I came in. Because I really want to spend several hours tonight giving you material for future sex dreams, and I don’t want you distracted or suddenly asking my opinion on ferns.”

  I blinked at his bare chest dumbly for ten seconds; I was having difficulty seeing anything other than the hard ridges of his stomach framed by the V of his hips. This of course made me think about touching him, which made me think about him touching me, which made me think about having sex, which finally made me remember the other things. “Oh, yeah…the other things.”

  He reached for the buckle of his belt, and I backed up two steps, crossing my arms in order to keep my hands to myself.

  “So…?”

  “Well, one of them was, uh….” I bit the inside of my lip, debated which topic to tackle. “About the private clients. I don’t feel like the conversation we started in London was resolved. I’d like to have a better understanding of that side of the business.”

  Quinn pulled his belt from the loops of his pants and placed it on the dresser behind me, his expression thoughtful.

  The he said, “I’m done with it—done with them. They’re not going to be a part of our lives moving forward.”

  “So there is no chance they’ll impact us at all?”

  He studied me, his jaw ticking, but his expression was a mask, revealing nothing of his thoughts. At last, he said, “You already know. Everything else is details—who they are, logs of activity, bank account transactions. Knowing the details isn’t going to give you any additional information about the workings of that side of the business.”

  “I’d like to know the details, and I’d like to make that decision for myself.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  His frown intensified, and his eyes lost focus as he moved them to some point over my shoulder. “Let me…let me think about it.”

  “Can I ask what that means?”

  Quinn tilted his head to the side and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “If you really want to see the details, I think what I’m going to do is pull a few files, show you some examples, and review the decisions made for each. I believe this approach will answer your questions without placing you in…in an uncomfortable position. I just ask one thing in return.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “I don’t want you having contact with these people. You can look through the files, but you aren’t to speak to any of them. And if you have any questions, you have to promise to ask me—not Carlos, not Steven, not Dan—only me.”

  I quickly considered this request and decided it seemed more than fair. “Ok. I reserve the right to request more information later. For now, I can agree to those terms.”

  His small smile was wry. “That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

  “We’re discussing terms, aren’t we? And I have three more issues to discuss.”

  “Go ahead.” Quinn unbuttoned his pants then regained the two steps I’d retreated and lifted my sweater over my head.

  Obligingly, I raised my arms. “I want to meet your parents.”

  His hands reached for my shirt, but stalled for a beat when I spoke. His eyes didn’t lift to mine when he said, “I haven’t spoken to my parents in a long time.” I recognized that his voice was carefully emotionless; it made my heart hurt.

  “That’s true. But you’re getting married now. We’ll be starting a family in a few years. They’ll have biological grandchildren, assuming neither of us has any fertility issues. I think about my upbringing, what I wish were different. I didn’t really have a mother; not really. And the stories you tell about your family, about growing up—your memories are good ones.”

  Quinn seemed to be looking at me sideways, like he was bracing himself, as he admitted quietly, “I do have good memories. They were good parents.”

  “See? Maybe a little part of this is that I’d like to have someone in my life in that role, especially if we’re going to have kids. I have my dad, but he’s…he’s never been present or very interested. I know it might not make sense, but having a mother seems like it would be nice. I think it would be a good idea to at least make an attempt, extend an olive branch, but not an actual olive branch. Maybe a jar of olives. In Greek mythology as well as early Christianity, the olive branch symbolizes peace and tribute.”

  He seemed torn, undecided.

  I placed my hands on his hips, my fingers dipping into the grey band of his black boxers. “I could always call them if you…if it’s too difficult or you don’t have time.”

  He nodded once. It was a non-committal nod, and I recognized that I wasn’t going to get a definitive yes or no.

  “What are the other two things?” He began unbuttoning my shirt.

  “I…uh…it’s about your riding the motorcycle.”

  His eyes flickered to mine then back to where his hands were working on my buttons. “What about it?”

  “I realize that you like riding your bike, and I’m going to have to be ok with that. The only thing I ask is that you wear a helmet, all the time, no exceptions.”

  “Makes sense. Fine. Deal.” He was down to the last three buttons.

  The backs of his knuckles were brushing against the skin of my abdomen, sending lovely ripples to my chest, up my neck, to my fingertips, and down into my belly. My ability to concentrate was waning, as was my desire to bring up the last item on my list.

  In fact, I was just talking myself into staying silent on the subject when Quinn said, “What’s the last thing?”

  I licked my lips, my thumbs rubbing circles over the skin on either side of his belly button, my nails hooked into the side of his hips. He felt hot and smooth beneath my hands, and I didn’t want to stop, didn’t want him to stop.

  “Janie?”

  I had difficulty thinking back to a time when touching him wasn’t possible. The thought of willingly giving that up, giving up his body and the intimacy we’d established, felt like cutting off a limb.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “It was nothing.”

  He was looking at me now, his gaze questioning, his fingers pushing the edges of my shirt to the side and revealing my torso. I was wearing a red lace bra that we’d purchased during our London lingerie-shopping day. His eyes dipped, snagged on the bra, met mine again, and then he removed his hands.

  “What was the last thing?”

  “Don’t make me say it,” I blurted, shaking
my head harder.

  He watched me for a long moment, and I could tell he was trying to think back to my original tirade, when he’d pulled me on his lap at the kitchen table.

  At length, he tilted his head to the side and his eyes narrowed. “We talked about the prenup, kids, meeting the parents, the private clients, and wearing the helmet while riding.”

  “Yep. That’s it.”

  “No. There was something else.”

  “Quinn….” I removed my hands from his pants to unzip my skirt while I lifted on my tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mouth. “It was nothing, really—nothing worth discussing.”

  I witnessed the precise moment he remembered my earlier words, surprise flickering behind his gaze as his eyes refocused on my face.

  “You want to wait?” He said the words slowly, like he was inspecting them. “You want to wait until our wedding night?”

  “No….”

  I kissed him again. My zipper was stuck.

  He wasn’t touching me, but he allowed the kisses. “You said something about not having intercourse until the wedding night.”

  “I meant discourse, like conversation and debates about the parliamentary system of government.”

  He laughed, more of a laugh-huff, and his eyes danced over my features. His mouth smiled the big grin, the one that sent my stomach to my toes.

  I decided his new nickname should be Sir McSwoonypants.

  Disgusted with my stubborn zipper, I gave up and whipped off my shirt, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed my body against his.

  Quinn kissed me once, really just a chaste press of our lips together, then untangled my arms from his shoulders. “Now, wait a minute. Not so fast—this idea has merit.”

  “What idea?”

  “Waiting until the wedding night.”

  I stared at him for a beat then said, “Fine. We won’t engage in discourse about the parliamentary system of government.”

  He laughed again, but subtly shook his head. “No. Maybe we should wait ’til our wedding night.”

  I’m sure I looked like I lost control of my facial muscles, because I could feel my eyebrows do this weird, wiggly thing on my forehead. Also, my mouth opened and closed, my nose wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure I hissed at him. I might have also said, Booooo!

  This only made him laugh harder.

  When he had finally reigned in his laughter but was still holding his stomach, he took two steps back, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Shirtless, pants unzipped, boxers pulled low—he was chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate ganache, with chocolate mousse and chocolate cookie crust…so delicious.

  “How about this?” He paused, an evil glint in his eye, his smile persisting. “How about we make a bet. If you can hold out the entire time, we’ll do the big wedding with all the extra stuff at the end. But….”

  Quinn sauntered forward—yes! Sauntered!—and invaded my space, his lips hovering just over mine, his fingers drawing a line from my shoulder to my breast and down my stomach.

  “But, if you give in at any point over the next few months, we’ll cancel the wedding and elope within twenty-four hours.”

  I warred against my body’s very loud and insistent inclination to surrender, right now, this minute. Because, honestly, I didn’t think I would be able to last.

  I stalled by clearing my throat and asking unnecessary questions. “So, you mean that you’ll be trying to seduce me for the next few months? And if I give in then we get married within twenty-four hours?”

  “More or less.”

  “What do you mean, more or less?”

  “I mean that I have no plans to seduce you, but otherwise you’ve got it right.”

  “Really?” I eyeballed him. “No seduction plans?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then…what’s off limits? I mean, what can we do?”

  “Just kiss.”

  I’m pretty sure my eyes looked like they were going to pop out of my head, and I know the volume of my voice was inappropriately loud when I said, “JUST KISS?”

  If possible, the glint in his gaze turned even more sinister. “That’s right.”

  “No touching at all? Like, what you’re doing now?”

  Something passed over his features—maybe apprehension, more likely reassessment of the terms—and he conceded. “Kissing and touching are fine. But no….”

  “Penetration?” The word emerged as a squeak.

  He nodded, watching me closely, and added, “Or oxytocin-releasing genital arousal.”

  I studied his features, rolling my lips between my teeth and contemplating the offer. A thought occurred to me. “But this means that you’ll help with the wedding—cheerfully—no complaining or being disinterested about the color of ferns. You’ll voice your opinion.”

  He didn’t respond immediately and his gaze hardened, grew distant. Finally, he said, “Okay. Fine. Do we have a deal?”

  I pressed for more. “And we’ll go to your parents’ house in Boston for a visit.”

  His mouth became a tight line, but he answered, “Fine.”

  “Ok, then….” I nodded my head and doubted the veracity of my own words when I said, “I can agree to those terms.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A bright spot in the wedding-tainted sea of stress came just two days after I made the bet with Quinn when I was able to establish contact with his mother.

  I called her.

  It was a Friday evening, and I was on my way to the penthouse, riding in the back seat of a black Cadillac Escalade. It was chauffeured by Jacob, my guard until I arrived home.

  Quinn and I usually left work together, but he’d indicated—via text—that he would be working late. I wondered if he were avoiding me. The thought was depressing.

  I dialed the number I’d requested that Betty, Quinn’s secretary, look up. I hadn’t asked Quinn for it, partially because I doubted he had it. The other reason was because he looked sick to his stomach every time I mentioned his parents.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice sounded from the line, and my brain went blank.

  I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting her to answer the phone. Perhaps it was because I was used to playing phone tag with wedding vendors. I’d prepared a message; in fact, I’d typed it out, printed it, and now held it in my hand ready to read to her voicemail. Therefore, when I heard her answer live, I felt unprepared and almost hung up.

  “Hello?” She asked again, not sounding irritated.

  I cleared my throat and forced out a greeting. “Hi! How are you?” Then I cringed when I realized I forgot to introduce myself.

  “I’m…fine. And how are you?” Her tone was tempered with suspicion. She likely thought I was a telemarketer. In a way, I kind of was. I was trying to sell myself to her, and maybe sell her on the role of being grandmother to our children.

  My throat felt tight. I didn’t know how to talk to women who held a maternal role unless they were my coworkers and my interactions with them occurred within a clearly defined set of parameters, like it was with Betty. Motherly types made me nervous.

  I gathered a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Hi.” I repeated, shook my head. “I’m Janie Morris. Is this Katherine Sullivan?”

  “Yes. This is Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Right. Sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m….” I held my breath, my heart galloped wildly, and I wondered why I suddenly felt like I was throwing myself off a cliff. “I’m Janie, as I said, and I’m engaged to your son, Quinn. In fact, it just happened about a week ago, the engagement, so it’s all very new. And I’m calling because….” I glanced down at my typed speech and began to read. “…because I was hoping you and your husband would be amenable to future interactions, including but not limited to meeting me sometime before the wedding, having dinner, speaking over the phone, or exchanging emails. As well, I’d like to gauge your level of interest in becoming involved in the wedding in some capacity,
perhaps with the planning, but no pressure either way. I understand that you might have some reservations, as I’m basically a stranger and my understanding is that historically, interactions with Quinn have been justifiably strained. Nevertheless….”

  “Wait…wait a minute.” She sounded perplexed, shocked, and tense. Her interruption was followed by a long period of silence. I heard some rustling in the background. If my heart hadn’t already been in my throat, it would have jumped there now.

  At last, when she spoke again, her voice was impossibly soft and warm. “Let’s start over. I’m Katherine—please call me Katherine.”

  I pressed my lips together because my chin inexplicably wobbled. I had to look at the ceiling of the Escalade to keep from crying, and I didn’t know why I was so close to tears. “Hi, Katherine….” I paused to chase the watery quality from my voice. “I’m Janie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Janie.”

  I heard a smile in her voice, and maybe also a little waver in her inflection. I wondered briefly if she, too, were fighting tears.

  “So…how…?” I gave her some time to collect her thoughts. It also allowed me to take several deep breaths. After a pause, she continued. “So you and…Quinn? How did that happen?”

  “I work for him, for his company.”

  “Oh?” She sounded a little wary, but her next question was pleasant enough. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an accountant, although my background is in architecture. To be more accurate, my degree is in both mathematics and architecture, but I’ve always been an accountant, never an architect. What do you do?” I closed my eyes again, worried that my question might have come out as rude.

  “I’m a teacher. I teach high school calculus.” She answered simply, her tone reflecting that no offense had been taken.

  “Oh!” I smiled. “I loved my high school calculus teacher. He’s one of the main reasons I started tutoring kids in math and science. He could teach integrals to anyone, at least I always thought so.”