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

by Penny Reid

I glanced at her, saw how she gazed longingly around her, and offered my agreement as I mixed together the tequila and lime juice. “I approve of this kitchen. I like the placement of the dishwasher relative to the sink and the refrigerator relative to the stove. Sandra—can you start squeezing more limes? They are in the bottom drawer of the fridge.”

  “These are really good margaritas, Janie. Well done.” Elizabeth gave me a bright smile, which made me feel a bit better. I missed her as we’d been spending barely any time together—especially since the engagement.

  “It’s the Limoncello and fresh lime juice, I think. I also used agave nectar instead of sugar.” I finished adding the necessary ingredients. Replacing the lid, I shook the shaker, enjoying the sound of the ice as it slid around the inside of the canister.

  Elizabeth said, “You should make these when we go to my reunion in Iowa next week.”

  I stared at her, my movements stalled, and I felt the ground tilt beneath me.

  Elizabeth’s high school reunion.

  I’d completely forgotten.

  I was a horrible friend.

  “Janie? Are you okay?”

  “I completely forgot. I completely forgot about your reunion.” I lowered the canister to the counter. My heart gave a twist, it felt like a cramp, as I noted Elizabeth’s face fall.

  “Did you make other plans?”

  I glanced beyond her, trying to find a solution to the problem. “I’ll—I’ll find a way to…I’ll think of something.”

  I tried to think of a solution. The dinner with Quinn’s parents was Saturday. I wondered how I could be in both places at once. Maybe I could change the dinner with Quinn’s parents to Saturday morning breakfast then fly to Iowa for Elizabeth’s reunion in the evening. I could even bring pancakes. Certainly, it wouldn’t be ideal. But I hated to cancel on Quinn’s mom, especially since this was the first time I was meeting her.

  Also, I still wasn’t certain how Quinn felt about the whole thing. I didn’t want to push him on it; I trusted him to tell me if I was overstepping.

  Everything about the situation was worrisome and stressful, and now I’d just let down my best friend.

  “What plans did you make?” Sandra’s voice interrupted my contingency planning. “Maybe I can help?”

  I attempted to keep the despondency out of my tone as I explained the problem. “We’re—Quinn and I—we were planning to go to Boston to see his parents. I was going to meet his parents, but….” I glanced at Elizabeth, found her expression still downhearted. “I completely forgot about the reunion since you and I planned the trip so long ago.”

  “I’m confused. Isn’t Quinn estranged from his parents? Didn’t they, like, disown him? Don’t they blame him for his brother’s death or some such nonsense?” Sandra picked up the canister full of half-mixed margaritas and began shaking it.

  I nodded. “Yes, they did. I’m not sure if they still do. I called his mom a few weeks ago and introduced myself. I told her I was marrying her son and explained that I planned to give her grandchildren at some point.”

  Sandra’s hands ceased mid-shake. “You what?”

  “Well, I know this separation from his family, from his mom and dad, contributes to some measure of his broodiness. I thought I could offer them grandchildren in exchange for forgiveness.”

  Elizabeth nodded in understanding, but Sandra stared at me like I’d just morphed into a wrinkly pug. Silence stretched. Elizabeth took the opportunity of Sandra’s stillness to take the canister from her hands and continue to mix the contents.

  “I—I can’t believe you did that.” Sandra finally sputtered. “You’re using children—”

  I shook my head and tried to explain. “No. I’m not using children. We’re going to have kids anyway, and I thought why not use the idea of these future kids to persuade his parents to make the right decision now?”

  Sandra made a choking sound then leaned on the kitchen counter. “You’re not going to—you’re not going to use the kids are you? Later? Once they’re born? You’re not going to manipulate his parents into….”

  “No. Absolutely not.” I was horrified by the thought. “I would never do that. I just—I just want his mom and dad to give him a chance. I just want them to make an effort. He’s so…He’s so….”

  “Grumpy?” Elizabeth said and poured the margarita into Sandra’s glass.

  I scowled at Elizabeth’s inaccurate assessment of Quinn. “No. Not grumpy. He’s sensitive. He doesn’t show it to many people….”

  She snorted. “You mean he only shows it to you.”

  I didn’t want to debate the point, so I ignored her comment and continued explaining the situation to Sandra. I think part of me needed to justify my meddling and pushing regarding his family.

  “But he is. And he misses his family. And they’re his family. And I want to meet them. I’ve never had a mother, not really, and his mom sounds great, except for the whole—you know—disowning her son thing. And why shouldn’t my children have grandparents?”

  Elizabeth surprised me a little by saying, “They should. I completely support you in this decision.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth. Your support means a lot.”

  Sandra was still frowning, seemed to be mulling over the situation, when she asked, “Well then, what about the reunion? I imagine it took a lot for you to get these people to agree to the visit, right?”

  My attention moved from Sandra to Elizabeth, and I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t think of a solution, not one that would allow me to be in Boston and Iowa at the same time. My chest tightened uncomfortably because I knew the right thing to do was to cancel the dinner with Quinn’s family.

  Maybe this was a sign. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have initiated contact with his mother. Maybe, in the end, I would see that my efforts had been a mistake.

  Before I could express this, however, Elizabeth surprised me by saying, “You should go to Boston.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “Really. Go to Boston.”

  I shook my head. “I can reschedule. You can’t reschedule your reunion.”

  “I’ll go.” Sandra’s sloppy declaration—sloppy because it was somewhat slurred—surprised us both.

  I blinked at her. “To Boston?”

  “No, Wonder Woman, I’ll go to Elizabeth’s high school reunion. I’ll go with Elizabeth, and you’re off to Boston with your McHotpants to go make babies for those awful people.”

  I looked at Elizabeth. Elizabeth looked at me. Elizabeth looked at Sandra. Sandra looked at Elizabeth. I looked at Sandra. Sandra looked at me.

  Sandra lifted her glass again, winked at Elizabeth, and toasted us both. “To friendscorts. Like escorts, but without the cash.”

  CHAPTER 14

  We were alone on Quinn’s plane.

  Well, we weren’t completely alone. The pilot, Eve, and the flight attendant, Donna, were also on the plane. But, they didn’t really count because they tried to be basically invisible.

  We planned to spend five days in Boston. Saturday evening, today, would be spent with Quinn’s parents. Sunday we had no plans. Monday through Wednesday would be spent with corporate clients in all-day meetings. We planned to fly back to Chicago on Thursday.

  Dan had flown ahead of us two days prior, and we’d arranged for Steven to video conference on days when he was needed. Since the private client numbers were diminishing, Steven and I were splitting up the corporate accounts.

  Therefore, Quinn and I were alone together on his plane, and Quinn’s plane was the last place we’d be together—as in together together—for several days.

  He was sitting in his seat across from me reading a report like he didn’t have a care in the world—other than all the cares that were currently making him frown.

  But I wasn’t thinking about work cares. I was thinking about the no-touching cares…the being-so-close-to-him-but-not-kissing cares…the he-didn’t-seem-to-be-at-all-affected-by-our-lack-of-intimacy cares.

  I was also thinkin
g about the increased frequency and vividness of my sex dreams as well as the resultant saliva on my pillow. I’d had to change the pillowcase four times in a week.

  Four times!

  Add to his apparent apathy—at least for all things me—was the fact that I didn’t know how to bring up the subject of his family without feeling like a conniving charlatan, and I felt a little overwrought, sexually stunted, and nauseous.

  Make that a little nauseous and a lot stressed out.

  “Hi,” he said.

  I blinked at him several times in rapid succession, bringing his face into focus. I’d been staring at him. But I wasn’t really looking at him. Looking at him these days hurt a little. Therefore, I’d begun the practice of starting at one thing on him—like the scar above his eyebrow, or the top button of his shirt, or a single red stripe on his tie.

  “Hey.” I shifted in my seat, realized I’d been gripping my iPad too tightly, and loosened my fingers.

  “Are you alright?” He asked this question as if he already knew the answer, as if he knew I was starving and he’d just asked me if I wanted to lick the frosting off his cupcake. It was a little irritating.

  Therefore, I didn’t answer his question.

  Instead, I said, “I think I need a pet name.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I think you need to give me a pet name—a term of endearment.”

  His face was its typical impassive mask, but I could tell that I’d surprised him.

  Finally, he said, “Like…babe?”

  “No—that feels awkward and wrong and has undertones of pedophilia. I’m thinking of something more age appropriate, yet affectionate.”

  He considered me, my request. I was pleased to find that he appeared to be taking it seriously. “Cupcake?” he asked.

  “No food.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not edible.”

  “I disagree.”

  My eyes widened before I could control my body’s response to his bluntly spoken statement, mostly because I didn’t want to delve too deep into the matter for fear that I would haul him back to the lavatory to prove that I was edible. Instead, I said, “Okay…I’ll take food under advisement, but I think we should continue the search.”

  “Dove?”

  “Dove? No.”

  “Why not dove?”

  “Too close to ostrich, and falcons eat doves for lunch.”

  “So?”

  “So, I think of you as a falcon. And, although we’ve established that you consider me edible, I don’t like the mental image of you killing me for a meal, my feathers strewn about in a bloody mass of….”

  “Alright, not dove. What about sweet pea or lamb?”

  “Meh.”

  “Meh?”

  “They don’t feel right.”

  He placed his report on the chair next to him, rested his elbows on the armrests, and tented his fingers. “You suggest something then.”

  “Okay…what about Medusa?”

  He grimaced. “Medusa?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s not giving me a good mental image.”

  “What? Why? Poseidon thought she was lovely.”

  He sighed, frowned, and shook his head. “How about kitten?”

  Kitten? “Kitten?” I thought and said the word at the same time.

  “Yeah. Try this on—” Quinn paused, his eyes moved from mine to my mouth, neck, chest, then up again; the return pass left his gaze half lidded and lazy. All of this effected a leisurely inspection that might have been lewd if attempted by anyone else. But, as Quinn was my fiancé and the man I was head over heels in love with, the perusal made me a lot agitated (in the best and most frustrating way possible).

  Then, low and intimate, he said, “Hey, Kitten.”

  “Guh,” was my automatic response. Actually, it was barely a sound, more just an inadvertent rumble of lady-feels. My stomach flipped and heat blossomed in my chest. I think I’d like anything he said using that voice.

  His eyes danced between mine then landed on my lips. His mouth curved slowly into one of his slow, sexy grins. “I like this. This was a good idea.”

  I had to swallow twice before I could speak. “Why?”

  “Because you just purred like a kitten,” he responded, using the same low, sexy voice.

  I wondered for a brief moment what the hell was wrong with me. I could be married to this man, right now—right this minute. Instead, I was sitting across from him, not touching him, and nearing volcanic levels of sexual frustration just because he’d called me kitten.

  “I need a drink.” I choked. I was desperate, and self-medication with alcohol seemed like a pretty good idea. As well, I was sweating. My neck was damp and my stomach and chest were hot.

  “Not a cigarette?” he asked and, damn him, he grinned.

  “No. Not a cigarette.” The words may have emerged a bit grumpily—mostly because he was just sitting there, cold as an icicle, and I was melting.

  I set my iPad on the seat next to me and peeled off my jacket, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. I didn’t care if he knew he made me hot. He did make me hot. That was truth. We were getting married, and I might as well own the fact that, when he wanted to and sometimes when he didn’t want to, he affected my internal temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, and endorphin levels.

  “Are you warm?” he asked, looking only mildly interested.

  “No, Quinn. I’m hot. In fact, I’m burning up, in case you didn’t already know.” Throwing caution to the wind, I stood and released a third button, pulled my shirttails from my skirt, and fanned the fabric, trying to encourage air flow. “You have an incendiary effect on me, and I’m quite uncomfortably aroused right now. Your biometrics might be completely unaffected by my presence, but all you have to do is call me Kitten and I experience vasomotor symptoms.”

  “Vasomotor symptoms?”

  “A hot flash,” I said simply. “But it’s not a real hot flash, not like the kind brought on by menopause. If it were then I’d have to go get my pituitary gland inspected. Hot flashes are typically associated with the hormone changes that occur during menopause, but…in some women….”

  Quinn cut me off by sliding his hands to the back of my legs and up my skirt, and pulling me to his lap. I basically crashed into him, and he took advantage of my stunned flailing to caress me, cup me through my panties.

  “Guh,” I said and paired it with a gasp, every nerve ending abruptly on fire. Quinn grabbed a fistful of my hair with the hand that was not pressing against my center, and—quite roughly—tugged my head back to expose my throat.

  He sucked on my neck. Then, he bit me. Like, bit me. It was painful and fantastic, and tangentially my mind told me that it would leave a mark. At once, I was aware of a few things.

  First, he was hard—in a way that I imagined was quite painful—beneath my bottom. Even through the clothes that separated us, I felt how markedly his biometrics were affected.

  Second, his fingers were pushing my underwear out of the way and entering my body. I was so ready for his invasion—I was beyond ready. If ready were the Illinois-Iowa state line, I was doing circles around the moon.

  Third, we were no longer alone.

  “Mr. Sullivan, the pilot wants to know—oh my God! Sorry!” I heard Donna’s voice over my shoulder. I stiffened.

  Quinn removed his mouth from my neck just long enough to issue the command, “Go away.”

  The next sound I heard—other than my own frenetic breathing—was Donna’s shoes scurrying down the aisle back to the galley.

  His kisses felt both frantic and methodical, as did his fingers between my legs, which were beginning to shake. I shifted on his lap, my hips bucking, my hands searching for purchase, and bursts of light rimmed my vision. It didn’t take long before I was ready to explode.

  Then, I did explode. At least, it felt like an explosion, and this
time he didn’t capture my mouth with a kiss to deafen the sound. Instead, he just let my moans turn into screams—because I was a screamer—until my throat was sore and I was completely spent.

  I collapsed against him, curling into his body, gripping whatever part of him I could.

  Quinn released his hold on my hair and wrapped me in his arms, though he made no attempt to put either of us to rights. My skirt was around my waist, my underwear halfway down my hips; and at some point, my shirt had been pulled open and several buttons were missing.

  I swallowed, my throat a tad sore from my expressive appreciation, and I placed several kisses on his neck and jaw.

  It occurred to me that the bet was over, that we would be getting married within the next twenty-four hours, that I could say goodbye to all the manufactured stress. It was an amazing feeling. I smiled and nipped at his chin.

  “So…I guess the wedding’s off,” I said, my voice raspy.

  Quinn nuzzled my ear, licked it, made me shiver. “Why would you say that?”

  I pulled away so I could look into his eyes. “Because I lost the bet. I couldn’t last.”

  “You didn’t lose the bet.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “But…but we….”

  “No. We didn’t. I did.” He kissed me quickly then slid his nose along mine. “The bet was that you had to last, but we said nothing about me lasting.”

  My frown deepened. “Wait—perhaps I don’t understand the terms. You mean…you mean…what do you mean?”

  “You still haven’t touched me,” he said simply, then added in his kitten voice, “but I couldn’t go another minute without touching you.”

  I sighed despondently even as I shivered, a lovely involuntary response to his tone and words. “That’s not equitable,” I said. Actually, it might have been a whine. “The bet should be over.”

  “Nope. Wedding is still on, unless….”

  “Penetration.” I supplied the word, scowling at him.

  I wasn’t angry with Quinn. I was annoyed with myself because I’d been happy to hand my decision-making reigns over to his capable hands—no pun intended. Quinn, being Quinn, handed them right back to me. This should have made me feel empowered. Instead, I felt irritated.