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

by Penny Reid

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Knitting in the City Series

  Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

  Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

  Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

  Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

  Beauty and the Mustache: An Educated Romance (#4, coming September 2014)

  Book #5 - TBD

  Book #6 - TBD

  Book #7 - TBD

  The Hypothesis Series

  Bunsen Burner Bingo (#1, coming February 2015)

  Sneak Peek: Beauty and the Mustache, by Penny Reid

  Book #4 in the Knitting in the City Series

  Chapter 1

  “There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.”

  -William Shakespeare

  It was 6:14 a.m. and I was awake.

  The engine revved for a third time—louder, longer, angrier.

  I know an engine can’t be angry, but this engine sounded angry. Specifically, it sounded angry at me. The engine must’ve been feeling pretty pissed in my general direction, because why else would it be waking me up at 6:14 am, after less than 3 hours of sleep?

  But what the engine didn’t know was that I was not afraid of its anger. I took crap from no engine, not anymore. Because now, I was a badass.

  Especially when the engine being revved was likely under the control of one of my six hillbilly brothers. The only way one of my brothers would be awake at 6:14 in the morning was if they’d never gone to sleep the night before. Or, if they were being arrested.

  Likely, they were either drunk or stoned or both.

  Lovely. Just… lovely.

  Good old boys revving their loud engines was reason number thirty-three why I never came home. I’d started making the list two days ago, when I’d decided that I had no choice but to fly to Tennessee.

  I hadn’t been back to home in eight years, but my momma visited me at college many times. I’d taken her on a yearly vacation since I’d graduated with my BSN, a bachelor’s in nursing, four years past.

  But three days ago she hadn’t returned my call, nor had she picked up the phone when I called the next day. This was remarkable because, if we weren’t together, she and I spoke at the same time every day for the last eight years. Our conversations didn’t typically last very long, just a quick check-in to see if she needed anything, if I could send her money or how life was treating her. Sometimes she’d share gossip about people I’d grown up with, and sometimes I’d tell her about a new book I was reading.

  Mostly, I think we just took comfort in the sound of each other’s voices.

  Therefore, after two days with no contact, I was worried. Finally, I resorted to contacting Jethro, my oldest brother, and was informed that she was in the hospital. Furthermore, she refused to see or talk to anyone.

  So I hopped a plane, intent on discovering the truth behind her mystery hospital visit, and taking care of the woman who’d never failed to take care of me.

  The car engine revved again. I growled, threw my covers off, and marched out my bedroom door.

  In my rush to reign a world of hurt on whoever was responsible for the 6:14 am wakeup call, I slipped on the last three stairs leading to the first floor of my momma’s house and cursed, almost falling flat on my ass. The resulting spike in adrenaline was rocket fuel to my irritation.

  Whichever of my brothers was responsible for waking me up at 6:14 in the morning—after I was forced to fly in via a delayed, three connection flight from Chicago to Tennessee—was going to suffer.

  Retribution. Revenge. Perhaps death. At the very least, someone was going to be the recipient of an epic titty twister.

  I flew out the front and screen door, letting the latter slam shut behind me. I wasn’t worried about waking anyone. If the inhabitants of the house could sleep through the ruckus coming from the garage then they could sleep through the banging of a porch door.

  Nor was I worried about my state of undress. My family’s property was situated on fifteen acres in the middle of po-dunk nowhere. It backed up to The Smoky Mountains National Park on the Tennessee side. If you didn’t count all the cars on blocks, defunct trailers, old tires, rusted machine parts, and general trashy appearance of the house and yard, it was actually a lovely spot.

  Usually, my idiot brothers ran around half dressed. So, arguably, I was overdressed in my pink tank top pajamas and matching boy shorts.

  I avoided a pile of broken beer bottles on the path leading to the detached garage; really, it was more like a giant hanger. My mind told me that the structure was actually called a quonset hut and I told my mind to hush. I didn’t care what it was called. I only cared that all of its inhabitants were soon going to be murdered by my hands. Then I would go back to sleep.

  The sun was already up, which made the inside of the metal structure dark in contrast. Regardless, I could see the machine of my angst as I approached. It would have been impossible to miss.

  Two male bodies leaned inside the open hood of an orange and while Charger. A third numbskull, currently hidden, was in the driver’s seat revving the engine.

  As was my custom, I started yelling before I’d made it to the garage. “I don’t care which of you hillbilly, disease infested, flea bitten, cattywampus-heads are in here making this ruckus, but you will stop right this instant!”

  Jethro, the oldest of my brothers, turned as I approached and tugged his pants upward. As I suspected, I was over dressed.

  He wore nothing but his beard and a pair of stained jeans. Billy, the second in our family, kept his back to me. I knew it was Billy because he had a tattoo on his left shoulder of a goat with the word Billy beneath it. He was likewise attired and, therefore, his ass-crack was on display for the sun in the sky and the small woodland animals in the forest.

  “Well, hello gorgeous. When’d you get in? It must’ve been late.” Jethro waved with grease stained hands, his white teeth a glaring contrast to his black beard.

  Billy called over his shoulder. “Why’re you even up?”

  “Because you geniuses are out here testing decibel limits. I can’t sleep through all the-”

  Just then the engine revved again. The sound spiked, absorbing my words, and caused a new wave of aggravation.

  “Arghra! Which of you ugly idiots keeps doing that?” I guessed it was Cletus, the third oldest, behind the wheel. He was the sweetest, but also the dumbest.

  I charged forward, bolting into the garage, nearly kicking over a quart of oil in my haste. I didn’t care. I needed my sleep. I did not need an early morning of boys and their toys.

  I began bellowing as soon as I crossed the threshold. “I swear to the god of moonshine, I am going to pinch your nipples straight off your chest!”

  Without a second thought, I reached just my hand in the open driver’s side door of the charger and began twisting and pinching the nipple that I found. I did this with relish, the happy vindictive kind, not the pickle kind. I also gripped the roof of the car for leverage, just in case Cletus tried to push me away.

  “Ow! What the-”

  A string of impressive expletives arose from the car. A large and powerful hand gripped mine and ripped it away from the male chest.

  I gasped, this was for several reasons, not the least of which was that Cletus didn’t know the equivalent word for fuck in Latin, nor did any of my brothers. Therefore, this person whose nipple I’d just assaulted was not Cletus.

  A shot of adrenaline coursed down my spine, my eyes widened in shock, and I tried to unsuccessfully wrench my hand away. The fingers that held me were punishing, and with one fluid motion, the occupant stood from the driver’s seat, twisted my arm behind my back, and brought my body flush against his.

  He was breathing hard.

  I was breathing harder.

  I stared at him.

  The occupant stared back.

  Grey eyes, almost silver, held mine in a vice grip of
anger, surprise, and accusation. I felt an electric bolt, like I’d been tazered in the stomach. Other than a very slight shadow of wonder, he wore an expression that would have made a thunderstorm proud.

  As well, he was so ruggedly sexy I’m sure my mouth fell open to protest the unfairness of his existence. Luckily, no sound emerged. I was too busy oscillating between stunned, mortified, and turned on.

  This man was definitely not one of my brothers.

  First of all, this guy had a blond beard and a smattering of blonde chest hair. All the Winston boys had black beards except Duane and Beauford, who were twins. They were numbers five and six in the family, and had ginger beards.

  Also, this guy was tan. Tan all over, like a grease stained surfer or a Viking marauder who spent all his time at sea shirtless.

  And… what number was I on?

  Oh yes. Third, he was the kind of unkempt, ruggedly handsome that made me forget what number I was on.

  He was massive. Like, six-foot-five huge. His chest and arms and stomach and shoulders were cut like a boulder; he felt stone hard.

  The staring continued. I watched confusion war with fury as his glare devoured my face, lingering on my lips, chin, then darting back to my eyes.

  Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!”

  He blinked at me, I like I’d just appeared. Then he released my hand and pushed me a step away. “What the hell was that?”

  I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest. A very, very nice chest. But, his left nipple was red and angry, marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound of dismay fumbled from my lips.

  Automatically, I reached forward and petted the offended skin. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d know you weren’t related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have known you weren’t Cletus, he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and taken evasive maneuvers.”

  “Evasive maneuvers?”

  I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautious, wary.

  I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and completely lost my train of thought.

  Confused and once again staring, I finally said, “…What?”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed on me. After a short pause, he glanced down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my hand was touching him. I flinched, yanked my fingers away, and held both my hands balled into fists between us.

  “Sorry.” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop talking...”

  His eyes lowered to my feet, then swept up my body in an unapologetic assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled on my chest.

  “Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.

  “Who am I?” I asked, because—honestly and I might lose my badass card for this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.

  “Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more annoyed. I could tell by his accent he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was either Oklahoma or Northern Texas.

  “I-I’m Ashley Winston.”

  His frown was equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy big blonde beard as he surveyed me.

  Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”

  The fact that he addressed my bother rather than me was a slap of sobriety and I responded with mildly offended displeasure, “Yes they have a sister.” My neck started to itch.

  Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”

  “I thought Ash was a boy.” The blonde stranger said this like he was both shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with trickery and deception.

  “No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.

  The stranger’s eyes moved back to me, swept up and down my body in blatant inspection. He did not look pleased.

  “Obviously.” The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.

  Then, in that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Like, romance novel handsome. But not the clean cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.

  He was the bodice ripper, Scottish highlander or Viking conqueror, historical romance kind; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

  But his less than flattering expression was the second slap needed to propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction to his synapses suppressing rugged handsomeness and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that it was 6:14 am in the morning and this male specimen of fineness was the reason I was awake.

  Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.

  I gave him my very best you’re not worth my time glare even as I fought again a tardy blush of embarrassment. Although, I wasn’t sure if I was blushing because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or because he obviously found me repulsive.

  Really, I’d ogled him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out stink-eye.

  Ignoring these disturbing and uncomplimentary musings, I turned to Jethro. “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated to the stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”

  Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a lot for Jethro. “Come on, Ash. We gotta be at work in two hours. Cut us a break.”

  I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a job?”

  Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I gotta job, baby sister.”

  I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with mild embarrassment. I had been gone a long time and I had no desire to insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.

  Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and peered at me. Even though I was younger than both of them, when we were growing up I’d been the sole responsible child of the seven Winston brood, and the only girl. My three older—and especially my three younger brothers—had always seen me as an authority figure.

  I fought against the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twister-encounter and shook my head, “Look, my flight just got in at two this morning and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with momma.” I paused, then added. “I need some sleep.”

  “Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger behind me. My back stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.

  My brother Billy walked to the side of the car, leaned against the rim of the front tire. “Yep. I came home two days ago, she left a note.”

  “What kind of note?” The stranger asked.

  “She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital.”

  My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that she could be sick with the flu or maybe just needed a vacation from the crazy that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely fine.

  “I didn’t know she
was sick.” The blond man said, coming to stand next to me, my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision I noted that his right hand was covering his left nipple.

  “No one did.” Billy said, shaking his head then looking at me. “Not even Ash.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” The blond man crossed his arms and an air of privilege and authority hung heavy around him. “Start from the beginning.” He demanded.

  A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man, this stranger, sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in the loop regarding what happened with my mother.

  Maybe it was my lack of sleep; or maybe it was the stress of not knowing what was going on with my mother; or maybe it was because his insinuation of entitlement reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at my job back in Chicago; but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder, despite his colossal handsomeness and despite the fact that I’d assaulted then molested his man-nipples.

  I glared at his raggedy, unkempt beard and longish blond hair, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your business? And who the hell are you?”

  Mr. Blond Beard narrowed his eyes at me, like I was gum on his shoe. I returned his malicious glower, like he was gum in my hair.

  I heard Jethro clear his throat and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Huntsman. He’s my boss.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston.” He drawled, extending his hand, employing ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use when they say, Bless your heart, and they really mean, You couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an escort.

  But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively aggravated by the audacity of my existence.

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” I returned his ironic southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced-volley.

  When I’d left Tennessee eight years ago, Jethro’s ‘job’ was selling weed to vacationing teenagers, then stealing their cars. I guessed that this self-important blond toolbox was likely in a similar trade. Instead of accepting his hand, I continued, “Your professional relationship with my brother not-withstanding, I’m certain even someone like you can recognize that this a personal family matter and is, quite frankly, none of your business.”