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

by Penny Reid

  Not waiting for his reaction, I turned back to Jethro. “Rev your engine all you like. I’m getting dressed and going to town, see what I can find out.”

  I strolled out of the garage with my head held high. I did my best to ignore the fact that I felt Drew’s eyes, sure and hot as a brand, on my backside. This was accompanied by the unavoidable and spreading warmth in my chest associated with the awareness that a super-hot mountain of a man was watching me walk away.

  A super hot mountain man who’d looked at me like I had three heads and all of them were Khloe Kardashian doppelgangers.

  I decided to overlook the knowledge that my hasty, arrogant dismissal of him was likely undermined by the fact that I was leaving in a huff while wearing nothing but my underwear. Also undermining my superiority was the fact that I’d just attacked then fondled his chest. As well, I’d ogled him and he’d responded with repulsion.

  So… yeah. I didn’t have much air in my sad little kite.

  Once I was back inside the house, the door behind me, I leaned against it and released a slow breath. My hands were fisted at my sides so I shook them out, flexing my fingers, and sending a silent prayer upward that whatever was going on with my momma resolved sooner rather than later.

  I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding on to the banister for balance, and crossed to the upstairs bathroom. I had no desire for more marauding Viking interactions, especially when the marauder was so good looking, it nearly eclipsed his entitled arrogance.

  These were the thoughts in my head as I opened the bathroom door and found, to my life-long horror, Beauford Winston—at least I think it was Beauford, though it could have been Duane, the other twin—standing at the edge of the tub, naked except for his ginger beard, a dirty magazine propped on the counter, and his hand wrapped around Beau Jr.

  I screamed.

  He screamed.

  My hands flew to my face.

  He cursed.

  I heard a thud and I turned away. I was now fully, and mortifyingly, awake.

  “Shit, Ash. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry—I should have knocked.”

  “Nah…” he huffed, “I should have locked the door. It’s just that everyone knows Tuesday mornings are my slot.”

  I shook my head, my hands over my face, my back to my younger brother. “Your slot? What do you mean, your slot?”

  “It’s my private time in the tub, you know, to get my rub on.”

  “Gah...” I shook my head and pressed against my eyes with the base of my palms.

  “We’ll give you a copy of the schedule.”

  Tangentially, I heard footsteps thundering through the house, up the stairs.

  “Don’t! Don’t give me a schedule. I don’t want to know. Just, can’t you put a sock on the door or something?”

  “That’s what we used to do but then we kept losing socks. It’s good to see you, Ash.”

  “Uh, you too…?” My hands fell away from my face and I started exiting the bathroom. “I’ll just give you some privacy.”

  But before I made it all the way out the door the path was blocked by the worried visages of Jethro, Billy, and Drew.

  I closed my eyes again, covered my face again, and seriously considered crawling into the cabinet under the bathroom sink—one of my favorite places to hide from my brothers’ torture when I was a kid. I wondered if I would still fit.

  “What the hell?” Jethro’s winded exclamation met my ears and I stifled a groan.

  “Are you okay?” Billy asked. I felt a small, hesitant touch on my shoulder. “We heard screams.”

  I nodded. “Yes. Fine. Just, I need to learn to knock.”

  “Who screamed?” Drew demanded.

  “I did.” I said, inwardly grimacing.

  “We heard two screams.” Jethro contradicted. “Did you scream twice?”

  “I didn’t scream. I… I yelped.” Even Beauford’s voice sounded mortified.

  “That wasn’t a yelp. That was a scream. You screamed, like a woman.” Billy said this like he was addressing a jury.

  “Whatever, scream, yelp, who cares. I should have locked the door.” Beauford’s easy-going tone made me feel a bit better. I didn’t remember him being so nice. Then he said, “Oh, hey Drew. Didn’t see you there.”

  “Hey Beau.”

  “What happened to your chest?” Beau asked.

  I wanted to disappear, especially when Drew responded, “Some woman couldn’t keep her hands off me. What’s going on in here?”

  Beau didn’t answer. The room was blanketed in a brief silence as, I was sure, understanding began to dawn.

  Jethro was the one to break the awkward soundless comprehension. “Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Tuesday mornings are Beau’s time slot.”

  “I know that now.” I said, sighed, and peeked at them from between my fingers. “I’ll just knock from now on.”

  “Do you want the schedule? We have a schedule.” Billy’s offer was paired with his thumb thrown over his shoulder, presumably pointing in the direction of where their schedule was kept.

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’ll just knock.”

  The sound of barely suppressed laughter pulled my eyes to where entitled Drew hovered in the doorway. His lips were compressed, rolled between his teeth, his big shoulders were shaking, and he stared at the ground like his life hung in the balance.

  My mortification abruptly turned to irritation, then to fury.

  “On second thought…” I said, my hands dropping from my face, my spine straightening, “I will take the schedule.”

  I noted Billy glance over my shoulder to Beau then turn his gaze to Jethro. “Oh, okay. I’ll get it for you.”

  “In fact,” I crossed my arms over my chest, scowling at Drew’s lingering smile. “What days are free?”

  Another stunned silence descended and I noted with satisfaction that the marauder’s grin fell as his eyes lifted to mine. They searched and burned and I knew, beyond a doubt, that he was imagining me in this bathroom, naked, by myself, getting—as Beau put it—my rub on. It was written all over his ruggedly handsome face.

  Strangely enough given our early encounter, he didn’t look repulsed by this thought. Maybe he was just an equal-opportunity perv.

  I refused to blush. I refused to appear even an ounce embarrassed.

  But I couldn’t conquer the resultant thundering of my heart; or the hot, sudden twisting in my abdomen; or tingling awareness on the back of my neck. It was everything I could do to hide all the outward effects that his evocative, penetrating stare elicited.

  Instead I narrowed my gaze on his for a brief second, then moved just my eyes to Billy. He was looking at me like I had three heads and all of them were made of skunk tails.

  “Uh… what?” Billy asked.

  “Which days are free? On the schedule?”

  Billy blinked at me and his voice cracked a little when he responded. “I think Sundays and Wednesdays, since Roscoe moved out. But you probably don’t want Wednesdays.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s usually when the new magazines show up in the mail.”

  I fought the urge to grimace and nodded once, gave him a tightlipped smile. “Good. Put me down for Sundays. There’s no postal service on Sundays.”

  I heard Beau groan from behind me, then he made a slight gagging sound. “Things I never needed to know about my sister.”

  With that, I strolled out of the bathroom, pointedly not looking the physical manifestation of every bodice ripper hero I’d ever read, and closed the distance to my room with measured steps.

  Once inside, door shut (and locked), I crossed to my bed and flopped down on my stomach.

  I made three mental notes:

  1) Always knock, every room, every time. Maybe drag my feet and bang pots and pans down the halls. This is not a house to be a ninja in.

  2) Never be alone with Drew Huntsman.

  3) Do everything in my power
to leave before Sunday.

  *END SNEAK PEEK*

  Beauty and the Mustache releases September 9, 2014

  Sneak Peek: Missionary Position, by Daisy Prescott

  Chapter 1

  “You should meet my brother.”

  I had been picked up many times in airport bars, but a brother set up was a first. Not that I expected the woman sitting next to me—with her glass of Pinot Grigio—to be the type to hit on strange women, but this was JFK. A crossroads of world travelers meant anything was possible. We’d been sitting silently next to each other at a sushi bar, poking away at our phones when our identical orders of spicy tuna hand-rolls were placed in front of us. She initiated a conversation and we fell into an animated discussion about the delicious merits of quality sushi.

  Married? Never. Her? Divorced

  Kids? No way. Her? A thirteen-year-old daughter.

  From? Portland. Her? Chicago. Her accent told me she wasn’t born there. I guessed someplace like Scandinavia where they bred supermodels.

  The typical questions of where we were headed and sharing our woes of travel followed. I liked her.

  “Is your brother in Dubai?” I asked. Anita had shared her excitement over her upcoming week there. I admitted it sounded glamorous and far more luxe than my travel plans.

  “No, Dubai is for business and a little fun. My brother’s in Amsterdam, where I’m from. You did say you’re going to Amsterdam, didn’t you?”

  Dutch. I was close. Must be all the cheese. Or chocolate.

  “Oh, right. I’ll be there for a week before my work takes me to Ghana.”

  “Are you a missionary?” the athletic blonde asked me.

  “A missionary in Amsterdam? Is anyone that much of a masochist? I’m not even a fan of the missionary position.”

  She spit out her wine. Wiping her chin with a napkin, she gathered her composure. “I thought perhaps you planned to visit Amsterdam to sin a little before doing the good work in Africa. Isn’t that what most Americans do there? Meddle with the best intentions in the name of a church?”

  I blinked at my bar mate. “Not a fan of religion?”

  “I grew up in the Netherlands. Churches are for tourists in most towns.”

  I laughed. “I think I’ll fit right in there. To answer your question, I’m a professor. My sabbatical is taking me to Amsterdam, and then on to Accra to study the female form in Ashanti sculptures.”

  “You study naked women?”

  “Not only women. I’m an equal opportunity nudist. I mean I study the human form across cultures. Nothing against the penis, but it’s hard to represent one in all its glory without it seeming silly or grotesque.” I giggled, and Anita did, too. “I prefer female bodies in art with all the beautiful variation.”

  She blatantly swept her gaze over my body, from my messy, dark bob down to my overnight flight outfit of an open cardigan over exposed, but tasteful, cleavage, down to my yoga pants and comfortable but not fashionable flats. Maybe she was hitting on me. I straightened the scarf around my neck.

  “You really should look up my brother.” She tapped her phone, bringing it to life. “I’ll give you his information. Text him. He’ll be perfect company while you’re in Amsterdam.” Out of her designer bag, she pulled a business card and an expensive looking pen, which she used to scrawl a name and number on the back of her card.

  “Your brother’s name is Gerhard?” I failed to fully stifle my snort. Get hard. Gerrharrd. Gerhard would make the perfect name for a scoundrel pirate. I’d have to remember it for my next pirotica novel.

  “I know. Isn’t it the most uptight name? I wish I could say it doesn’t suit him, but he can be a complete prat sometimes.”

  The garbled voice of a boarding announcement broke over the speakers. She glanced down at her watch.

  “Oh, my flight’s boarding. Call Gerhard. I think you’d have fun with him.”

  “Didn’t you just say he was a prat?”

  “Sometimes, but women seem to love the bad boys, don’t they?” She gathered her things and left a sizable tip on the bar. “Great to meet you, Selah. Best of luck with your sabbatical.”

  I smiled at my new supermodel friend. If her brother shared her genes, maybe I would look him up when I arrived. “Bye, Anita.”

  “Say hi to Gerhard for me.” With a sparkling white smile and a wave, she disappeared into the crowd of travelers.

  What an odd, yet friendly, woman.

  I spun her card on the bar. Anita Hendriks, management consultant. She had the same last name; the brother part could be legit. Gerhard, though. Get harder. I giggled and finished the last of my saketini. Scrolling through my mental file of lovers, aka The United Nations of Peen, I realized I’d never slept with a Dutchman. Maybe Gerhard could check off an item on my fuck-it list.

  * * *

  Being a professor might sound glamorous and interesting to some, but for me it meant having to fly coach on international flights. A window seat earned me a place in a slightly higher level of hell than a middle seat or the row right next to the bathrooms where the seats didn’t recline. Still, it was hell nonetheless.

  The crush of summer tourists filled the flight to capacity. College backpackers, stoners, and shifty-eyed men populated the plane. I doubted they would be seeing any Van Goghs or Rembrandts.

  I wanted a cigarette. Damn quitting. Stupid aging and health. I reached into my bag for a piece of nicotine gum. Over the past three months, I’d managed to wean myself off cigarettes; deliciously comforting, soothing, invigorating, cancer-causing cigarettes. After smoking for decades, I missed the habit of it. At least flights were smoke-free these days. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to stand in the smoking section and acquire a contact nicotine hit.

  Groggy after a sleep-aid induced nap, a gray sky greeted me when the plane landed at Schiphol Airport. Even in summer, Amsterdam had more rain than my beloved Portland. And cooler temperatures, I realized as I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. The variation in climates meant I had packed for three seasons for two countries. Ghana promised to be hot, humid, rainy, and dry, but never cool.

  At immigration, Anita’s business card fell to the floor when I reached for my passport. The man who picked it up and handed it to me looked half my age, which meant he was young enough to be one of my students. This reality didn’t stop him from brushing against my side and flirting with me while we waited in line. With his guidebook opened to “cafés” I knew the type of adventure he wanted. Been there, smoked that. Before he could continue his attempt to flirt or ask to share a cab into the city, I brusquely thanked him and moved forward to the immigration agent.

  Sitting in the back of a cab slowly making its way through morning rush hour into the heart of Amsterdam, I pulled out Anita’s card with Gerhard’s name on it. I admitted I was more than curious. After the attentions of the much younger man in line, I wondered how old Anita’s brother was. It would be crazy to call him. Anita was gorgeous, and if her brother swam in the same gene pool, chances were he was just as tall, blond, and athletic. Everything I didn’t typically find attractive. Although I shut down Backpack Romeo in the airport, these days my type meant anyone with a pulse, single, and not looking for a housekeeper. Viagra optional. I took pills to sleep and had a wee nicotine addiction. Who was I to judge the need for a little blue pill?

  My fingers flicked the card to the beat of a techno song on the radio.

  Anita wasn’t a friend or even a friend of a friend. What would I say? Hi, I thought your sister tried to pick me up at a sushi bar at JFK, but turns out she wanted to set me up with you.

  No, that wouldn’t work.

  Hi, your sister gave me your number. I’ve never had sex with a Dutchman, so I’m calling you. Are you up for some Flying Dutchman action?

  No. Wasn’t the Flying Dutchman some haunted ship doomed to roam the oceans forever? Maybe I could ask Gerhard.

  Jet lag forced a yawn from me. After stretching my arms and rolling my neck, I tucke
d the card back into my purse. No need to rush things.

  First things first. Coffee and something made of ninety-percent butter. Maybe some cheese. Followed by chocolate.

  Maybe some bitterballen.

  I snorted. I might have been too old for college backpackers, but my sense of humor still lingered around that of a fourteen-year-old boy.

  Amsterdam, I’m coming for you.

  You too, Gerhard.

  *END SNEAK PEEK*

  You can grab Missionary Position, by Daisy Prescot on Amazon Kindle now!

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

  Prologue

  Cheat on me once, shame on him. Cheat on me twice... what the actual fuck is going on? How in the world have I managed to find my last two boyfriends cheating on me? No, not together. Although, that would have been much more poetic, and at least they could have included me or something.

  The reality was much worse.

  "Wow. What a treat to walk in on," I noted harshly as I stood in the doorway of Josh's bedroom. Josh and the nameless bimbo screamed and jumped apart on his bed, causing his navy sheets to tumble to the ground. His brown eyes found mine, and for one brief second, I mourned the loss of his warm gaze, but then my field of vision widened and I was slapped with the sad scene before me.

  My boyfriend of four months was cheating on me. No, scratch that. My friend of four years, turned boyfriend of four months, was cheating on me.

  "Oh, no please, don't stop on my account. I'm only his girlfriend," I hissed at the bimbo, trying to calm my temper. I was known to be feisty on a good day, so that was hardly brushing the surface for me.

  Josh's dark brown hair was ruffled from the bimbo's hands. His sharp features were pitiful, but still handsome. I barely glanced in the girl's direction. Platinum blonde hair was the only feature I noticed. Probably because it was bright enough to burn through my corneas. First, she steals my boyfriend, and then she renders me visionless. Just great.