Ninja At First Sight

by Penny Reid

  “I hope she packed nothing, except maybe a toothbrush.”

  He squirmed in his seat and was quiet for the rest of the drive.

  Meanwhile I spent the time trying to hide my smile.

  ***

  Improv.

  That was the surprise.

  Greg had secured tickets to an improv festival in Chicago. I think I laughed for three hours straight, my jaw and sides hurt. It was so funny that Greg eventually loosened up as well.

  My comment in the car, meant to make him slightly uncomfortable, made a larger impact than I’d anticipated because his strange, meditative silence persisted. As well, he was more hands on than was typical—pulling me under his arm instead of holding my hand, rubbing my shoulders as we stood in line, kissing my neck when we were seated.

  My theory—that he’d been holding back because he didn’t want to push me out of my comfort zone—was confirmed in spades.

  With each touch and kiss he took a step back and studied me, as though he were gauging my reaction. My reaction each time was to return his affection with affection, and to try to up the ante a hundred fold.

  He placed his arm on my shoulders, I placed my hand on his butt. And squeezed.

  He rubbed my back, I rubbed my bottom against his groin.

  He kissed my neck. I brought his middle finger to my mouth, was able to suck on it for maybe three seconds before he pulled it out of my grasp and gaped at me like I’d lost my mind. He cursed, inspected our surroundings to see if anyone had been watching, and shifted in his seat like he was having trouble holding still.

  I didn’t care. The seed had been planted back in the car on the drive over. He’d definitely been teasing about staying in the city. He’d had no intention of spending the night with me. The surprise was the improv, not a night together.

  As funny and enjoyable as the show was, I was disappointed.

  When we stood to depart after the program and he drew me close to his side, I decided to push the matter.

  “So, where is our hotel?”

  His narrowed gaze slid to mine. He said nothing.

  “Oh, I see. You were bluffing.”

  He stopped walking, also pulling me to a stop, and turned me to face him. His eyes made a quick survey of my upturned face and he stepped closer, forcing me to tilt my head back.

  “What if I weren’t bluffing?” his voice was low, dark, delicious, and curious. “What if I’d gotten a hotel room in the city, and Fern had packed you a bag of toothbrushes and nothing else?”

  My chest was airy and tight, I felt like I was floating and yet irrevocably bound to him; my words were breathless as I responded, “I guess you’d be my first kiss, and my first…”

  He scrutinized me for a long moment, his eyes simmering and unsettling, but giving nothing of his thoughts away. We stood, still as statues, regarding each other as the city moved around us. It was cold and windy. A taxi’s brakes screeched as it stopped at the light on Michigan Avenue. A group of friends ambled by, laughing and chatting about the show, recalling their favorite parts. Their voices ebbed and flowed and were eclipsed by new voices, new sounds.

  I was contemplating whether or not I should feel silly—and had just definitively decided against it—when he lowered his eyes to my mouth, his expression still unreadable, and said, “Well then, let’s go find a hotel.”

  ***

  My bravado left me as soon as we crossed the threshold of the room.

  If Greg hadn’t asked the concierge for two toothbrushes when we’d checked in, or if the room hadn’t been quite so nice, or if the bed hadn’t been quite so big, I might have been able to sustain my courage for another five to ten minutes.

  Alas, Greg did ask the concierge for toothbrushes. And champagne. It was on its way.

  The room was nice. Extremely nice. Swanky, with a view. We were on the seventeenth floor. A window spanning carpet to ceiling overlooked downtown, the park, and Lake Michigan.

  The bed was big. It was huge, and tall, with an excessive number of pillows. A single rose lay across the white duvet, slanted at an artful angle.

  Everything was perfect. But it was also real. And that’s why I stumbled over my feet just inside the door, the reality of my here and now catching up with me.

  The door clicked shut and I flinched at the sound, holding my breath. My feelings were lodged in my throat and I couldn’t have spoken a word if I tried. Greg was behind me. And he was waiting.

  And waiting.

  … and waiting.

  I didn’t move.

  The distant sound of a horn blaring met my ears, followed by a blanket of heavy silence.

  And still I didn’t move.

  So he moved.

  The air shifted, growing thicker and heavier. His hands came to my shoulders, his fingers slipping into the neck of my jacket.

  He bent to my neck, his lips at my ear. “Darling, let me take your jacket.”

  I nodded, relinquishing it, and—as a consequence—stepped further into the room. My heels were silent on the plush carpet. Beyond the walls, on the streets below, the city was muted. I wondered if the muffled hum of Chicago would be the soundtrack for… tonight.

  A succinct knock on the door propelled me forward. I paced to the window and searched the darkened lawns of the park, leaving Greg to deal with the champagne and room service. People were still milling about, clusters of them, despite the lateness of the hour and the freezing temperatures and biting wind. At length, the door to our room closed again. I gathered a steadying breath and peeked over my shoulder.

  Greg was standing at the high-top mini bar, untwisting the wire that held the champagne cork in place. I studied his profile and found his inscrutable mask hadn’t altered. I had no idea what was going on in his head. More than the toothbrushes, the room, and the bed, his lack of expression tormented me.

  Before I could ask him what he was thinking, he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  I lifted my eyebrows in expectation, glad he’d decided to both break and fill the silence. “What’s that?”

  Greg smoothed a hand down his tie, he’d already removed both his overcoat and his suit jacket, and spoke to the glasses he’d just poured. “As you know, I have one year left before I graduate.”

  He seemed to be waiting for me to reply, so I said, “Yes, I know.”

  “But what I haven’t mentioned…” he trailed off, staring at the glasses, apparently reluctant to continue.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I watched his chest rise and fall with bracing breaths. He was making me nervous.

  “Greg?”

  He gathered one last large inhale and finally gave me his eyes. “I’m moving to Texas.”

  I stood straighter, attempting to make sense of his statement. When I was certain I’d heard him correctly, I sought to clarify, “Next year, when you graduate?”

  “No. I’m transferring to Texas for my senior year. I applied last fall and just received the acceptance letter last week. Their program is superior—for obvious reasons—and I have an internship lined up.”

  “Starting in September?” I crossed my arms.

  He shook his head, pausing for a beat before admitting, “Starting in May.”

  “May,” I echoed, my stomach falling to my feet as my eyes moved beyond him. “Oh…”

  My ears were ringing.

  We’d touched on the future in abstract terms—what we wanted to do with our lives, what we hoped to accomplish, graduate schools, fields of study. But we’d never spoken of definite, concrete plans involving each other. It hadn’t occurred to me that the future would be so soon. It also hadn’t occurred to me that we would ever be apart, now that we were together.

  How silly of me. How terribly naïve.

  “Fiona.”

  I brought my eyes back to his, silencing the ringing in my ears, and found him watching me with tense expectation.

  “I leave in three weeks.”

  I felt dazed, li
ke I’d been sucker punched.

  I also felt like crying.

  “Fe.”

  “Hmm?”

  Greg studied me, his face persistently clear of expression. Neither of us had turned on any of the lamps in the room. The interior was illuminated exclusively by the city lights, a multifarious mixture of reds and blues, mixing to grey, and drawing long shadows on the carpet.

  “Do you still want to be here, with me, tonight?”

  Yes. I heard the word in my head as clearly as though it had been spoken. A resounding yes. Maybe even more so now, now that I knew he was leaving.

  Even if Greg leaving meant he wasn’t going to be my last, I still wanted him to be my first.

  I wanted him to be my first everything.

  I nodded, saying nothing because I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  His jaw ticked. He was frowning. Actually, he was scowling.

  Abandoning the champagne glasses, Greg strolled to the foot of the bed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  I didn’t hesitate. I moved to him, memorizing as much of the moment as possible. How his face was cast in half ashen darkness, half indirect light. His too thick hair, standing and windblown. His tie was granite grey, his shirt a crisp white, and his lips rose pink, slightly chapped. He had a freckle just under the right side of his mouth, not dark enough to be a beauty mark.

  “What are you doing?”

  I lifted my gaze to his, realizing I’d been staring, and answered honestly. “Remembering you.”

  His gaze heated, but not in the way I expected. “You realize you’re too good for me, right?”

  I frowned, my voice cracking as I asked, “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s true.” Now his eyes moved over me like I was being memorized. “I’ve been so careful, taking things slow, because I wanted to fall in love with your mind and heart first, not muck it up with arms and legs and appendages. You’re brilliant. And soulful. And beautiful. And clever and kind.” He’d made each of the complimentary attributes sound like an insult. He looked at me like being brilliant, soulful, and the rest were character traits to be pitied.

  “Well, you are all of those things, too,” I countered, stepping away.

  “No. Not like you.” He closed the distance between us again, gripping my sides and yanking me forward, holding me close. His next words were a rough whisper against my ear, a ragged confession, “I love you.”

  I love you.

  Three words.

  Eight letters.

  Mind blown.

  I lifted my hands to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt because I needed to hold on to something.

  “I respect you,” he continued fervently, his hot breath raising goosebumps on my skin and butterflies in my stomach. “I want to support you, I want to sacrifice for you, to forgive you, to cherish you. I want to be unconditional with you…”

  I still hadn’t been able to process I love you, therefore the rest of his speech—much like Greg himself—felt overwhelming.

  “…but I don’t deserve you.”

  I jerked my head backward to catch his eyes, not liking or appreciating his maudlin U-turn.

  “I disagree.” I blurted, my words emphatic, exacting.

  “It’s the truth.” A sad smile on his lips, he pried my fingers from his shirt, gained two steps away, and let me go. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “Best that you know now, before things progress any further.”

  My temper spiked, and I opened my mouth, intent on asking what—precisely—that meant, because it sounded like the prelude to a breakup. I placed my fists on my hips, preparing for a fight, preparing to tell him that I loved him. Because I was pretty sure this suffocating longing and desperation to hand over my heart was, in fact, love.

  I loved his goodness and wrongness, his unwavering priorities and his mulishness. I loved his patience—granted, I also hated his patience—and I loved his wit. And I couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet. And I wanted a chance to be unconditional with him, even if it was only for three weeks.

  But then he knelt on the ground.

  He knelt on one knee.

  And he pulled a box from his pants pocket.

  He looked up at me.

  And I looked down at him.

  He opened the box.

  I covered my mouth.

  There was a ring inside it.

  I stared at the ring.

  My vision blurred.

  I stopped breathing.

  The earth stopped moving.

  Everything stopped.

  And then he spoke, and nothing could have prepared me for the enormity of the moment.

  “I’m not good enough for you, Fe. But…” he shrugged, giving me his crooked smile, “no else one is either. So I might as well take you for my own. Marry me.”

  The End… for now.

  Fiona and Greg’s story continues in ‘Happily Ever Ninja’

  About the Author

  Penny Reid’s days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her three people-children (boy-8, girl-6, girl-4 months), or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!

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  If you liked this book (and, more importantly perhaps, if you didn’t like it) please take a moment to post a review someplace (Amazon, Goodreads, your blog, on a bathroom stall wall, in a letter to your mother, etc.). This helps society more than you know when you make your voice heard; reviews force us to move towards a true meritocracy.

  Read on for:

  Chapter 1 Sneak Peek of Knitting in the City #5, Happily Ever Ninja

  Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

  Sneak Peek: Happily Ever Ninja

  Happily Ever Ninja releases January 19, 2016

  CHAPTER 1—March 2015

  Dear Husband,

  I love you today more than I did yesterday. Yesterday you were a real jerk.

  -Debbie

  New Jersey, USA

  Married 28 years

  "Are we going to have sex tonight? I have stuff to do and it's already nine-thirty."

  “I only have fifteen minutes before I need to go pick up Grace and Jack from ballet.” It may have been 9:30 p.m. for Greg, but it was only 2:30 p.m. for me. I glanced at my watch to confirm this fact. I had less than fifteen minutes. Actually, I had ten. “And we’re not doing anything until you tell me why you haven’t signed the transfer paperwork for the new retirement accounts.”

  I didn’t add, And I have a headache. I did have a headache. I’d had a headache and no appetite for the last week, and off and on for the last month and a half, but I kept this information to myself. I didn’t want to worry him.

  I watched my husband sigh, his face falling into his hands. He looked tired, burnt out. He worked sixteen hour days and usually didn’t shave when he was gone. None of the rig workers did. But he must’ve shaved a few days ago because his chin was covered in two-day old stubble, which only made him look more tired. But it also made him look devilishly sexy. I wished I could reach through the computer screen and give him a hug. And a kiss.

  “Fine,” he growled, finally lifting his head and gathering another large breath. His eyes narrowed and they darted over my form, or what he could see of it from his side of the video c
all. “Could you at least take off your shirt?”

  “Greg.”

  “Show me your tits.”

  “Greg.”

  “I miss your skin, just… flash me.”

  “Greg, be serious.”

  “I am serious. Do I not look serious? Nothing is more serious to me than your body, specifically your tits and legs and mouth. And vagina, but the vagina goes without saying.”

  I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t smile, or worse, laugh. I wasn’t sure how he managed it, but even when I was in a foul mood and feeling overwhelmed—like today—he always found a way to make me laugh. “Greg-”

  “And your brain. Sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t mention your brain.”

  I allowed myself to give in to his sweet silliness. “I love that you mentioned my brain, because I love your brain.”

  With a hint of vulnerability, he asked, “But you don’t love my vagina?”

  I did laugh then, thankful I hadn’t been sipping my coffee. Had I been drinking, it was the kind of laugh that would’ve sent a spray of liquid out of my mouth and nose.

  The sound of his slight chuckle met my ears and it was welcome; but it was also a reminder, he was trying to distract me.

  I shook my head at his antics and tried to refocus. “Okay, enough about your lady closet. Mr. Jackson needs your approval to transfer the money into the new accounts. He emailed the forms three weeks ago, why haven’t you signed them yet?”

  He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, sighing for a third time. When he finally answered his voice and expression were free of all earlier playfulness. “I’m not happy with his fund choices.”

  I blinked at the vision of my husband, the stubborn set of his jaw. Confused, I sputtered for a full minute before spitting out an incredulous, “You approved it last month.”

  “But then I researched the global fund further. Over eleven percent of the principal is invested in a Monsanto subsidiary.”

  My headache throbbed; I nearly growled, “Then pick a different global fund.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t like that he suggested that fund to begin with. I want to go with a different financial advisor.”