Ninja At First Sight

by Penny Reid

  My brain was going to explode all over my bedroom, which would be inconvenient since I’d just vacuumed.

  I meticulously modulated my voice so I wouldn’t shout my response. “Are you kidding? I’ve been through every investment house in Chicago and there is no one left, according to you everyone is either incompetent or corrupt. This has been going on for eighteen months, and meanwhile our retirement has been sitting in a low return savings account.”

  “Better it return nothing than we invest it in malicious corporations.” He shrugged. “You know my thoughts on Monsanto.”

  I…

  I just…

  I just couldn’t…

  I took a deep breath, pushing the rage down. Greg had no way of knowing, but today was one of the worst possible day for him to deliver this news.

  In addition to the unexplained headaches, I was extremely low on sleep because our daughter Grace had been having nightmares all week. The garbage disposal had stopped working two days ago, as had the dishwasher. Both kids had science projects due and every store in Chicago was out of poster board. Plus our son, Jack had forgotten to give his teacher the money and slip for his field trip later in the week—he’d lost both—and I hadn’t yet found five minutes to contact the woman about sorting it out.

  Added to all of this, I’d just started contract work for my old engineering firm two months ago and was already behind in my latest project. Everything I touched was breaking, or broken, or a failure.

  Therefore, I endeavored to be reasonable… or at least sound reasonable. “Pick a different fund.”

  His eyelids lowered and he shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not investing my money with a corrupt wanker.”

  “He’s not a corrupt wanker. Mr. Jackson is a grandfather who volunteers his free time with the Boys and Girls club and organizes the South Street soup kitchen. Alex checked him out—like checked him out—and he’s completely clean.” Alex was my good friend Sandra’s husband, and also a world class computer hacker. When I said Alex had checked out Mr. Jackson, I truly meant it. The man was a saint.

  “Then why would he suggest a fund with an eleven percent stake in Monsanto?”

  “Probably because he’s trying to do his job, which is invest our money where it’ll have the best return. We can pick a different fund.”

  He said nothing, just continued to shake his head slowly. Meanwhile I was holding on to my composure by sheer force of will. But when we ended the call I was likely going to dismember Greg’s favorite boxer briefs and hide his cell phone charger. He always did this. He always found a reason not to sign.

  Desperate and beyond aggravated, I scoffed, “If I show you my breasts will you sign the papers?”

  Greg’s eyes narrowed until he was squinting. He turned his head to the side, glaring at me as though he were both trying to discern whether or not I was being serious, and whether seeing my boobs was worth compromising his morals.

  “Add an emailed photo of your ass and you have a deal.”

  I did growl then, and this time my face fell into my hands. If he didn’t sign those transfer papers, then I would send him a picture of an ass. Maybe lots of asses. Only they wouldn’t be mine. And they wouldn’t be human. They would be equine.

  “Fiona, darling, I’m not trying to aggravate you. You know where and how we invest is important to me.” His voice was soft, beseeching, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I loved his voice; I loved his posh British accent; I loved it when he called me darling, which—after fourteen years of marriage—he rarely did anymore.

  Usually I could laugh off his churlishness and bring him around to my perspective using well-reasoned arguments and my wifely-wiles. But I didn’t have the time or the mental energy at present to entertain my forty-one year old husband’s plethora of opinions—opinions I usually considered endearing and charming.

  For some reason, in this instance, his opinion didn’t feel at all charming. It struck me as burdensome and self-indulgent. Like he was being dismissive of the work I’d done, the massive amount of time and effort I’d spent on resolving this vitally important issue.

  “I have to go,” I finally said, because I did have to go. But also because my head hurt and I couldn’t talk to him anymore without losing my temper.

  “Okay…”

  I wasn’t looking at him, my brain was full of fire ants, but I heard the reluctance and his surprise in his voice.

  “Okay. Bye, Greg.” I lifted my gaze and scanned the screen for the location of the courser, moving the mouse to the end call button.

  “I love you, Fiona,” he said, his voice still soft, coaxing, and maybe a little confused.

  I gave him a flat smile and nodded, responding reflexively, “I love you, too.”

  “Don’t be angry.”

  I shrugged. “I have to go.”

  “Okay love.”

  “Bye.”

  “Wait, Fiona-”

  I ended the call before he could complete his thought and immediately regretted it. I would apologize to him later. Staring at the desktop icons for a full minute, I contemplated what to do next.

  I wouldn’t dismember his boxer briefs, I loved it when he walked around in just his boxer briefs. He’d maintained the lithe runner’s build from our college days. Even if he hadn’t, I would still enjoy watching him walk around half naked, because he was my husband, he was mine and I was his. I truly adored him… most of the time.

  But if he didn’t pick a different fund and sign those papers, I was seriously considering hiding all the cell phone chargers he kept in the apartment.

  I shook my head, dispelling the childish impulse, and checked my watch again. It was time to go.

  As I grabbed my bag and left our apartment, a sinister voice in my head—tired of being covered in fire ants—reminded me there was another option. I could fake his signature and never tell him, invest the money without him knowing. Just contemplating it made my stomach hurt. It was a line I wasn’t ready to cross. I’d already allowed Grace—our five year old daughter—to have a princess costume to wear to a slumber party, and our eight year old son Jack to play soccer without Greg’s consent.

  I hadn’t even asked Greg because I knew what he would say.

  That’s right, Greg had an opinion about princess costumes and boys playing sports—he was against both. I knew for a fact he hated princess-culture, loathed the ‘Disney machinery of feminine oppression and objectification’ as he called it. He’d also said in the past if Jack played sports then Grace had to as well. Which was why Jack was currently taking ballet with Grace—because if Grace took ballet, Jack had to as well. Jack didn’t mind learning to dance, as long as he also got to play soccer.

  But Grace didn’t want to play soccer. She wanted to wear pink and play with dolls. She also loved superheroes, Legos, drawing, Darth Vader, and astronomy. She was a great kid, who happened to love dressing as a princess. So, while he was gone, I bent the rules. Just a little.

  “Hey, earth to Fiona. Anyone home?”

  I started, blinking as I brought my neighbor into focus. He was holding the elevator doors open, had likely said hello, and I’d been so lost to my thoughts I hadn’t noticed. This level of distraction was very unlike me; awareness and the cataloging of my surroundings was typically second nature. Apparently, I was extremely upset.

  I rushed forward into the lift and turned to give him an apologetic smile as he walked in after me. “Oh, hi. Thanks. Sorry Matt. I’m a little preoccupied. Sorry.”

  He pressed the button for the lobby and stepped back to face me, tilting his head to the side, his light brown eyes assessing as they moved over my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Just fine.” He responded slowly, openly inspecting me according to his habit.

  I’d first met Matthew Simmons when I was nine. He’d been two. His parents and my parents were both unhappily married and belonged to the same country club. I babysat for him a few times over the
years, one of the few normal teenager activities I’d been allowed.

  Matt had moved in next door to me and the kids two weeks after Christmas. I hadn’t realized it was the same Matty Simmons until I’d brought him a welcome-to-the-building dinner and he’d blurted, “Peona!” The name he’d given me when he was a toddler.

  This habit, openly scrutinizing people, was something he’d done even when he was still in diapers. And after living next door to Professor Matthew Simmons for the last two months, I knew evaluating and calculating were his adult default as well.

  My smile grew more sincere the longer he scrutinized me. Matty—now Matt—had grown to be adorably peculiar and nerdy. In fact he was brazenly nerdy; but he was also nice and genuine. He’d always been nice and genuine.

  Regardless, I’d had Alex run a background check on the professor—I might have been a little slap happy with the background checks, but suspicious was my default—when the Grace and Jack had warmed to him so quickly. The man was an open book. Undergrad at Caltech, post grad at MIT, computer scientist, associate professor at the University of Chicago, divorced two years ago and presently married to his work, terrible cook. He was also surprisingly good with kids, though he had none.

  And my parents and his parents still belonged to the same country club.

  “How’s Grace’s science fair project coming along?”

  I pulled on my gloves and bobbed my head back and forth. “So-so. She convinced the kids to taste the PTC strip, but can’t get them to eat the broccoli.” Grace was trying to determine how many of the children in her second grade class were ‘super tasters’, meaning more sensitive to certain foods than the rest of the population.

  “Well, let me know if you need any help.”

  “I appreciate the offer.”

  “I’m not being altruistic.” His dark eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, a display of pointed sincerity. “I’d do almost anything for another of your roast chicken dinners.”

  My grin widened. “Then why don’t you come over and help Grace with her science fair project on Saturday? I was planning to make roast chicken anyway.”

  Matt nodded before I’d finished making the offer. “I accept,” he blurted as the elevator dinged, as though marking his acceptance rather than our arrival to the lobby. We both laughed and filed out, parting ways at the entrance to the building after another few minutes of small talk.

  Despite the distraction of nerdy and nice Professor Simmons, I was soon stewing in my discontent again. I stewed as I catalogued all the inhabitants of the train, making note of threat likelihood, the location of exit points, and potential weapons. One man near the end of the train was holding an umbrella tucked under his arm; this was odd because it was snowing, not raining.

  I kept my eyes on him when the train stopped—still stewing in my earlier frustration—and watched him as we both departed. When we exited the train station, he opened the umbrella and turned left. Apparently he didn’t want any snowflakes to fall on his waterproof nylon jacket.

  Delores Day’s Dance Studio was on the third floor of a mixed use brownstone, and I arrived on time. Several mothers, fathers, and nannies—all of which I recognized—were crowded around the door between the practice room and the waiting area. Kids, mostly little girls in tight buns, pink leotards, and stockings, skipped out of the classroom to their caregivers.

  I nodded and smiled, chit chatted with the gathered parents about nothing in particular, and craned my neck for a glimpse of my munchkins. When they didn’t appear after a few minutes, I excused myself from the circle of adults wrangling their own children and poked my head into the classroom door. Grace was sitting on the floor trying to tie her snow boots and waved at me immediately; but Jack was sitting on a bench in front of a piano, his back was to me, and he appeared to be in deep conversation with their ballet teacher. Miss Delores Day was eighty at least and in better shape than most thirty year-olds I knew. She was also sassier than most thirty year-olds I knew.

  I let the door close behind me and I crossed the room, the sound of my footsteps drawing Delores and Jack’s attention. The older woman gave me a broad smile and glided to meet me halfway across the room with the grace of a life-long dancer.

  “Mrs. Archer.”

  “Please, call me Fiona.” I waved away the formality, my attention moving between Jack and his teacher. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes! Everything is excellent. Jack was filling in for Mrs. St. Claire again, he is such a dear boy. A disinterested dancer, but a dear boy.”

  “Filling in?” I frowned at Delores then looked to Jack for a clue; he wasn’t looking at me, his dark eyes were affixed to the keys of the instrument and I noted his cheeks were red. “Doesn’t Mrs. St. Claire provide the piano accompaniment?”

  “That’s right. He has a real gift, though he’s a bit rusty on the Dance of the Four Swans. More practicing at home should straighten all that out. Now, I do want to talk to you about-”

  “Wait, hold on.” I held my hands up to keep her from continuing. “I think one of us is confused. Jack doesn’t play the piano. He doesn’t play any instruments.”

  Delores squinted at me, as though she didn’t understand my words. “What was that, dear?”

  “Jack doesn’t play the piano.”

  “Yes he does.”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “Well then he does a good job of pretending to play Tchaikovsky.”

  “Wha- what?” Why was it suddenly hot in the dance studio?

  I turned my confused frown to my son and found him watching me with a gaze too much like Greg’s. His face was angelic, but his eyes held a hint of devilry and guilt.

  “Jack?” I appealed to him. “What’s this all about?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been messing around a little.” I didn’t miss how his fingers stroked the white keys of the piano with affection.

  “Messing around?” Delores and I asked in unison.

  “My dear boy, one does not mess around with Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.” Delores straightened her spine and sniffed in his direction, as though he’d offended her.

  “When? Where?” My head was swimming and I needed to lean against something sturdy. I walked to the upright piano and placed a hand on it.

  He shrugged again. “Here. At school. At Professor Simmons’.”

  “Have you been getting piano lessons? At school?”

  “No. But Ms. Pastizo lets me in the chorus room during lunch.”

  “Ms. Pastizo lets you in the chorus room…?” I repeated. I was so confused. Jack was only eight, never had a music lesson, never—to my knowledge—displayed any interest in music or taking lessons. I glanced between him and the instrument. “Play something, please.”

  He swallowed, his gaze wide and watchful… and wary. “I still want to play soccer.”

  “What?”

  “If I have to choose between music and soccer, I want to play soccer.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I promised you, you can play soccer this spring and I will keep my promise.” My gaze flickered to Delores, who was now watching us with dawning comprehension.

  “He’s never had a lesson.” She made this statement to the room rather than to any one of its inhabitants, and with no small amount of wonder and awe.

  Her wonder and awe made me nervous. “Jack, play Tchaikovsky. Play the Dance of the Six Ducks.”

  “The Dance of the Four Swans.” Delores provided gently, coming to stand next to me.

  “Yes. That one.” I knew nothing about Tchaikovsky’s music other than what I heard on the local NPR classical radio station. I couldn’t believe my young son was capable of playing chopsticks, let alone anything so complicated.

  Jack narrowed his eyes with protest, so I narrowed mine with warning. My mom-glare must’ve been sufficiently threatening, because he sighed loudly and placed his hands on the keys. He gave one more dramatic sigh before his eyes lost focus and he began playing.

&
nbsp; And ohmydearGodinheaven, my son was playing the Jig of the Even Numbered Birds by Tchaikovsky. And he was playing it well. Remarkably well. Without sheet music. My jaw dropped and I covered my open mouth with shaking fingers.

  “Oh my God.”

  Delores’s hand closed over my shoulder and I turned my gaze to hers. She was smiling at me, a knowing smile, an elated smile. And it terrified me.

  “He’s never had a lesson?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you know what this means.”

  I shook my head again—faster this time—not because I didn’t know what his spontaneous piano playing meant, but because I didn’t want her to say it.

  “How lovely,” she said, obviously not understanding the ramifications of her next words, “Jack is a prodigy.”

  ~End sneak peek~

  Happily Ever Ninja releases January 19, 2016

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Knitting in the City Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

  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: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

  Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5, January 19, 2016)

  Dating-ish: A Scientific Romance (#6 – TBD 2016)

  Book #7 – TBD 2017

  Winston Brother Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

  Truth or Beard (#1)

  Grin and Beard It (#2, coming 2016)

  Beard Science (#3, coming 2017)

  Book #4 – TBD 2017

  Book #5 – TBD 2018

  Book #6 – TBD 2018

  Hypothesis Series

  (New Adult Romantic Comedy)

  The Elements of Chemistry: ATTRACTION, HEAT, and CAPTURE (#1)

  Book #2 – TBD 2017

  Book #3 – TBD 2018

  Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid