Neanderthal Seeks Human (Knitting in the City, #1)

by Penny Reid

She was all smiles and profanity.

“If I ever cheated on my wife, she’d have my balls cut off. If you don’t want to castrate this guy after what he’s done, then he’s not the one for you.”

don’t hold it against this guy if he likes curves on his girl. On second thought, do hold it against him.”

even a foolish man will produce some wisdom, given enough time to drone on and on in unchecked soliloquy. Since most of my time was spent in unchecked soliloquy, I held out hope for some wisdom.

She said I owned the clothes of a radiologist and the shoes of an OB/GYN, which is like the medical doctor equivalent of saying that I dressed like a librarian with a propensity for fuck-me boots.

His eyes moved beyond me to where she stood. I took the opportunity to make some semblance of an attempt to gather my wits from where they lay scattered: on the floor, on the bar, on the ceiling, like blood from a gunshot victim.

Every time the waiter came by to take our order, Sandra and Ashley shooed him away by demanding wine with quiet, urgent whispers.

“You’re welcome. And thanks for letting me interrupt your lunch.” I shrugged. “Oh, no problem; feel free to interrupt anytime.” “Really? Anytime?” The corner of his mouth hooked to the side and he dipped his chin as though to force me to meet his gaze. “That’s a dangerous thing to say if you don’t mean it. I might interpret that to include lunch, dinner, and breakfast.”

I liked labels; I liked putting people and things into categories. It helped me calibrate my expectations of people and relationships. If I didn’t label my sisters as bad, I would be an enabler of their behavior, just like my father was. I didn’t plan on spending my life as a doormat, or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment, hoping they would change.

“So, does one bad action make a person bad?” Quinn placed his palm against the five-point fingerprint screen; he then punched in the code to call the elevator. “No, a person is the sum of his or her choices, and therefore, is largely defined by his or her actions.” “No one makes all good choices, and everyone makes mistakes.” “Ah, ha! Yes, that’s why I also consider intentions as the defining denominator in my good-people, bad-people confidence interval.” Quinn’s mouth pulled to the side. “What does that mean—your good-people, bad-people confidence interval?” He leaned his shoulder against the wall of the elevator. “Well, obviously, everyone makes mistakes, but if you only see it as a mistake because you’ve been caught, then that’s bad. However, if you realize that you’ve made a mistake because you recognize the error of your ways and you make an effort to change, then that is good. There is a big difference.” “So, really, you think a person is the sum total of his intentions and not his actions.” The elevator opened and I stepped out as I continued my philosophizing. “No. Without action, even good intentions are meaningless.”

Quinn asked, “What would a person be if he had good intentions and no actions?” His free hand pressed against my lower back, and we continued down the hall to my office. “Lazy.” Just inside my door, he pulled me to a stop with gentle pressure on my elbow. “And what do you call someone who has bad intentions and good actions, or good intentions and bad actions?” “Stupid.” He considered me for a long moment; his brow was furrowed, but there was a small smile on his lips. “Let me get this straight; according to you, there are four kinds of people: good, bad, lazy, and stupid. Is that right?” My eyes drifted over Quinn’s face as I contemplated his summary of my philosophy. “More or less; that’s about right. Think of it like a four-quadrant scatter plot graph.”

It was nice of him to sit with me at the deli, it was nice of him to walk me back to work and indulge me in my silly philosophies. He didn’t exactly look safe, nice, or approachable, but Quinn Sullivan was a nice guy. He was a good guy.

He placed the phone in my hand once again. “As much as the idea of collaring and leashing you sounds promising, the purpose of the phone is to ensure you’re reachable.” I interrupted him. “You mean bound and restrained.” “Janie, if I wanted to restrain you, I’d use rope.” When he spoke, his voice was low and softened with what could only be described as intimacy.

There are 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary numbers, and those who don’t.

It was as if a unicorn had appeared beneath a double rainbow and started tap dancing.

I started chewing on my lip, stalling, hoping that we’d be interrupted again by one of the managers, or by a bear attack, or an earthquake, or giant snakes.

“It’s like having someone else pick your nose or floss your teeth. It requires a lot of coordination and planning. For instance, you can’t do it unless you’ve had a shower within so many hours ahead of time. If you fall out of that time window, then you have to stop reading comics or whatever you’re currently doing, go take a shower, dry off, get dressed, blah blah blah. What a hassle. I think bacteria have the right idea; humans should procreate via binary fission.”

His eyes didn’t move from my lips as he responded. “No. I’m not like him because usually I don’t want to do the right thing.” Either his proximity or my glass and a half of sugary-sweet alcohol were responsible for the heated deliberateness of my beating heart; I guessed it was a little of both. The air seemed to change and become slower—thicker. I felt like something important had just happened, but I was too foggy to grasp it. I did know that the way he was looking at me made my lower belly feel delightfully achy and full. However, before I could consider the issue further, he kissed me.

Quinn’s arms were still around me in a pseudo vice-grip, and I gave myself until the count of six to enjoy being pressed against the hard planes of his body. When I reached six, I kept counting until twelve.

One thought galloped around and around in my brain: I can’t believe that just happened. Eventually it was accompanied by another thought: How can I make that happen again?

“And do you think it would have happened if we hadn’t been drinking?” He pulled in another audible breath; I watched as his chest expanded, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. “Eventually.”

“You deserve this. Repeat after me: I, Janie Morris, deserve splendiferous orgasm therapy with Sir McHotpants.” My eyes widened and I took a brave breath. “This is madness.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Say it!” I shook my head. “I can’t! I can’t say it!” “You’re not just going to say it; you’re going to do it—with frequency!” I laughed in spite of myself. “You want me to have intimate relations with a man-whore.” “Alleged man-whore. And, yes, I do.”

“You’re not being very nice.” “What have I done that’s not nice?” “I think you’re being kind of sneaky. And that’s why I think you’re not being nice.” His smile faded. “Sneaky isn’t on your four-quadrant scatter-plot graph personality matrix.”

I closed my hand around his not wanting him to finish the sentence. It was a horrible story. I wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault, but I felt like that statement would come across as pandering and patronizing. Instead, I said, “I understand why you blame yourself.” He blinked at me then narrowed his gaze a fraction as though trying to see me better. This time both his eyes and his smile were sad. “Do you blame me?” “I blame the bad guy who actually pulled the trigger and killed him. In this situation, you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and made an attempt to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”

He gazed at me with something that felt like wonder, and with his voice lowered to a quiet rumble, he said, “I don’t think I’ll keep score with you.”

Then, when we ate dessert, he absentmindedly licked whip cream off my finger; for several seconds afterward I forgot my name and place of birth.

I scowled at him, but couldn’t hold on to my feeling of annoyance when he smiled. I had memories attached to his smile now, and all of them served to increase my warm fuzzies. I was drunk on good wine, delicious food, and fantastic conversation.

“How many are we talking about? What percentage of the women in Chicago are ready to have sex with you right now? What happens if one of them needs to travel? Do they have a phone tree? Is there a coverage plan or a backup plan for emergencies?” Quinn covered the bottom half of his mouth with his free hand as his shoulders started shaking with silent laughter. I continued, feeling a little better knowing that he was able to laugh at himself. “Is there entry criteria? An established search committee? An interview process? Skills test? What kind of radius do you require? Do you have one circling the block now? Do you always keep one nearby? Was there one at the restaurant? At the bar maybe?”

Was I ok with that? What was a man-whore really? Was it such a bad thing if all the practice with slamps meant he was good in bed?

As an aside, I noted that “One of Many Slamps” would make a good band name or, at the very least, an album name.

“If no one is keeping score in a relationship, then it doesn’t matter, does it? I should be able to give you whatever I want without having to worry about you feeling guilty or like you need to reciprocate.”

Quinn’s gaze moved over my face, and a small smile curved over his lips. “I promise not to keep score with you if you promise not to keep score with me.” I gave him a long, sideways stare. I considered his proposal. It seemed fair. I nodded just once and stuck out my hand. “Fine. Deal.”

I nodded, biting my lip, not really sure how to have this conversation without putting all my oddities on display. As usual, the mouth started moving before the brain could send up a warning flare.

“Fine; a Wendell is a man who is extremely good looking and who is great in bed. Wendells do not have exclusive relationships— i.e. they do not date, but rather hook up with many women. I have no judgment for Wendells; in fact, I applaud their stamina and ability to provide excellent service to so many women. It seems like a very efficient and generous use of resources.

“I like labels. I like maps with labels. I like figures with labels, and I like footnotes. I don’t do well not knowing someone’s intentions or how to calibrate my expectations accordingly.” “That’s good to know.” “Quinn!” He fought admirably against the smile pulling at his lips and didn’t meet my eyes. “You are so beautiful. I really want to kiss you right now.” His words hit me in my stomach and caused a hot tsunami of awareness that spread to my fingertips, toes, and the tips of my ears. “That’s not fair. You’re not being very nice.” “I’ve told you; I’m not nice.” His gaze seemed to intensify, never leaving my lips, as he leaned infinitesimally closer.

Quinn broke the kiss, rested his forehead against mine, and whispered, “Hi.” I blinked up at him; my heart and my mind were competing in an uphill footrace, but I managed a small “hi” in return. “I changed my mind about kissing you.” “Well,” I said, “You did warn me.” A warm humming sensation was reverberating in my chest.

Despite my best efforts, I was now adrift in an unlabeled ocean of unknowns and trying to find my sea legs with no map, diagram, or figure with footnotes. I felt distinctly terrified and excited…but mostly terrified.

The kitchen looked a little sad without small appliances, cookbooks, and food littering the countertops, like a kid waiting to be chosen for a dodge ball team.

“Why do you like to assign everything a label?” “It makes things simple.” “People aren’t simple.” “But labels help make them simple. Why don’t you like labels?” His jaw ticked as his eyes moved between mine. “When you use labels as the only factor in defining another person, and therefore how you treat them, that’s called stereotyping.”

“Slamps and Wendells?” he challenged. “Well if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has sex with multiple partners indiscriminately, then…!” I widened my eyes with meaning as my voice rose. I was moving beyond annoyance into something else that I now recognized as being very close to anger.

I have no desire to cherish each person’s bullshit and call it a beautiful snowflake.

“You don’t touch her, you don’t look at her. If I ever see you again, it will be the last time anyone sees you.”

I decided, as I succumbed to sleep, that men should come with manuals, subtitles, and reset buttons.

Last Saturday, when he surveyed my apartment, I thought he didn’t belong here, in my life. But now, the absence of him made me feel like I was forever trying to catch my breath.

Time stopped. Everything seemed suspended as my brain struggled to accept reality. It was one of those moments you reflect on, later in life, and wonder how your brain could have thought so many thoughts; how your heart could have felt so many feelings in the small span of a single second. The only explanation was that time must have stopped.

“Hmm,” she said again, leaning back. “Has he flirted with you?” I shook my head and looked at the portfolio on my lap. “Not unless you call kissing flirting.” Olivia’s eyes opened very wide for a split second; then she laughed. “You’re funny!” She tapped my leg with manicured nails, then flipped her long, shiny, straight hair over a slim shoulder. “Well,” Olivia said on an audible sigh, “it’s a good thing he’s not attracted to you; otherwise, he likely wouldn’t have hired you in the first place.” I kind of wanted to stab her in the neck.

Though my color was normal throughout, I knew it was only a matter of time before he would say something or do something to set my Rudolph light blinking. The man had my button in his possession, and he pressed it repeatedly.

I’d like to say that, when faced with the smoldering indigo eyes of Quinn Sullivan after a bottle of wine, his impressively massive and muscled form hovering outside my hotel room door and big hands gripping the frame, I felt very little in the way of intense physical or emotional response. If I said that then I’d be a dirty liar—a dirty, dirty liar.

I blamed my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window-shopping.

I hesitated; I felt like I was being led into a trap that involved Quinn getting naked, which actually sounded really nice.