Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5) Read online

  Happily Ever Ninja

  A Married Romance

  By Penny Reid

  http://reidromance.blogspot.com/

  Caped Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  Final Edition: January 2016

  ISBN- 978-1-942874-15-7

  EBOOK EDITION

  Table of Contents

  A Short Foreword

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  ~Dedication~

  To soul mates.

  A Short Foreword

  Dear Reader,

  Three businessy items:

  1) Fiona and Greg have a prequel/origin story (Knitting in the City book #4.75) entitled Ninja At First Sight. If you haven’t already read Ninja At First Sight, I highly recommend you do so prior to starting Happily Ever Ninja. You can download it for free (from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes, Barnes & Noble) or read it serialized on Wattpad for free (www.wattpad.com/user/PennyReid).

  2) A few months ago, I asked my readers to send me letters or written exchanges between them and their spouse/partner/imaginary future partner. With the exception of the Prologue, at the beginning of each chapter is an excerpt from a real letter (or Post-it® Note, or text message, etc.) between real people.

  3) Three years ago, when I decided to continue the Knitting in the City series beyond Janie Morris’s random factoid spewing, this book (Fiona and Greg’s story) was the one I wanted to write the most. Is anything more romantic than enduring love? However, I knew—in order to write the action as I imagined—I would need to wait until Elizabeth, Sandra, and Ashley had been partnered off first. Once you finish Happily Ever Ninja you will understand why.

  Best, Penny Reid

  PROLOGUE

  Dearest Fiona,

  It occurs to me that today is Valentine’s Day. As far as holidays go, this one is absolute rubbish.

  I’m surrounded by maudlin men who miss their girlfriends, wives, and Internet porn (perhaps not necessarily in that order). They’ve all arranged delivery back home for overpriced bouquets of reedy flowers and substandard chocolates.

  You would be proud of me. I didn’t once point out that a woman who demands gifts on Valentine’s Day is almost as intolerable as a man who only gives gifts because it’s Valentine’s Day.

  And yet, it is Valentine’s Day.

  And I miss you.

  I don’t know how else to write it other than, I miss you.

  These months apart grow unbearable. Each passing second is a moment filled with the absence of you and it suffocates me. I realize I promised I would be less morose in my correspondence, but I grip these empty sheets at night and curse them. They are cold where your body is hot and soft and so infinitely mine.

  Perhaps I miss the feeling of you beneath my fingertips and belonging wholly to me. Perhaps I miss how you tense and relax in my hands, how you look at me with trust and want. If I’m honest, it’s the want in you I miss the most. The need you have of me. Because it echoes the insatiable and feral nature of my need for you.

  I miss you.

  At this point you’ve no doubt already gathered I have sent neither chocolate nor flowers for Valentine’s. I do not believe in obligatory gifts any more than I subscribe to compulsory love.

  As such, I send you nothing but this letter and my longing for you, neither of which I can contain. I love you.

  Yours forever, Greg

  CHAPTER 1

  Dear Husband,

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

  -Debbie

  Dry-erase board on fridge

  New Jersey, USA

  Married 28 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  "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 call. “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 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, so 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.”

  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, as 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 days 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 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 this, I’d 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 surprise in his voice.

  “Okay. Bye, Greg.” I lifted my gaze and scanned the screen for the location of the cursor, 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—who is five-years old—to have a princess costume to wear to a slumber party, and Jack—who is eight—to play soccer without Greg’s consent.

  I hadn’t even asked Greg because I’d known what he would have said.

  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 patriarchal 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 in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed. This level of distraction was very unlike me; awareness and the cataloging of my surroun
dings 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 him a few times over the years, one of the few normal teenage activities I’d been allowed.

  Matt had moved in next door to the kids and me 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. 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?”