Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6) Read online

  Before I could remark on his statement, Jared interrupted. “Okay, Matt. Feel free to nuzzle her back and neck. Or you can stroke her leg or arm, maybe? Is that okay, Marie?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  Matt chose my leg, his big palm moved down, then up my bare thigh to the hem of my shorts and I had to smile because his touch wasn’t at all tentative. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it felt possessive.

  “And Marie, maybe touch the back of Matt’s hand? The one on your arm. Play with it, entwine your fingers. Light touches.”

  “Jared, we need you up front,” a voice I recognized as the hostess called from someplace down the hall.

  “Okay, you two practice that. I’ll be right back.” Jared’s retreating footsteps sounded against the wood floor, eventually leaving us in silence.

  Meanwhile, I lifted my fingers and softly petted Matt’s hand, tracing the bones of his fingers with my fingertips and then drawing ellipses on the back of his hand, from his wrist to his knuckles.

  He made a rumbly noise, almost like a purr. It sounded content.

  “You like that?” I whispered, closing my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand languidly stroking my leg.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I grinned.

  He was quiet for bit, we both were, and I felt myself relax more and more. His palm took a detour every so often, dutifully skipping my hip and sliding along my side, and then back to my leg. Soon, I was so relaxed I felt drowsy.

  I felt fingers in my hair, moving the mass away from my neck with treasuring strokes just before Matt nuzzled the back of my neck, causing goosebumps to scatter over my skin.

  “Mmm.” I smiled. “Hey. Jared said no tickling.” My voice sounded sleepy.

  “Does this tickle?” Matt asked softly, nuzzling me again. I felt the brush of his lips—not a kiss, a brush—paired with hot breath against the bare skin of my neck and a zing shot straight down my spine, making my toes curl and a sudden hot ache twist in my lower belly.

  Oh no.

  I knew that ache. I hadn’t felt it because of another person’s touch in quite a long time. Nevertheless, no one ever forgets that ache.

  My back arched instinctively, my bottom pressing back against his crotch, and I stiffened. I felt my nipples harden, strain beneath the cotton of my bra. I was now fully awake. No longer drowsy.

  Nope.

  Not even a little.

  Matt stiffened, too. His movements abruptly ceasing.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asked, alarm coating his words, and in the next moment his hand was suspended in the air above me. “Did I touch something I shouldn’t?”

  I exhaled a short, nervous laugh, gripped by the urge to sit up.

  “No. No. You didn’t.” I moved to the edge of the bed, righting myself, away from Matt, needing distance. “I’m good.” I gathered a silent breath and released it slowly because my pulse was racing.

  Crap, Marie. Get a grip. It’s Matt Simmons. Professor Matt. The big kid. Why are you reacting this way?

  “Did I . . .” These initial words were hesitant, and a moment of silence stretched before he continued, his tone comically teasing as he finished his thought. “Did I arouse you?”

  I snorted, shaking my head, laughing at his silly tone. Turning at the waist to peer at him over my shoulder, Matt was grinning at me, twisting a make-believe mustache between his thumb and forefinger.

  But then he stopped.

  “I did, didn’t I?” he pushed, his hand dropping. He looked pleased, if not a little amazed.

  I sighed, feeling a smidge embarrassed, and nodded. “Actually, yes. That’s a sensitive spot for most women.”

  “The back of your neck?” He lifted himself to one elbow, his eyes darting to my neck with keen interest.

  “My neck in general, actually.”

  “Huh.” Matt frowned thoughtfully. “Where else?”

  I pressed my lips together and gave him an incredulous look. “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Matt.”

  “What if I needed it for research reasons?”

  “Matt.”

  “What if I told you it was part of our questionnaire?” He tossed his legs over the side of the bed and stood, walking around to my side and offering me his hand. “You should give me a schematic of your body with the erogenous zones circled and rated.”

  “Let me guess, you want them rated on a ten-point scale,” I deadpanned as I accepted his hand, stood, and stepped away to gain some distance and straighten my shirt.

  He shrugged, crossing his arms, stalking after me. “Or exponential. I was going to say a Likert scale, but a logarithmic scale works, too.”

  Chuckling, appreciative of his attempt to diffuse my embarrassment and awkwardness with the joke, I realized Matt Simmons wasn’t a bad guy. He might even be a good guy, just a little . . . peculiar.

  And wants to replace romantic relationships with robots. Best not forget that detail.

  Yeah, he’d make an interesting friend.

  “Thanks.” I gave him a small smile.

  “For what?” His eyes moved between mine.

  “For the cuddle. Thanks for the cuddle, Matt.”

  “Anytime, Marie.” He grinned down at me, his eyes dancing as he leaned forward and whispered, “Anytime.”

  10

  Sophie

  Emotional intelligence bot that interacts with patients who have chronic health issues. Unlike some bots made to optimize paid interactions, this one is built to act in your best interests.

  Source: iDAvatars

  Tuesday was a good news/bad news kind of day.

  I’ll start with the bad news. Or rather, the I-don’t-know-how-to-feel-about-this news.

  David, my ex-boyfriend, called me. I didn’t pick up. The flash of his number on my cell screen paralyzed me. I let it go to voicemail. We hadn’t spoken since he’d moved out and he didn’t leave a message this time. I obsessed for the rest of the day about what to do, caught off guard by how much I was obsessing.

  But then, good news, I received a series of texts from Matt just as I was leaving work.

  Matt: If you need help translating the scatterplots, let me know.

  Matt: We should eat while we discuss.

  Matt: Dinner?

  Matt: Or coffee is fine.

  Matt: I’ll stop texting now.

  I smiled at the unexpected, but not unwelcomed, messages.

  I’d decided over the weekend that if Professor Matt Simmons was interested in being my friend, I was going to make an effort to make the friendship happen. Because Matt, despite the short time we’d spent together, had made me more playful.

  And braver.

  Shaking my head at the weirdo, I typed my response.

  Marie: I do have questions. I’ve got knitting tonight. How about tomorrow? We can meet for coffee or I can cook dinner.

  Even though I’d taken copious notes during our meeting, I was having trouble interpreting the documents he’d given me, so his offer to help was a relief. It would also give me the opportunity to propose friendship.

  Since I was on a strict budget, eating out wasn’t an option. Plus, I had a recipe for coconut curry that would have been silly to make for just one person.

  He replied almost immediately.

  Matt: YOU COOK

  Matt: Sorry for my all-caps exuberance. I’m really looking forward to your food.

  Matt: I mean, answering your questions.

  Matt: And your food.

  I chuckled, tapping out the address to my apartment as I entered the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse level. I had to juggle the dip I’d made, holding it against the wall with my hip so I could slip my phone back into my bag. It was Janie’s turn to host, but with her feeling so wretched these days, the rest of us decided to make and bring the food.

  When the elevator doors opened, I moved to leave but took a startled step back, almost colliding wi
th Quinn’s business partner, Dan O’Malley.

  Dan and I had been through a lot together, especially this last year. He, Quinn, and I had bonded while on a trip in the spring to Nigeria to help Greg and Fiona out of a bind. Working toward a common goal in close quarters. I was thankful to have these great guys in my life, proving that great guys existed.

  “Gah.” I wobbled, trying to regain my balance.

  He reached out to steady me, his beefy hands gripping my shoulders. “You okay there?”

  “Yes.” I laughed at my clumsiness and sighed. “Long day. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Once he was sure I was stable, he released me and stepped back, motioning for me to exit the elevator. “You’re the last to arrive.”

  “I figured as much.” Frowning, I glanced at the door leading to Janie and Quinn’s place. “How’s she doing? Any better?”

  He shook his head wearily, rubbing the back of his neck where swirling tattoos peaked out from the collar of his shirt. His mouth formed a tired line. “I can’t wait until that baby is out. Quinn’s been a real sonofabitch—excuse my language—for the last five months.”

  “Sorry.” I gave him a sympathetic smile. The typically even-tempered Bostonian seemed exceptionally irritable this evening.

  “It’s fine.” He waved me off as he stepped onto the elevator and punched a button. “All I’m saying is, they better name it after me.”

  Giving him one last departing wave, I turned and strolled down the hall, knocking on Janie’s door with my free hand. A few seconds later, Kat opened the door, her gaze wide and expectant. But as soon as she saw me, her expression faltered.

  “Oh. Hi, Marie.” She sounded a shade disappointed.

  I tried not to take it personally. “Who were you expecting?”

  She brightened her smile, waving me forward. “You, of course. Come in.” Taking the dip from my hands, she walked toward the kitchen, calling ahead of her, “Marie brought dip.”

  “Yay for dip,” came Sandra’s excited reply.

  Leaving my purse by the door, I grabbed my knitting bag and headed for the family room, happy to see all my friends’ smiling faces as soon as I entered. Even Janie was smiling.

  “Marie. Goddess of the dip,” Ashley’s voice called from a laptop sitting on a side table. “You’ll need to send me the recipe.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “Hey, Marie.” Nico—aka Nicoletta—smiled his greeting. He couldn’t stand up as his wife was sitting on his lap, as was their way.

  “Hey. I didn’t think you were going to be here.”

  Kat emerged from the kitchen holding two cocktail glasses and handed me one. “For you, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, now that everyone is here, I have a question.” Sandra held her hands up in front of her and asked the room, “Do y’all think the word ‘Nazi’ is offensive?”

  Kat took a seat on the sofa, casting Sandra a cautious glance. “What do you mean? In what context?”

  “Like saying someone is a grammar-Nazi?”

  “I can’t speak for all Jewish people, because—you know—we’re all individuals with our own opinions, experiences, outlooks, and whatnot, but, it doesn’t bother me that much.” Kat paused, twisting her mouth to the side for a beat. “However, I know for a fact it does bother my father. A lot. And his friends.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t bother you that much?” I asked.

  “I mean, you know, it bothers me a little. Using Nazi as a colloquialism or synonym for fastidious doesn’t seem . . . right. Shouldn’t the opposite be true? Shouldn’t it mean murderer? Instead of fastidious about grammar, it should mean one who slanders, murders, and annihilates grammar.” Kat frowned, appearing as though she was wading through a weighty problem. “Now that I think about it, I guess it does bother me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sandra’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Why are you sorry?” Kat tilted her head to the side in question.

  “Because I’ve said it before. I know I have. And I didn’t mean to be insensitive, but now I know I was insensitive. So, I’m sorry,” Sandra said sincerely.

  “Thanks for apologizing. I guess.” Kat frowned, still looking confused. “I mean, part of me doesn’t think you need to, because I know you’re not being unkind. But then another part of me appreciates it. And then a third part of me just wants to eat cheese.”

  “I get that.” Sandra nodded thoughtfully. “Especially the cheese part.”

  “The irony of the grammar-Nazi colloquialism and how many people are now offended by its use is that the usage in that context originates from the TV show Seinfeld. Do you remember the soup-Nazi episode?” Janie didn’t look up from her work in progress as she asked this.

  “Can we stop saying the word Nazi, please?” Fiona made a face of distaste.

  “You just said it,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  Fiona sent Elizabeth a gently scathing look—if such a thing existed—effectively silencing the younger woman. Or maybe it was her badass ex-CIA look. Or maybe it was both.

  “I remember that episode, yes.” Kat nodded, sipping her cocktail.

  “Well, about a year before it aired, the term grammar . . .” Janie’s eyes drifted to Fiona’s, then back to Kat’s before continuing, “grammar-you-know-what was coined online, in early 1995. But then ten months later, the soup-you-know-who episode aired. Some people speculate grammar-you-know-what and similar phrases only gained popularity because of the soup-you-know-who episode. And Seinfeld was written by Larry David, who is Jewish, and stars Jerry Seinfeld, who is also Jewish.”

  “Just because it was started by Jewish comedians doesn’t mean other Jewish people can’t be troubled by it. Or non-Jewish people. Or all people,” Nico added. “As entertainers, you’re responsible for either raising or lowering the bar.”

  “Very true.” Elizabeth nodded. “And what does your semi-naked Jell-O wrestling on national TV do again? Raise the bar or lower it?”

  “Definitely raise it,” Sandra said before Nico could respond, then proceeded to trade saucy grins and winks with him.

  “After the episode, the you-know-what word was added to all sorts of things as a pejorative insult,” Janie continued academically, “as a way to denote a person is authoritarian, autocratic, or inflexible; one who seeks to impose his or her views upon others. Or, in its more literal usage, as you say, a murderer of other humans based on ethnicity and/or religion.”

  “See, in that context, it makes sense. Someone who seeks to impose his or her views upon others, just like the you-know-who’s did. But to make it synonymous with fastidious or careful or anything else with a positive connotation is upsetting,” Kat said.

  “I also wonder if we, as a society, have lost our sense of humor,” Elizabeth mused. “I mean, I read an interview with Jerry Seinfeld where he said laughing at the horrors of history is an effective way to disarm the power it holds. That he and Chris Rock have stopped performing at college campuses because this current generation has no sense of humor, and require everything to have trigger warnings. Why do we want the word—which Fiona won’t let us say—or any word for that matter, to hold power over us?”

  “Or maybe,” Kat suggested, “it should hold power. And we should never forget the fruit of fascism.”

  “Fruit of Fascism should be the name of a band.” Elizabeth lifted her chin toward Kat. “And you make an excellent point.”

  “This is a tough and complex issue,” Sandra, adopting her psychiatrist voice, cut in. “Humor can heal, yes. Absolutely. But what if you poke fun at a topic that is still fresh, still sore, or that has been made newly sore by recent events? People are what, just supposed to get over it? No. Wrong answer.”

  “Maybe it’s a balance,” Ashley said, her eyes on the scarf she was knitting, “Maybe the answer is: Don’t be an asshole, think before you open your trap, take responsibility for your words. Meaning, apologize when you’re wrong and correct yourself moving for
ward—and don’t constantly look for reasons to be offended and police well-meaning people’s words. We want folks to talk to each other, right? Not just hang out with like-minded people all the time. Everyone is ignorant about something, and everyone is offended by something. If people can’t have a calm, respectful dialogue without being hurt by ignorance, or without offending with insensitivity, then what the hell are we supposed to do? Surround ourselves with robots who don’t challenge our ideas?”

  I sat up straight, my gaze darting to the laptop screen at the conclusion of Ashley’s rant. What the hell are we supposed to do? Surround ourselves with robots who don’t challenge our ideas? Yes, that struck a chord.

  “Except,” Nico sat slightly forward, causing Elizabeth to shift to the side, “if you’re talking about a group of crazy people who are lobbying for the extermination or expulsion of an entire race, or religion, or other subset of our population. There is no use trying to talk to hatemongers.”

  Ashley shook her head. “Now, see, I disagree. How can you change a person’s heart if you don’t talk to them?”

  “How about grammar-police? Does that bother anyone?” Janie asked the group.

  “Wait, before anyone answers that, is this something we’re doing with everything from now on? Is this a new thing for us? To check with each other before we speak here? To make sure everything that leaves our mouths is free of the potential for hurt?” Sandra’s gaze drifted from person to person. “Or can we instead just, you know, trust each other? We are all friends here, right? We’re all doing our best and want to think the best of each other. If I say something jerky or ignorant—and not the dried-meat kind of jerky—then how about one of you fine ladies just calls me on it. I’ll know you’re coming from a good place and I’ll try to correct my deplor-er-horrible behavior.”

  “Why didn’t you say deplorable?” Elizabeth paused her knitting. “You can’t use the word deplorable now?”

  She looked to her husband for help.

  Nico affixed his eyes to the crochet hat he was making and shook his head. “Nope. I’m not touching that one.”