Neanderthal Seeks Extra Yarns (Knitting in the City Book 8) Read online

  I sniffled, pulled a folded tissue from my pocket and wiped at my nose. “No—well, not exactly. I mean, we’ve talked about having children—more as a theoretical, future construct than a tangible here and now life choice. I mean, I talked to my doctor and she said it might take a while for us to get pregnant, for the ethinyl estradiol and synthetic progesterone to leave my system—up to a year or more—once I stopped taking birth control. I did some online research and, based on my age and years taking the pill, it seemed implausible that I would become pregnant so soon. So I stopped taking birth control last month, thinking we had another year… or so…”

  “Does The Boss know?”

  “No. I didn’t tell him… that I decided to stop the pill.”

  “But he knows now.”

  “How could he know?”

  “I mean, he knows you’re pregnant.”

  “I just found out fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe you called him from the bathroom and that’s why it took you so long. People do that, use the restroom like an office. I once walked into a bathroom and overheard a man breaking up with his girlfriend. There I am, trying to pee in the urinal while attempting to ignore her sobs echoing all around me. I couldn’t do it. I’m a shy pee-er as it is, and why he thought it was a good idea to put her on speaker phone…”

  I was only half listening to Stephen’s rambling story—to be more precise, I was only 10 percent listening to Stephen’s rambling story—because fearful thoughts were erupting like a cinder cone volcano. I was… overwhelmed.

  Therefore, I interrupted his story as they spewed forth, my brain-panic having reached critical mass. “I don’t know how to mother. I’ve never mothered before. Is there a place where I can borrow children of different ages? Test them out? Maybe they could complete a post-care survey, evaluate my strengths and weaknesses so I’ll know where to focus my energy.”

  “You can’t rent children, Janie.”

  “Not rent. Borrow. I don’t mind being supervised. In fact, parental input would be welcome. They could observe, take notes.”

  “No…” Now he was looking at me like I was crazy.

  I wasn’t crazy. This idea had merit. I was a genius!

  I couldn’t be the only woman who wanted to try motherhood and receive constructive feedback before taking the plunge. My mother didn’t teach me how to mother, I had no map, no experience or example from which to draw. Surely there were other scientifically minded females out there. We test drove cars, didn’t we? What was so strange about test driving children?

  Stephen’s expression softened. He took my hand and squeezed it. “Being a parent is one of those things where the less you know ahead of time the better. Kind of like transcontinental air travel, or a colonoscopy.”

  “That’s madness. Information is power.”

  “No. In this case information breeds only fear. There is no good that can come from educating yourself about having children. Everything you read will depress you—kind of like transcontinental air travel, or a colonoscopy.”

  I gave him a flat scowl, though I returned his hand squeeze. “I disagree. I think arming myself with the knowledge of what to expect will help me relax.”

  “There is no arming yourself about kids, there is only alarming yourself about kids.”

  I ignored him. “I just… I just need to start preparing.”

  “Don’t do it…” He sing-songed the warning and shook his head.

  Ignoring him again, I pulled my hand free and took a deep breath, feeling more centered. I had a plan. I would research pregnancy and childrearing. I would make lists of different methods of childbirth and draft a pro-con list for each. I would evaluate peer-reviewed journals on child psychology, development, and potential childhood disorders.

  I would prepare for all contingencies.

  This was my plan.

  It was a good plan.

  I felt good about this plan.

  ~QUINN~

  I FLEW BACK to Chicago early.

  Carlos stayed for the last day of negotiations, which were really just a cursory finalization of terms. I boarded the jet around 10:00 p.m. This put me at O’Hare well after midnight. I didn’t care. I’d had the deafening sound of Janie’s silence making the last several days unbearable.

  Prolonged silence over a colander.

  At first I took her at her word. She was pissed about the colander. Fine. Okay. Whatever. So I ordered fifty colanders, scheduled to arrive on Friday. We would have one for every closet and cabinet in the apartment. She’d never have to search for another spaghetti strainer ever again. Problem solved.

  But as the days passed and she continued to refuse my calls, I grew concerned.

  Her rage hadn’t manifested itself as the fact-spewing I was used to when she was trying to avoid dealing. No… she’d just completely lost it, accused me of hiding the colander on purpose, and wouldn’t calm down. And it had been building for a few days. All week she was losing her temper about stupid stuff.

  Yeah… This was different.

  Janie wasn’t an angry person. More so, she wasn’t an irrational person.

  Something was wrong.

  Since my late-night flight meant I wouldn’t get to the penthouse until early morning, I decided not to wake her up. My plan was to take a shower, remain up until she awoke, and keep her in bed with me until she told me what was really going on—and until I was forgiven. Maybe in writing.

  Working to this end, I slipped off my shoes as soon as I entered the penthouse and left my luggage by the front door. In the living room, I took off my jacket, tie, belt, and shirt; I left these on the couch, and dragged a hand across my face. I was tired. More than that, I was irritated.

  Irritated and tired, I silently walked to our bedroom.

  On the way I noticed the pale blue glow of a computer screen coming from her home office. This gave me pause. I waited and soon heard a mouse clicking. And a keyboard typing. I walked to the open office door. She was up, sitting cross-legged in sweatpants and a T-shirt, glasses on, hair in a bun, staring intently at her screen. I glanced at my watch. It was just after 3:00 a.m.

  “Janie?”

  She started, sucking in a breath as her hands flew to her chest, and blinked several times. I saw the moment she recognized me, and I saw the moment she realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “Where’s your shirt?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re home.”

  “Why are you up?”

  She blinked at me some more, and sagged in her seat, breathing out a loud huff before saying, “I didn’t expect you. I thought you would be back tomorrow night. And now you’re standing there, with no shirt on, and I’m not prepared to have this conversation with you and your abdominal muscles.”

  My eyes moved over her. Her words were concerning. I saw she was exhausted. I took a step into the office.

  “What conversation?”

  She took another deep breath, but this time she appeared to be gathering courage. “There are eight major categories of childhood cancer.”

  It took a full minute for me to decode her words. They were not in the universe of words I’d expected.

  “What?”

  “And that’s assuming we make it past gestation. According to the March of Dimes, as many as 50 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, usually before a woman knows she’s pregnant or a menstrual cycle has been missed. Furthermore, approximately 15 percent of diagnosed pregnancies end in a miscarriage.”

  I stared at her silently because decrypting Janie-speak often took me several seconds. However, given the fact that I was operating on less than four hours of sleep over the last forty-eight hours, deciphering her meaning at present might take hours.

  “You should also know that autism runs in my family and prepare yourself for a child with neurocognitive diversity. I have two male cousins who were diagnosed around four years old. In retrospect, I realize
we should have discussed our genetic predispositions prior to marriage. Based on my research, there may be a correlative link between wheat consumption, celiac, and—”

  “Janie… Are you telling me that you’re ready to try? You’re ready for us to have kids?” This was the only explanation that made sense.

  Her chin wobbled. I watched as she attempted to swallow. The pale glow from the computer screen highlighted her unshed tears and my chest tightened, an answer to the tangible—but mysterious—proof of her sadness.

  This was madness. I wasn’t going to be able to translate her meaning, not until I got some sleep. Unable and unwilling to spend another moment not touching her, I crossed to where she was perched and swiftly lifted her in my arms.

  “Oh, Quinn…”—her voice was small—“I’m so afraid.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Janie. Be fearless.” I squeezed her, placed a kiss on her forehead, and turned for the hall leading to our bedroom. She heaved a watery sigh and buried her face in my neck. Her glasses were digging into my collarbone.

  I hurriedly made a list of tactical actions.

  First, I would remove her glasses and dispense with the bun.

  Second, all barriers separating my skin from hers would be obliterated.

  Third, I would kiss and touch all my favorite places on her body—which happened to be her favorites as well—until she stopped crying. This always made her feel better and I couldn’t handle her crying. That needed to stop. Now.

  I placed her gently on the bed and had made it to number three on my list when I noted her tears ceased. She was actively participating, touching all her favorite places on my body—which happened to be my favorites as well. Pleased with our progress, I relaxed into her. I took what I wanted, giving her what she needed in return.

  I missed this. It had only been days, but I missed the feel of her, the shape, how she fit in my hands, against my body. I missed her taste, how she moved, sighed, the sounds she made.

  I thought we were making headway, that things were progressing to a satisfactory conclusion. But then I heard her sob and her hands stopped exploring. I was pulled into an iron-tight hold. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, her legs around my hips, and she embraced me like I might disappear.

  Typically, I preferred action to discussion, but she wasn’t moving. And her hold on me meant that I couldn’t move. And if I wasn’t convinced before, I was certainly convinced now—something was terribly wrong. I held my concern at bay, knowing worry was counterproductive, but worry without a reason was stupidity.

  So, reluctantly, I deferred to words.

  “All right, Kitten. Tell me what’s going on.” I kissed her shoulder because it was the only place my lips could reach without wrenching her arms away.

  I felt her chest rise and fall beneath mine, and her grip tighten before she said, “We’re going to have a baby.”

  Wait… what?

  “Wait… what?”

  “I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant and we’re going to have a baby.”

  I think, though I can’t be certain, time stopped.

  I know I stopped breathing.

  This news felt suspiciously like getting into a fistfight, having the shit beaten out of me, all the while knowing I would reign victorious… except without the pain. It was the opposite of pain. It was adrenaline, euphoria, violence, and apocalyptic shock and awe. These sensations paired with a Neanderthal-like surge of fierce protectiveness for this woman.

  My woman.

  My child.

  My family.

  All of it combined into an uncontainable screaming between my ears, an uncontrollable FUCK YEAH!

  And I was suddenly very much awake.

  “Oh my God…” The words arrived, and time pitched forward only after I reminded myself to breathe, my lungs having protested and burned from lack of oxygen.

  I pulled her hands away and lifted them over her head, untangling myself from her limbs so I could see her face, her eyes. She was nervous. Upset. Hopeful. And, yes, afraid.

  Janie was pregnant with my child. Our child.

  “Oh my God!” I repeated, because during a moment like this, it seemed rational and necessary to reference a higher power.

  “You should know my emotions are not my own.” The words tumbled from her lips, an avalanche; her eyes darting between mine. “I feel like I’ve been taken over by an alien with too many feelings.”

  I didn’t need to think about how to respond, I just told her the truth. “You’re wonderful.”

  “I cry every time that fabric softener commercial comes on.”

  “You’re lovely.”

  “I throw up all the time. I mean, all the time. I’m basically a vomit machine.”

  “You’re so strong and brave.”

  “I feel myself getting dumber, like I have sand and molasses in my brain, and a tiny leprechaun singing pirate shanties in my ear.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “My body feels weird and gross.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I’m going to get big, really big. And I’ll have stretch marks, and my vagina will never be the same.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll kiss your stretch marks and make love to your new vagina.”

  She shook her head, and I saw she was fighting laughter. “I’ve been totally crazy, I threw spoons at your head—not your face though, I made sure not to maim your face. I like your face.”

  “I like you.” I bent to kiss her, taste her skin.

  “Quinn…” She stiffened, waited until I met her eyes again before continuing, “There is so much that can go wrong. So many things. And the pregnancy is only nine months. After that, if we make it, we’ll have a person. A person! A little person who is going to need us. I don’t know if I’m ready to be needed.”

  “I need you.”

  She stared at me, her eyes wide and watchful. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t. Not like this new person will.”

  “Maybe not just like this new person, but I do need you. And you take care of me beautifully. And I take care of you. And we’ll take care of our person. We will love her, and we will cherish him, and he or she will love us in return.”

  The first glimmer of a real smile broke through her features as she stared at me. I saw apprehension give way to hope and maybe a little bit of excitement. “It’s going to be difficult. Children are hard work.”

  “Yes.” I nodded once. I was undeterred.

  Her eyes dropped to my mouth and her grin widened, all traces of fear gone as she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so big.”

  Fuck. I was so happy. That’s all I was. I was happy.

  So I laughed and I kissed her. I spread her legs and I touched her. I waited until she was mindless and ready and absorbed in the love and passion between us before I said, “I am happy, Janie. Our family makes me happy.”

  Extra Scene: Neanderthal and Human Seek Baby PART 2

  (canon)

  Author’s Note: This scene takes place during the action of Marie and Matt’s book, Dating-ish, and was originally included in my newsletter.

  I’M NOT GOING to lie, I was eating my second dinner.

  If I weren’t so tall and my feet free of hair, I would have made an excellent Hobbit. Especially lately, considering my three breakfasts earlier in the day. Three and a half if you counted brunch.

  But back to my second dinner.

  Nico had dropped off ravioli, which was dinner number one. He did this—made us dinner—whenever he was in town, especially since I’d gone on bed rest a week ago. I certainly appreciated it. If Quinn made or picked up dinner, it was bound to be the healthiest, least good-tasting item possible.

  Like kale and . . . kale.

  Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoyed kale. With bacon and onions. Or maybe cheese sauce. Or as a garnish.

  But kale and kale was just that. No dressing, no sauce, no salt—never salt—and n
o pepper. Kale with kale and a side of kale.

  Just. Kale.

  “According to the articles I’ve read, you can never overdo the folic acid,” he’d say, giving me a pointed look and placing a tray laden with kale in front of me.

  That’s right. The man was reading articles about pregnancy and nutrition. Actually, he was reading articles about everything.

  Earlier in the week, I’d been sitting in—where else?—bed, engrossed in an episode of Game of Thrones, when Quinn had burst into the room, flipped on the light, paused my show, and announced, “The Honda Odyssey has zero fatalities.”

  I’d stared at him for several seconds, trying to understand his statement in light of the fact that I’d just been watching the show of a million murders.

  “What?” I finally found my voice.

  “Greg was right.”

  “Greg was right?”

  “The Honda Odyssey. Zero fatalities.”

  I blinked, still confused. “Is that good?”

  Quinn scowled, his gaze moving to the bedspread, ignoring my question and mostly speaking to himself, “We’ll switch out the fleet. Instead of Mercedes SUVs, all the vehicles will be Honda Odysseys.”

  My slow, slow brain finally catching up—that he was talking about automobiles and forcing the security staff to drive minivans—I scrunched my face. “No. No, you’re not going to do that.”

  His pale blue stare swung to me, bringing me back into focus, and narrowed.

  “Yes. I am.”

  A shiver of something, like a memory of sensation, tickled the back of my neck and lit a match in my chest. The intensity of his eyes, the dark deepening of his tone made my heart leap.

  Before I could swallow the pang of longing, he’d turned and marched out of the room.

  “I have to check their side impact stats again,” he’d called over his shoulder distractedly, leaving me lounging in my pajamas of perpetual disappointment, surrounded by sheets of stunted desire.

  I wanted him to touch me, to pet me and stroke me and comfort me like he’d done earlier in my pregnancy. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He refused. Because of the bed rest.