The Neanderthal Box Set: A Workplace Romance, 2020 Revised and Expanded Edition

by Reid, Penny

I frowned at that, nodded. “Then I don’t want to hear about stomach or digestion problems—unless something is really wrong and you need to go to the doctor.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And,” I continued, thinking of another item, “I want you to kiss me when you leave and kiss me when you come home.”

  Quinn gave me a quick smile then leaned forward and brushed a kiss against my mouth. “I like that one.” He settled back against the couch. “Same goes for you. And you should also tell me you love me, every day.”

  “I love you and I will. That’s a good one. You should say it too.”

  “I’ll say it too, and I love you. Anything else?”

  I studied him, tried to think of other specific requests, came up empty. At length I shook my head. “I can’t think of any more, but if I do I’ll email them to you.”

  He stuck his hand out for me to take, saying, “I can agree to those terms.”

  I smiled at his hand then at him and shook it. Those were the same words I’d used the last time we’d discussed marriage related issues.

  But the last time the issues were much larger, big deal kinds of things. This time, I reflected, the issues were much smaller, everyday kinds of things; but taken all together, maybe no less important.

  Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he released my hand; his eyes moved over my features—forehead, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, neck, then back to my eyes via my hair.

  Then he blinked, frowned. “We got the results back from the chocolate and Ashley’s hooch.”

  I quirked my eyebrow, because I never thought I’d hear Quinn say the words Ashley’s hooch.

  “Really? What’s the damage? Was it LSD?” I’d done some research after the fact. LSD seemed like the scariest of the options so, of course, I assumed it was LSD. No one likes being drugged or losing their memory. The only thing that kept me from a full-on freak-out was the fact that either Stan or Quinn had been with us the whole time.

  “No, it was hashish—in the chocolate—and moonshine in the hooch. But the moonshine was laced with methanol. It looks like the methanol paired with the moonshine and hashish made bad things happen.”

  “Moonshine and hashish?”

  He nodded.

  “That sounds like a nineteen seventies sitcom involving a stern but loveable police detective and his sloppy but loveable sidekick.”

  “It would also make a good name for a band.” He gave me a barely-there smile, which I returned with a larger one.

  “I’ll tell the girls. They’ll be relieved to know it was only moonshine and hashish. I may never get tired of saying moonshine and hashish. If we have dogs we should name them Moonshine and Hashish.”

  “No. We’re not naming our dogs Moonshine or Hashish. My father is a police detective.”

  I considered this then nodded my agreement. “You’re right. I’ll come up with a list that doesn’t involve drug paraphernalia.”

  “Speaking of dogs and the people who own them, how was Shelly?” Quinn asked this as he studied his glass of scotch, and my heart broke a little.

  I decided right then that I would never tell him what his sister had done. It was her place, her sin to confess. Or it was something that might come up eventually with his parents. But I wouldn’t tell him.

  “She was being stubborn, so I told her that the ball was in her court—which is an idiom that comes from tennis, although some crazy people think it comes from badminton. Of course, this assertion is completely false, because it would be the shuttlecock is in your court, not the ball is in your court.”

  Quinn’s eyes held mine, but his face seemed meticulously expressionless when he said, “Why is it called a shuttlecock?”

  “Excellent question—I’m glad you asked. The word refers to the forward and backward movement it makes during the game: it was named after the shuttle of a loom.”

  “And the cock part?”

  My eyes narrowed on him and—by the power of Thor!—I could feel my neck heat. This was entrapment.

  I cleared my throat and looked away, picking a piece of lint from my jeans before responding. “It has feathers on it.”

  “Oh. So it wasn’t named after the forward and backward movement of….”

  “No! No it was not.” I rolled my eyes then closed them.

  I couldn’t be too mad at him, though, because it was impossible for me to hold a grudge when faced with the sound of Quinn’s laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I probably should have been more careful.

  That stated, Quinn should have knocked.

  Really, we were both to blame.

  If we’d flown in together then it could have been avoided. What happened was that I took an early flight to Boston on Monday morning so I could have one final wedding dress fitting. Assuming it fit, I would be able to take it with me and try it on with the shoes, veil, lingerie, jewelry—everything.

  I was illogically and exceedingly excited by the prospect. I’d never been a fan of fairy tales and related princess costumes—unless they were tales of caution where the beautiful maiden is punished for her vanity and selfishness, as these usually had tragic endings, which I found extremely satisfying—but I couldn’t wait to try on the entire getup.

  I went directly to the Beau Boutique from the airport and tried on my dress. It fit perfectly. I carefully loaded the gown in the car and drove to the hotel. Or, more precisely, Stan drove me to the hotel.

  As soon as we were in the room, I told Stan to make himself comfortable, and I bolted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Then, I put everything on.

  The underwear, bustier with built-in garter belt, and stockings from London; the lovely ivory Vera Wang silk stilettos with beautiful silk embroidered flowers at the heel, the organza silk veil with antique lace around the edge.

  I turned to look in the closet mirror, my eyes wide, and I inspected my reflection.

  It was a very nice dress, a simple ivory sheath with practical three quarter sleeves and a square neckline, and I looked nice in it. I’d chosen it because it was simple and inexpensive. I didn’t want or need anything more. In fact, as I surveyed my reflection, I considered that I might be able to dye it a different color then reuse it, maybe bring the hem up to my calf.

  And that’s when the unthinkable happened.

  Quinn was just suddenly there. He was an abrupt apparition, an unexpected face in the mirror, looking at me with a quizzical non-expression.

  I turned, my hands moving futilely to block the dress from his view, and I yelled, “Quinn! What…what are you doing here?”

  Then I realized that I was trying to hide the dress from him. I had instinctively bought into the silly tradition of not allowing Quinn—the groom—to see me—the bride—in my wedding dress before the wedding day. I’d ascribed to it without even realizing it.

  This made me flustered and confused and embarrassed.

  Therefore, I let my arms fall away—even though it felt completely counterintuitive, like using milliliters to measure distance—and let him look at me, in my wedding dress, five days before the wedding.

  He was still studying me, his expression temperate and unaffected. “My morning meetings ended early. So, that’s the dress?”

  I glared at him then threw my hands in the air. “Yes. Yes, this is the dress.”

  “Hmm….” His eyes lifted to mine and he said, “I really like the veil.”

  “The veil?”

  “Yeah. When are you going to be done? Do you want to grab some lunch?”

  I stared at him for a beat and felt…inexplicably disappointed. I glanced down at myself then back to him. I felt the need to defend my dress.

  “Did you know that people used to wear wedding dresses in different colors? It was only at the time of Queen Victoria, during her marriage to Prince Albert, that women’s wedding dresses became predominately white.”

  He lifted his suitcase to a luggage rack and asked, “When did marriag
e become a real thing? Was it with the advent of religion? Polytheistic societies had marriage. Zeus and Hera and their hijinks come to mind.”

  I frowned at his question. He thought I was discussing marriage in general, and I wanted to discuss wedding dresses in specific, because—I had no idea why. Yes I did—I wanted him to really, really like my choice in wedding dress, and he seemed a tad bit too unimpressed with it for my liking.

  Reluctantly, I answered his question, but then I tried to steer the conversation back to wedding dress history. “Egyptians are credited with the earliest marriages as an institution, similar to the construct we think of today. And, of interest, the wedding dress has always been a major, symbolic part of all marriage ceremonies. Don’t you think it’s interesting that every society where marriage is an accepted paradigm shares the tradition of a wedding dress?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. It makes sense if you think about it. The bride is often considered the prize, the focus of the ceremony. It would follow that—regardless of culture, religion, or era in history—everyone would want the bride to stand out, to look her best.”

  I glowered. For some reason, and I couldn’t have predicted it, his response made me feel worse.

  I glanced again at my reflection in the mirror.

  Did I look my best?

  No. I didn’t.

  It was a practical dress. I could dye it and wear it again, and feel a measure of peace that I hadn’t spent thousands of dollars on a gown that would be worn once.

  Then why didn’t I feel peace? Why did I feel disgruntled?

  Quinn walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. He met my eyes in the mirror and kissed my temple. “Kitten, I couldn’t care less about what your wedding dress looks like. I know what’s underneath it. No wedding dress can compete with that.”

  I gave him a small smile, because I knew he was trying to make me feel better.

  But I didn’t feel better.

  I felt discombobulated and miserable.

  Suddenly I hated this dress.

  * * *

  Because I was already discontented, I decided to go visit my sister in prison.

  When she saw me behind the glass, she stopped, hesitated for a minute, then looked away. I thought she might turn around and ignore me, but instead she eventually shuffled to the seat on the other side of the pane and picked up the phone.

  I picked up the receiver on my side and waited for her to lift her eyes to mine before I asked, “What’s new?”

  Her mouth curved slightly upward on one side. “Oh, you know, the usual: vacationing in Rio. It’s so hot there this time of year.”

  I shook my head. “No it’s not. It’s their winter. It’s mild and dry.”

  Jem rolled her eyes. “Can’t you ever just let shit go? Can’t I ever be imprecise?”

  “Sure. But first I want you to precisely tell me what you were doing breaking into my future in-laws’ house with a gun.”

  Her expression was flat, stoic. She blinked at me twice. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Fine.” She sniffed, leaned forward. “I was there because I needed money, and I know Quinn has a shit ton of money, and I wanted you to work on him for me.”

  I glared at her for a moment then employed Dan’s method of dealing with such situations. I glanced at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

  It was either that or say, “Bitch, you crazy.”

  I did say, “I don’t even know why I’m here.” But I wasn’t talking to her. I was talking to myself.

  I supposed I should take comfort in the fact that some things never change.

  “So…you’re getting married?”

  My attention flickered back to her at the question. She looked strangely intense, like the answer mattered to her.

  I shrugged. “Yes. I’m getting married.”

  “You and Quinn, huh?”

  “Yes. Me and Quinn.”

  “He’s okay. Smart guy—you could do worse.” She picked at the chipped edge of Formica on the tabletop. “If he hurts you, I will fuck him up.”

  Again, I stared at her, then glanced to the ceiling and took a deep breath before saying, “I don’t understand you, Jem. Honestly, you make no sense, no sense to me.”

  “What don’t you understand, Janie? You’re my big sister. I don’t want you hurt.”

  “Unless you’re the one to do it?”

  Her jaw ticked, her eyes narrowed, and she looked at me for a long time before responding. When she did respond, I was surprised by the intensity behind her words. “You’re all I’ve got, Janie. I need to know that what I do still matters to someone, even when it’s crazy.”

  This statement caused me to flinch, and I opened my mouth to respond but no sound came out.

  She looked away, sighed, then added, “They have me on this medication. They started it after I…never mind about that. I feel better. Like, less angry. It’s nice.”

  I watched her for a moment and my heart—silly, silly heart—experienced a twinge of hope. I decided not to press her. I didn’t want her to get defensive about it, so I changed the subject and promised myself I’d find out what she was on. Then I’d research the medication. Then I’d see about talking to her doctors to see if I could help.

  “Dad is coming to the wedding,” I said. “Do you want him to come visit you?”

  “Dad?” She looked truly confused. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is he going to the wedding?”

  “Because he’s my dad; he’s giving me away; that’s what dads do at weddings.”

  Her face was contorted with a confused sneer. “Why would you have him give you away? He never had you. He never had any of us. We’re not his to give.”

  I frowned at her statement, but shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

  She stared at me for a long moment then huffed. “Yeah, whatever. You should give yourself away. You raised yourself, and you basically raised me.”

  I released a humorless laugh. “I guess that answers the question of whether or not I should have kids.”

  “Fuck yeah you should have kids.” She surprised me by looking honestly offended. “You’ll make a great mom. You were great; I was the problem. Always breaking shit....” She glanced to the side then down at the table that separated us, picked at the Formica again.

  Something was different about her. Maybe it was the medication.

  I watched her and a lump formed in my throat. I looked to the side and blinked my eyes against the sudden stinging moisture. I didn’t know if she was trying to play me or if she was sincere. It didn’t matter much, because she was in prison and was likely going to stay there for a long time.

  Rather than show her that the words affected me, I decided to stick to the wedding, mostly because it felt like benign territory. “I’m thinking about getting a different dress, for the wedding.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Isn’t it kind of late? When is this thing?”

  “Saturday.”

  She scoffed then asked, “Why do you want a new dress? What’s wrong with the one you have?”

  “It’s….” I struggled with the right word to describe the dress. I didn’t want to tell her about Quinn’s non-reaction because that would give her power over me, letting her know how it bothered me. Instead I finally said, “It’s plain.”

  She chuckled. “Of course it is. You’re always this way. You’re always volunteering to be last. Growing up, you were always giving me your share of potato chips. It makes you an easy mark.”

  “What would you have me do? Take your chips? Treat you like dirt? Behave like you?”

  Jem’s eyes held mine as she shook her head slowly. “No, Janie. I wouldn’t see you like me for all the world. What I want for you is to stop worrying about what you think you should want, and just do what you actually want. If you want a new dress with fucking…ruffles and shit, then call in every favor, every IOU, and go get a new
dress.”

  I stared at her, my brain working overtime, latching on to what she’d said; specifically, call in every favor.

  I exhaled a laugh as a plan started forming in my mind. “Jem…you’re a genius!”

  She lifted a single eyebrow and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I know. We were both IQ tested in elementary school.”

  * * *

  As soon as I was back in the SUV, I pulled out my wallet and searched for Niki’s card.

  Yes, that Niki, Quinn’s former slamp and current fashion industry guru. I had kept her card because we had corporate clients on the West Coast and I thought it might be nice to have a contact out there. Maybe she knew where the knitting groups met.

  I didn’t think twice about calling her now even though I would have to use my accursed cell phone. I’d helped her with a fashion emergency once, and I was hoping she would have some ideas on how to deal with my problem now. Worst-case scenario, she would say no and I would wear my plain and sensible dress.

  The phone rang three times before it was answered. “Talk to me.”

  I was a little caught off guard by the abrupt non-greeting, but quickly recovered. I also took her request at face value, skipped the salutation, and talked to her. “I need your help finding a wedding dress that is Marie Antoinette levels of completely amazing but without any reference to the fact that she was ultimately beheaded. The main issue is that I only have four days before we get married.”

  The line was quiet for a beat, then she said, “Who is this?”

  “This is Janie Morris. We met in London at the charity event.”

  “What charity event? For what charity?”

  Inwardly, I groaned. “See, I knew someone would ask me that eventually. I have no idea what the name of the charity was. I asked while we were there, but no one seemed to know. I tried to look it up later, but none of the society columns defined the charity. You would think that at least one person would know. It could have been a charity for retired feline beauty contestants for all I know.”

  “Wait—wait, is this…are you the one who helped me with my dress in the bathroom? You’re the jer—um, you’re Quinn Sullivan’s fiancée, right?”