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

by Reid, Penny

  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 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 no 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. Inst
ead 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.

  I hadn’t pushed the issue. Not at first. I figured he’d eventually come around. He didn’t. Seven days with the barest of touches.

  Or rather, he didn’t touch me when I was awake. But sometimes at night, I’d feel his hands on my back or gliding up my thigh, his fingers running through my hair—gently, gently—his hot breath fanning along my chin just before he’d place a heartbreaking, featherlight kiss against my lips.

  Fucking hell, Thor.

  That’s right. I was cussing. Pregnancy made me cuss. Like a fucking sailor. Or maybe the lack of Quinn while I was awake made me cuss.

  I missed him. I missed him so much.

  To say I hadn’t been myself since becoming pregnant would be an understatement. And to say Quinn hadn’t been himself since I told him I was pregnant would be an even bigger understatement.

  I’d stopped researching what to expect of pregnancy months ago, during the first trimester, when I could only keep food down after eating three entire grapefruits. Much of the nausea had passed by the end of my second trimester, just in time for me to be placed on bed rest at week twenty-eight.

  The day had begun like any other. I’d gone pee—for the seventeenth time in a three-hour period—and saw blood. Not a lot, just a little. Unable to get through to my OB, I’d messaged Elizabeth and she told me to go to the ER, which I did, calling Quinn on the way to give him a heads-up.

  I don’t know how to explain it, but I wasn’t really concerned. Which was completely bizarre.

  I had no facts, no data, no experience, no touchstone to help me understand what was going on so I could appropriately calibrate how worried I should be. However, those things didn’t seem to matter. The further along I progressed in my pregnancy, the quieter my mind grew. Perhaps I was just too exhausted to be anxious. Or afraid.

  My thoughts were, There’s nothing to worry about, the baby is fine. You got this. You’d know if something was wrong.

  As Sandra would say, all I felt was Zen.

  But not Quinn. Quinn was not Zen. He was the opposite of Zen. I’d made a mental note to look up what the opposite of the word Zen was, thinking it should be something like “zook” or “z-oh-shit!”

  Or maybe it was “zinn.”

  That very day, he’d stopped touching me, except holding my hand. Hand holding was all I got; the doctors were unable to pinpoint the reason for my spotting. Maybe an undetectable placental abruption, maybe an incompetent cervix, maybe aliens.

  Of note, I may have lost it on the student physician who suggested I might have an incompetent cervix. What a craptacularly idiotic diagnosis. Whoever thought it was a good idea to tell a pregnant lady she had an incompetent anything should have been punched in the throat. Repeatedly. Then thrown into a vat of lava.

  A moron of diagnosticians, where moron is the collective noun. . .

  “Best to play it safe.” Quinn had relayed my OB’s instructions. I’d been asleep in the hospital room when she’d stopped by, having come down to the ER from the maternity ward. “No strenuous activity.”

  I’d nodded at the time, not feeling worried, but also not understanding that Quinn would interpret strenuous activity to mean anything more taxing than me brushing my teeth.

  As an aside, I never did look up what the opposite of the word Zen was. I should have, because life had been the opposite of Zen for the last week.

  He. . . hovered. A lot. He worked from home. He ran on a treadmill in our living room instead of outside in the park. And he followed me around if I stood up, asking, “Where are you going? What are you doing?” And then he tried to hire a nurse and a chef and a housekeeper, so they could also hover.

  It was hovering-squared. Exponential hovering. I was followed around by four people asking, “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to stab someone”—I’d said, lifting my crocheting implement between me and Quinn one evening—“with this dull hook, if people don’t stop following me around every time I stand up. And I’m pretty sure stabbing someone with a crochet hook would be classified as a strenuous activity. . .”

  Finally, he was open to negotiation.

  The chef and the nurse were nixed. It was decided that the housekeeper would come twice a week, picking up groceries and pre-made meals on her way.

  Which brings me back to now and my glorious second dinner, a second dinner I’d made for myself while Quinn was out of the apartment meeting with Dan about something urgent. A dinner that made my tummy happy and the tiny human living there send me hearts and flowers of contented bliss.

  Together, my baby and me, we ate that second dinner and we were happy.

  Until—

  “Janie. . .”

  I glanced toward the door of our bedroom, having not heard Quinn come home.

  His glare moved between me and my plate. “What are you eating?”

  I frowned, first at him, then at my food, then at him again. “Pickles.”

  I couldn’t help but think, If I were a Hobbit, I wouldn’t have to explain myself.

  “Pickles, and. . .?”

  Taking a deep breath through my nose, I spoke around the pickle spear. “Pickles and the butter of peanuts.”

  Quinn’s non-expression was tinged with distaste. He swallowed once but said nothing. He didn’t have to say anything because I could read his mind.

  Sodium. He was worried about sodium. I knew this for a fact because he’d been trying—and failing—to nonchalantly bring up the risk of preeclampsia and the involvement of sodium for the last week, citing statistics as though he’d written the textbook.

  I couldn’t help but wonder, had I been that bad? Had I driven him bonkers with all my fact quoting? How had he been able to stand it? I would have gagged me.

  Although, there was that one time in Paris. . .

  A shiver of lovely memory, followed closely by discontent, had me returning his glare with one of my own.

  We stared at each other, at an impasse, while I took another bite. I chewed three more times, enjoying the satisfying crunch crunch crunch as a burst of pickly goodness invaded my mouth, the very necessary taste of vinegar and peanuts cooling the fervor of craving-related frustration.

  But in the end, I caved. The urge to justify my dinner decision was too strong.

  I pointed another pickle spear at my hovering husband. “The baby, your baby, wanted pickles and peanut butter for dinner.”

  “And mustard.” He indicated with his forehead toward my other plate on the bed, which—yes—contained a pile of yellow mustard. And Dijon mustard. And stone ground mustard.

  I sniffed at him, lifting my chin. “Are you . . . are you judging me?”

  Quinn’s teeth slid to the side as he released a tired breath, his chin falling to his chest. For maybe the first time in three weeks, I allowed myself to take a good look at him.

  He was in a suit, a dark gray suit with a light blue tie. A suit that would have inspired nothing but frustration over the last few wee
ks since he refused to let me undress him. Or undress for me. Except, his shoulders were slouchy, and his posture looked defeated.

  I felt my face crease with unhappiness because this man didn’t look like my Quinn. He didn’t stand like my Quinn. This man made me sad.

  I swallowed, placing the pickle spear back on the plate, wiping my fingers with a napkin as I stood. “Quinn—”

  “You should be resting.” He lifted his head just enough to peer a warning at me.

  I ignored him and waddled over to where he stood, hesitating for just a second before reaching for his tie.

  He caught my hands, shaking his head. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking off your clothes.”

  Making a low sound in the back of his throat, he continued shaking his head. And when he spoke his tone was edged with both frustration and desperation. “What is it going to take for you to rest?”

  I twisted my lips to the side, considering him, spotting the dark circles under his eyes and the new lines around his mouth.

  And I knew what I had to do.

  Gathering a bracing breath, I said, “If you get naked, I will rest.”

  Quinn stood perfectly still. Truly, he did not move a muscle. His eyes bored into mine, and his lack of expression told me he thought I was nuts.

  Taking advantage of his stunned state, I withdrew my hands from his tie and moved them to the buttons of my pajama top.

  His gaze wavered, flickering to the progress of my fingers, then asking sharply, “What are you doing?”

  “If you won’t let me take off your clothes, then I’m taking off mine.”

  An inelegant groan, truncated by his will of steel, escaped his lips, followed by an emphatic, “Janie, no.”

  “Yes. And call me Kitten.” I took a step away from him, forcing him to follow me to the bed.

  “We can’t—”

  “Unless”—my fingers stilled on the last button—“unless you don’t find me attractive anymore?”

  His eyes flashed, his hands balling into fists, and he didn’t need to answer. I knew it was a ridiculous question, meant to elicit a visceral response rather than a spoken one.