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

by Penny Reid

  At length he asked, “How much did you hear?”

  “I heard you reading to her.” I shrugged like it was no big deal, because it was no big deal. “Then the two of you talking, until I stretched and sat up.”

  Drew held my gaze for a short moment. He surprised me by standing, his chair making a sharp shrill scrape against the floor. His tone was gruff and accusatory when he said, “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  My spine stiffened at the seat he’d just occupied. I had trouble forming words for about ten heartbeats. He was right, of course, but I didn’t understand why he was so upset.

  I decided straightaway to apologize. We still had a lot of work to do and I didn’t need his irrational mood swings prolonging the task. I would just keep my mouth shut. I got the impression that he wanted to strangle me every time I spoke.

  Well, strangle me or kiss me.

  One or the other.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry.” I glanced over my shoulder at him. He stopped pacing at my words. His hands were on his hips, his blond eyebrows drawn low, and his mouth was curved into a severe frown.

  I held up my hands and continued, “I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. I apologize.”

  Drew’s gaze narrowed on me and he looked a bit like one of his caged bears, trapped and about to attack.

  “You’re bringing this up now? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was trying to make conversation.”

  Drew flinched. “Conversation? This is conversation for you?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I suppose we could talk about sports.”

  “Sports…” His tone was flat, and for some inexplicable reason it made me shiver. I remained silent because some innate sense of self-preservation told me to be quiet.

  “So…” he said, gritting his teeth, his eyes flashing. “What now?”

  I glanced to the right, then to the left, not really understanding what he was talking about and definitely at a complete loss as to why he was so upset. Therefore, I inhaled a slow, deep breath before offering, “Um, we get back to work…?”

  He blinked at me, his chin jutting out. “We get back to work?” He breathed the words and they were laced heavily with affronted astonishment. He also looked offended, like my suggestion to continue working was a slight against his manhood, or I’d just suggested that we shoot his horse.

  I studied him for a beat, then sighed, closing my eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so, so sorry! If I’d known you were going to be this upset about me listening to you read Momma an excerpt from North and South I would have blown a rape whistle as soon as I woke up so as to alert you to my wakefulness. In fact, I should probably start blowing a whistle at intervals around the house anyway because it would save me from having to watch all my brothers get their man-business done in every dark corner of this house. But as it stands, I can do nothing about overhearing the two of you talk about my embarrassing past as a beauty pageant contestant. I don’t understand why you’re so angry—”

  “Wait.”

  I opened my eyes and found Drew’s on mine. To my relief and continued bewilderment, he no longer looked angry. He looked slightly relieved and somewhat confused.

  “Wait,” he repeated. Drew crossed to me, reclaiming his seat. “Which day was this? Saturday? Two days ago?”

  “No. Three weeks ago. It was a Tuesday.”

  He slanted his head to the side, inspecting my face with bizarre intensity. “So you didn’t overhear my conversation with Bethany on Sunday?”

  “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even know you were around last Sunday.”

  This was technically true. I thought I’d heard his voice, but I was asleep. I thought I felt his hand against my face, in my hair, but I discarded the notion as a dream. More precisely, it was a random and embarrassingly dirty sexy-times dream, where he’d been the headliner.

  Who has sex dreams while taking care of their ailing mother?

  This deranged pervert, that’s who.

  He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching. I submitted to his perusal and met his stare straight on, though my cheeks heated a tinge as I recalled the dream… and all the things… that happened… to me… in the dream.

  A new flare of wariness sparked behind his eyes. “You look embarrassed. Why are you embarrassed?”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “Yes you are. Tell me.”

  “It’s none of your business, but it has nothing to do with what I didn’t overhear on Sunday.”

  Drew nodded slowly, still surveying me. “Tell me.”

  The chances of me telling Drew Runous that he was the star performer in one of my sex dreams was never going to happen. Therefore, I deflected.

  “Why don’t you tell me first why you were in such a snit about a conversation with Momma? What did you two talk about on Sunday?”

  Drew’s forearm rested along the edge of the desk, his body was turned toward mine. His expression shifted from suspicious to blank to something altogether more alarming in the span of twenty seconds. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but the back of my neck itched, the hairs raised in an instinctual warning.

  The air in the room had also shifted, became thicker… or thinner. Either way, I was finding it hard to breathe. Drew leaned forward, his eyes were suddenly captivated by my mouth.

  “You really want to know?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “Are you ready to talk about this?”

  I licked my lips, my eyelashes inexplicably fluttering as I readied myself for… I had no idea. But it was something big.

  Was I ready for something big? What would I even do with something big? I didn’t have a place to store Drew’s something big. The space in my heart and mind was already bursting with grief and worry and regret. Saturated as I was, I couldn’t even contemplate what the something big might be, let alone make room for it.

  Therefore, I answered honestly, my filter fallen by the wayside along, with painting my nails, putting on makeup, doing my hair, and wearing anything but yoga pants and tank tops.

  “Probably not,” I blurted.

  Extra Scene: A Winston Christmas

  (canon)

  Author’s note: This scene takes place directly after the action of Beauty and the Mustache, and was originally included in my December 2014 newsletter.

  “WHAT ARE YOU reading, Cletus?”

  “An article about the convergence of age of consent laws worldwide.”

  Jethro glanced up from his knitting, his eyes flickered to mine, then back to Cletus. “What?”

  “Consent laws,” Cletus repeated, a little slower this time and a little louder, like Jethro were hard of hearing; and then again, “Consent laaaaaaws.”

  “I heard what you said, dummy. I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jethro grumbled back, moving his attention back to his work in progress. It was a gray hat, 100 percent merino wool yarn. I’d fondled it earlier when he wasn’t looking.

  I had a bit of yarn envy. That’s right, I was coveting my brother’s yarn.

  Presently, we were sitting in Momma’s house, gathered around the fireplace; a roaring fire providing warmth and the cozy sounds of winter. Billy was strumming his acoustic guitar in the corner, absentmindedly picking out the main melody to Canon in D.

  Jethro and I were sitting on the couch knitting, Roscoe between us. Roscoe was scrolling through the online knitting and crochet pattern website Ravelry, looking for scarf patterns (for himself, obviously); he wanted either Jethro or I to knit him something. We both suggested he learn how to do it for himself.

  Duane and Beau were in the club chairs playing chess and frowning at each other. And Cletus was in the rocking chair by the fire, an unlit pipe in his mouth; he was ensconced in a velvet smoking jacket, thick orange hand-knit socks, brown corduroy pants, reading The Economist. He was absolutely ridiculous.

  It would have been an idyllic scene except every fifteen minu
tes or so an argument would break out between two of my brothers. Names were called, threats were made, dirty looks were cast across the room like fishing lures.

  So far, Billy and Jethro had arm wrestled over the last piece of apple pie.

  Duane and Beau had argued over Beau’s shirt; it was Duane’s, Beau borrowed it and had somehow spilled gravy on the front. Now Beau was wearing just an undershirt and Duane was wearing a scowl.

  Roscoe and Cletus had argued over whether or not Paul Revere’s One if by land, and two if by sea before the American Revolutionary War had to do with how the British would be arriving or Paul Revere’s personal mode of travel. Roscoe insisted it had to do with how the British would be arriving—one light if by land, two lights if by sea—and Cletus maintained that the story had been corrupted over time. That, in fact, one light for land and two lights if by sea, had nothing to do with the British at all, but rather was how Paul Revere would announce his own travel mode and plans.

  Roscoe was still sulking about losing the argument. Cletus, to everyone’s astonishment, was correct. This prompted Cletus to insist that Roscoe call him Professor. Roscoe would not.

  Now, Jethro’s last statement hung in the air and I could feel the tension mounting. I didn’t think Cletus would let Jethro get away with calling him dummy. I sensed some sort of retribution was brewing. A few minutes passed where nothing was said.

  Then, Cletus announced to the room, “Age of consent for sex.”

  Billy stopped strumming his guitar, Duane paused mid-chess move, Roscoe’s hand stilled on the iPad, and Jethro and I glanced up from our projects.

  “What?” Billy’s question was curt and confused. “What are we talking about?”

  “This article, it’s about the age of consent for sex around the world and how laws are converging.”

  “It’s eighteen in the United States.” Beau said this offhandedly, returning his attention to the chess board and the move Duane was about to make.

  “That’s not true,” Cletus said around his pipe. I noted he’d adopted a weird accent, something between German and British. He sounded ridiculous. “It’s twelve.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I blurted, my mouth falling open. “That’s… you just made that up.”

  “Nope. Federal law establishes the age of twelve as the minimum age of consent, while the age at which there are no restrictions for consensual sexual activities is eighteen.”

  I exchanged a glance with Billy. I imagined we wore matching expressions of confusion.

  “So… what does that mean?” Duane narrowed his eyes on Cletus, setting the chess piece he was about to move back on the board.

  “Well, while sex with someone twelve to seventeen is not illegal per se, it can still be open to prosecution under certain circumstances. So, that’s good news for you, Jethro.” Cletus lifted his chin toward Jethro and gave him a shit-eating grin.

  Jethro grimaced and glared daggers at Cletus; he was most definitely not smiling.

  “What?” Roscoe leaned forward, his eyes ping-ponging around the room. “What did I miss? Why is this good news for Jethro?”

  “Because when Jethro was—”

  “That’s enough! We’re not talking about this.” Jethro stood suddenly and pointed at Cletus, adding in a low voice, “We’re not talking about this.”

  “What are we not talking about?” Beau’s mouth had curved into a curious and excited smile. “What did Jethro do? Or rather, what did Jethro do and with whom?”

  At that moment, the front door opened and I glanced over my shoulder. Drew stood in the doorway, shaking snow from his jacket and wiping his boots on the mat. I set my knitting to the side and jumped up to greet him, nearly tackling him as the screen shut behind him. He wrapped one arm around my waist, catching me, while I grabbed his face with my hands and pressed a kiss to his cold lips.

  Peripherally, I heard Cletus say something like, “Come on now, Jethro. It’s nothing to be ashamed of…”

  “Hey, Sugar.” Drew smiled down at me with his gray eyes. “You’re warm.”

  “And you’re cold.” My attention fixed on his bluish lips and reddish nose. The weather report claimed it would get down to seventeen degrees by midnight. “Come sit by the fire and have a bourbon.” I tugged him after me toward the big recliner by the fire.

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” Jethro was saying through clenched teeth while he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. He glanced up as Drew and I approached. He nodded to Drew, but an edge of exasperation seemed to glint behind his brown eyes as Cletus spoke.

  “If you’re not ashamed, then why not let everyone know?” Cletus was also standing. He was resting an elbow against the mantle, his other hand was on his hip, the silly pipe still in his mouth, one foot on the step of the fireplace—he’d assumed the Captain Morgan pose.

  “Jethro, pour one for Drew,” I requested as we passed.

  “Now I really want to know.” Roscoe had inched to the edge of his seat. “And I’ll take one of those whiskies.”

  “Might as well make it a round, pour one for everybody,” Billy said, setting his guitar to the side and crossing to Jethro to help him pour the whiskey.

  “I’m offended no one wants my moonshine eggnog.” Cletus shook his head at the lot of us, like we were a disappointment.

  “Maybe if it didn’t taste like the ass of a skunk…” Duane mumbled, then pointed a finger at Jethro. “But we’re getting off topic. Why should Jethro be happy that the age of sexual consent in the US is twelve?”

  I was helping Drew off with his jacket when this was said, and was treated to Drew’s surprised then worried expression at this statement. I stifled a laugh as Drew’s gaze sought mine out for an explanation.

  I shrugged, pressing my lips together to suppress my smile before saying, “I haven’t got the foggiest idea why Jethro is happy about the age of consent being twelve.”

  Drew lifted his gaze to Jethro, his stare probing. “Something you need to tell us, Jethro?”

  Jethro rolled his eyes, saying “Dammit, Cletus!” just before he shot back the whiskey he was holding.

  “Sexual urges are normal.” Cletus nodded solemnly as he spoke. “When a man—or a boy—desires a woman, it’s a perfectly natural thing to—”

  “Fine! Fine, tell them. I don’t care.” Jethro threw his hands in the air, his voice rough from the whiskey. I saw that his cheeks above his beard and the bridge of his nose were now tinged the barest shade of pink. “This is so stupid…”

  While Jethro raged on, I pressed Drew into the recliner and turned to go get his drink. But his hands gripped my hips, forcing me down with him and onto his lap.

  “Drew, let me go get—”

  “Stay with me,” he whispered against my neck, drawing me close, his beard tickling me.

  “I want to get you something to warm you up,” I whispered back even as I melted against him.

  “You warm me up.” His arms came around me and held me against his chest. I didn’t protest. Instead, I took one of his hands in mine and rubbed it, warming his long fingers. I loved those fingers.

  Meanwhile, Jethro was finishing his tirade, “… it’s not like I’m the only person, so go ahead and tell everybody.”

  “What is it?” Beau’s narrowed glare moved between Jethro and Cletus.

  “Just tell us already,” Billy demanded. “At this point it better be something good.”

  Jethro and Cletus shared a look, some silent communication, as the rest of us watched in various levels of suspense.

  Then Cletus smiled—it looked remarkably sinister—and said, “Nah… it’s not my secret to tell.”

  Duane and Beau growled in unison, “Come on, Cletus!”

  Jethro shook his head slowly at his younger brother, still holding his gaze, and said, “I’m going to get you back for this.”

  Cletus’s smile grew, and he shrugged happily; his smile was still sinister, but now also warmed with a teasing affection. It was the kind that onl
y siblings and lifelong friends feel for each other. He was obviously pleased by his effective torture of his older brother.

  “Fine, I will tell you all and then I don’t want to hear a thing about it.” Jethro turned to the room and faced us, his tone hard and displeased, but also reluctantly amused.

  Roscoe rubbed his hands together and grinned. He looked more excited now than he had on Christmas morning. I rolled my eyes and chuckled, Drew squeezing me. His slightly curved lips and sparkling gray gaze were an answer to my eye-roll. I could see he was enjoying these antics just as much, if not more, than the rest of us. I wondered what his childhood must’ve been like—with no siblings his age to fight with, blackmail, and torture… it must’ve sucked.

  “Okay…” Jethro said, heaved a big sigh, then continued, “When I was fourteen, I was helping out at the junkyard, remember?”

  Everyone quietly nodded. The room was silent as we all waited with bated breath for him to continue.

  “Y’all remember Mr. Tanner, the junk yard owner? He had two daughters?”

  Billy answered for the room, “Yeah, they were twins… a few years older, right?”

  “Yeah, they were sixteen at the time...” Jethro studied his glass of whiskey; again I noted that his cheeks and nose were growing pinker by the minute.

  “At the time…? At the time of what?” Beau pressed, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

  Jethro cleared his throat and glanced at the ceiling. “At the time I lost my virginity.”

  I swear, you could have heard a pin drop or a rooster fart, the room was that quiet. Seconds ticked by, more than five but less than ten, before anyone spoke.

  “What? Are you telling me you lost your virginity at fourteen to one of the Tanner twins?” Billy asked, his tone plainly incredulous.

  “No,” Jethro said, meeting Billy’s gaze directly. “I’m telling you I lost my virginity at fourteen to both of the Tanner twins.”

  “Oh my dear lord.” Duane sat back in his chair and covered his mouth with a hand, staring at Jethro.