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

by Penny Reid

  Friends.

  I swallowed, my gaze dropping to the floor as I gathered my wits. Who knew the word friends could sound so sharp? Like the verbal equivalent of a serrated knife. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my chin again and gave my coworker a really good impression of a smile.

  “Friends,” I confirmed. Convincingly.

  The muscle at Dan’s jaw jumped and he looked back to Tonya. “She’s one of the knitting ladies I was telling you about. I was just asking her to come by on Tuesday and meet Wally.”

  Tonya’s smile wavered as Dan mentioned his dog. “That reminds me, I need to pick up Claritin again after lunch.” To me she explained sadly, “I’m allergic to dogs.”

  “Oh. That’s . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence, because—honestly?—part of me was vindictively happy that this very kind woman, who was apparently dating the guy of my dreams, was allergic to dogs.

  I’m an evil harpy.

  I didn’t want to be an evil harpy.

  I won’t be an evil harpy! I REFUSE!

  “That’s too bad,” I finally said, and I meant it. “Is it all dogs? Some, like poodles, are better for allergies than others.”

  Dan scoffed. “A poodle? I don’t want a poodle.”

  “Why not?” I asked, surprised by his snobbery towards poodles. I liked poodles.

  “Did you hear about the poodle that gave birth outside?”

  I glanced at Tonya. She looked at him with curiosity, like she was interested in the story; but to me, this felt like the setup for a joke.

  “No . . .” I narrowed my eyes on him. “What happened to the poodle that gave birth outside?”

  “She got a ticket for littering,” he said, completely serious.

  And, despite the situation, I laughed at the cheesy punchline.

  Littering.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Tonya looked between us, a wrinkle between her eyebrows.

  A few seconds later, she also laughed, like she just got the joke, or felt like she should laugh, shaking her head and then turning to Dan and saying, “That’s good information, though. Our next dog should be a poodle.”

  His eyes widened, and his lips parted with surprise. He seemed to be struggling to respond. This time, I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing, figuring that Tonya was joking with him in return.

  But when Tonya continued to look completely serious, Dan’s expression screamed deer-caught-in-headlights. “Uh . . .”

  “Just think about it,” she said.

  She’s not joking.

  My urge to laugh was dashed, crushed into smithereens. How long have they been together? Are they getting a dog together? Have they talked about it?

  Tonya then gave him another quick kiss and pulled away, saying to Dan, “Okay, give me three minutes. I’ll be right back.” To me she sent a smile. “See you later. Maybe Tuesday? When you stop by to see Wally?”

  “Sounds good. See you then,” I responded evenly, determined to mask my disheartened disappointment from Tonya.

  My coworker turned and walked quickly down the hall, like she was in a rush to finish up so she could meet Dan for lunch. Both he and I watched her go. Every click of her shoes against the tan linoleum floor felt like the rusty hinges creaking shut on the door to my heart.

  Dramatic much?

  I sighed. I wasn’t finished being dramatic. I wanted to indulge in the impulse for just one more minute.

  I’ve missed my chance. Dan has moved on and I’ve lost my chance. FOREVER!

  Now I was finished being dramatic. At least, I was finished until I could escape work and stop by the market on my way home. Once there, I would buy all the cheese. All of it.

  But for now, I turned back to Dan as Tonya rounded the corner. He was looking at me as though waiting, patiently waiting, giving nothing of his thoughts away.

  I glanced at him. Strangely, I found looking at Dan much easier now that all interactions between us would be taking place within this very well-defined box of our current relationship—which is to say, we had no relationship. We didn’t even have the possibility of a relationship.

  “Tonya is really great,” I said sincerely, because Tonya was really great. “She made a raspberry crumble for the office third quarter birthday party. It was delicious.” I smiled; that was easier, too. “I’m happy for you both.”

  He frowned. I watched his chest expand with a deep breath as his eyes moved between mine.

  After a protracted moment, he asked, “You coming by to see Wally? On Tuesday?”

  I nodded once. “Sure. Does he need a cape?”

  His mouth curved to the side, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Would you knit him one if I said yes?”

  “I would.” I glanced at my hands, considering my next words before saying, “I would do anything for my friends.”

  When I looked at Dan again, his eyes had fallen to the floor. He appeared to be deep in thought. Taking another deep breath, his gaze lifted to mine again. This time they looked bracing.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

  He nodded, his eyebrows pulling together as he looked at me. “You know, it goes both ways. I’d do anything for my friends, too. All you need to do is ask.”

  “Thanks.”

  Well.

  That’s settled.

  Friends.

  So why was my throat so tight?

  Dan gave me a subtle nod, a short smile, and moved to the side, walking around me.

  I didn’t move as he left. I didn’t move as I listened to his footfalls carry him farther away. I didn’t move because my mind was racing, readjusting my impression of reality, reorganizing my world view.

  I wouldn’t be one of those women who pined for someone else’s boyfriend. I wouldn’t. The girl-code forbade it. As of now—as of right this minute—Dan was just a guy I knew. If I found myself pining, then he’d be relegated to acquaintance rather than friend.

  I would avoid him. I would not think of him. I would not—

  “Hey, Kat,” he called.

  I twisted toward his voice, my heart giving a betraying little flutter as our eyes met.

  “Yes?”

  “If I don’t see you, Happy Valentine’s Day.” Dan grinned. It was small, genuine, gentle, and it made my chest hurt.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, issuing a quick smile, and turned, my feet carrying me away from my new acquaintance, Daniel O’Malley.

  Extra Content: Dan’s Letter to Kat

  (canon)

  Author’s Note: For the last few years, a lovely blog has asked me to write a love letter from one of my characters to their Valentine. 2015 was Greg to Fiona, 2016 was Duane to Jessica, 2017 was Billy to Claire, and 2018 was Dan to Kat. The letter is supposed to have been written (by Dan for Kat) just before the action of Marriage of Inconvenience.

  Dear Kat,

  You’re probably wondering why I’m writing you this letter since we haven’t spoken to each other in months.

  Here’s the short story: our HR lady says all field operatives have to complete anger management classes in order to avoid lawsuits against the company (if things go bad on a job). Because of this, I’m spending my fucking Saturday in the stupidest fucking anger management class with half of the Chicago team.

  These fucking guys.

  Earlier we did trust falls. It did not go well.

  Currently everyone has their head down, writing their own letter. The instructor said we have to write to someone we have “unresolved issues” with. I don’t know why, but the first person I thought of was you.

  But I don’t want to give you a letter. I think we can both agree, me giving you a letter would be weird. Letters are a big fucking deal.

  If text messages are the equivalent of a one-night stand, emails are dating, phone calls are getting engaged, and handwritten letters are marriage with no possibility of divorce.

  But then the instr
uctor said I wouldn’t have to actually send it. I just had to write it. So here we are.

  How the fuck am I supposed to write a letter when I know someone isn’t going to read it? How does this even work?

  I guess . . .

  How are you? How are things? I saw you at Janie’s this week. You were wearing those tan pants and a white shirt with a button-up sweater. The buttons were little hearts. Don’t think I’m a sheisty asshole or something, but you wore that same sweater last year during February. I wonder if that’s your Valentine’s sweater. I would ask but I don’t want you to know I notice.

  Funny how that works. I think things, I notice things about a person, I notice you, but I say nothing because I don’t want to creep you out.

  I think I need to break up with my girlfriend.

  Fuck.

  Yeah. I definitely need to break up with her. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice, makes good meatloaf, super smart with the numbers. But she doesn’t get my jokes, and that’s a fucking travesty because I’m hilarious.

  I know what you’re going to ask, how can I tell? If she laughs, how can I tell she doesn’t get my jokes? Because there’s always a delay between the punchline and her laugh. The worst. I haven’t told her a joke in six months. What’s the point? Or maybe she doesn’t think I’m funny. Same difference.

  I haven’t seen her in three weeks. Why is she even with me if she doesn’t think I’m funny? Right? Habit maybe? A date to a wedding, to a business thing. My sister says women want a guy who shows up, and I guess I’ve always been good at showing up.

  I have to end this thing.

  I laugh at your jokes.

  You don’t see me laugh at your jokes because I’m always out of sight at your Tuesday knitting meet-ups, but I can hear you, I see you. (I swear to God, I am not a sheisty asshole despite this letter making me look like a sheisty asshole).

  Anyway, point is, your jokes are funny. You’re funny. I think, if you ever knew me for real, you’d like my jokes too. You’d laugh right after the punchline, no delay. You’d smile with that great smile of yours. You’d look at me with those eyes I love—yeah, I fucking love your eyes—and they’d be bright and dark at the same time. Like a starry sky. Glittery, hypnotic, gorgeous.

  Fuck.

  This sucks. I hate this class. I hate trust falls. I hate this letter. And I think I hate you.

  I don’t really hate you. I hate you like people who are lactose intolerant hate ice cream. Or those people who swell up like a balloon when they have shellfish hate lobster. Can you imagine going through life without ice cream and lobster? The worst.

  Maybe like . . . I guess . . . me going through life without you.

  Ignore me.

  I don’t know where that came from.

  Must be feeling misty because of the trust falls.

  One more thing. Today is Valentine’s Day. You know what my plans are? Go out with the guys after this stupid thing is over. Stan’s landlady has a pinochle game, maybe we’ll check it out. It’ll be a real rager.

  But, if you were mine and I was yours, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d blow off these stupid classes and take you someplace awesome. Someplace with lobster and ice cream and you. And do you know why it would be awesome? Not because of the ice cream or the lobster. Because you’d be there. And you’d make me laugh, and I’d make you laugh, and I’d get to see your eyes and smile, and maybe—somehow, someway—things would be different.

  I wish things could be different.

  Creepily yours, Dan

  Deleted Scene: Cry Porn

  Author’s Note: This scene was removed mostly because Marriage of Inconvenience was already 150k words (too long) and I couldn’t figure out where to put it. The scene was shared on Under the Covers Book Blog shortly after the book’s release. Additionally, I read this scene during a book signing and reading at Third Place Books in Seattle, May 2018.

  “ARE YOU IN the office?” Dan’s voice shouted from the other room and I froze. “Can I interest you in a board game?”

  Oh no!

  My stunned and horrified gaze darted from the computer screen to the doorway just as Dan entered, finishing his thought, “I’m not saying you have to say yes, but if you don’t, I will question where this is going.”

  I sniffed, wiping my nose and pressing the tissue to my lips. I didn’t trust my voice, but more than that, I didn’t know what to say. Clearly, I’d been crying and lying about it seemed silly.

  Dan halted abruptly, his eyes growing wide with surprise. Now he looked stunned and horrified. And worried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I’d been caught.

  “Nothing.” I shut the laptop hastily and jumped to my feet, knowing my eyes were rimmed red and my face was likely blotchy.

  “Kat, you’re sitting here crying.” He ventured further into the room, glancing around as though a monster hid in one of the corners. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s honestly no big deal.”

  Coming to stand in front of me, he glared at my computer, then softened his expression as it moved over me. “Kit-Kat, tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

  “Dan, I promise, it’s not—”

  “I’ll do anything, anything you need. Just let me help make this right for you, whatever it is. Was it your cousin? Did he—”

  “It was YouTube!” I dropped my chin, my hair falling forward. His concern was breaking my heart. But mostly, I felt embarrassed. Really, really embarrassed.

  He paused before asking, “What? What was YouTube?”

  “I was . . .” I motioned to the computer screen but didn’t give him my eyes. “You know, watching videos on YouTube.”

  “What kind of videos?” He fit a finger under my chin, forcing my gaze back to his.

  Taking a deep breath, I admitted reluctantly, “Sad ones.”

  He blinked. “Like what?”

  “Like—like… this little girl”—my attention moved over his shoulder as I confessed—“who had a dog, and the dog loved her so much he would walk with her everywhere she went. And then the dog got hit by a car, saving her. It was so sad. And then the other dog stepped up and took care of her. And then that dog—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Calm down.” He pulled me into a hug as my voice cracked, smoothing his hand down my hair. “Do you know this girl? Is that why you’re upset?”

  “No. I don’t know her. I—I—I do a thing, and I’m not proud of this thing. But I do it nevertheless, whenever I need to . . .” I gripped the front of his suit, unable to continue my sentence and admit that I was a total weirdo.

  “Need to?”

  “Whenever I need to cry,” I said on a rush, a wave of mortification rushing downward from my forehead to my toes. Crap. This was the worst. THE WORST! Gah!

  “I don’t . . .” He held me away, gripping me by the shoulders, his narrowed eyes sweeping over my face. “I don’t understand.”

  “I watch cry porn,” I spit out the truth.

  “Uh. . .” Dan glanced around the room looking seriously confused. “You mean you, like, watch people having sex while they cry?”

  “No! No, not that. It’s, like, YouTube videos of sad-happy things,” I explained, looking everywhere but at Dan, my voice quiet. “Like, soldiers coming home from active duty and surprising their kids at school. Or, stories about bravery, puppies, enduring love—that kind of thing. Things that I know will make me . . .”

  God.

  I just wanted to disappear into the carpet.

  “Oh,” he said thoughtfully, and then added, “Like the first ten minutes of Up.”

  Startled, I looked at him. “Pardon?”

  “The first ten minutes of the movie Up, the Pixar movie?” He lifted his eyebrows, his expression free of judgement. “You know, with the kids, and they’re so cute. And the girl has moxie, ya know? And when they grow up they get married and they’re so fucking happy, but they try to have babies and. . .” Dan’s face twisted and re-arranged itself,
his eyes losing focus. “Then they’re at the doctor and she’s crying, and you know he’s got to feel so fucking helpless, ’cause he loves this woman”—he tapped his chest, using his hands to give emphasis to his words—“like, love-loves her, and he can’t give her the one thing she wants the most.” He swiped at his eyes.

  I stared at him in wonder. “It makes you cry?”

  “Yes. It’s the worst. Saddest fucking ten minutes of any movie ever. Damn Pixar and their sad movies. What’d you call it?”

  “Cry porn?”

  “Yeah. Fucking cry porn. That movie is the cry-porniest.”

  I laughed at that—at him and me and us—wiping my eyes and sniffing. Of all the reactions I’d been expecting, acceptance and empathy hadn’t been on the list.

  This man.

  This man.

  He was amazing.

  Meanwhile, Dan lifted the screen of my laptop and reached for the box of Kleenex. “So, what are we watching? And should I get more tissues?”

  Deleted Scene: Astronaut Sexy Times

  (canon)

  Author’s Note: This scene was originally included in the epilogue of Marriage of Inconvenience. I decided to delete it because I wanted the book (and therefore the series) to end with a knit-night. This scene has never been published or shared.

  PULLING ON MY favorite cotton sleepshirt, I strolled from the closet to the bedroom and found Dan already on the bed, reading something on his phone. Every once in a while he would laugh, or chuckle, making a face at his screen as though whatever he was reading was ridiculous.

  Finally, curiosity got the better of me as I sat on the bed. “What are you reading?”

  “What?” He glanced at me. “Oh. Nothing.”

  “Come on. You keep laughing. What is it?”

  Dan looked a little cagey, like he’d been caught. “It’s . . . it’s the original of our postnuptial agreement.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “And it’s funny?”