Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

  “I miss you,” I said on a sigh. “But I think we should talk about this more before we decide anything. I don’t want you giving up something so important to you without being thorough and thoughtful about it.”

  “Fine.” His arms wrapped around me, holding me close. “You sleep on it and I’ll sleep on you.”

  I chuckled, returning his embrace. “Thank you for including me in this decision. Thank you for asking me for help.”

  “Of course. This is our life.”

  We held each other and I allowed the possibility of what the settlement would mean to take hold. I imagined what life would be like with Greg at home, every day. I could finally get rid of those hot water bottle cozies and stop spraying his cologne everywhere like a weirdo.

  A life with an accessible husband . . .

  I abruptly recalled that I had my own news to share as well.

  “Quinn called earlier today.”

  Greg said nothing for a beat, then asked, “He did? What did he want?”

  “He offered me a job.”

  My husband stiffened, just infinitesimally, likely due to surprise. “Doing what?”

  “Security consulting for his private clients. It would mean some travel, not a ton, and mostly to Europe, Canada, and Australia.”

  “Do you want to take it?”

  “I need your help.” Echoing his earlier words, I pulled far enough away to capture his almond-shaped brown eyes, now a little lighter than they’d been when we first met. A whiskey instead of a Kahlua . . . I might have been craving liquor.

  “Help me figure out what to do next.”

  A slow grin spread over his features as he studied me. It was crooked as it always was—sexy and thrilling and wonderful.

  Clearing his throat cartoonishly, his eyes dancing with mischief, Greg placed a single kiss on my collarbone. “Tell Quinn you want his office. I’d love to be there for that conversation.”

  I barked a laugh. “Yeah . . . no.”

  “And a pony.”

  I smacked Greg on the shoulder. “Be serious.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He cleared his throat again, seriously this time. “As you said, we should be thorough and thoughtful about it. But honestly,” he shrugged, “if you want to do it, you should.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him. “And the kids?”

  “I can take care of them. Maybe I’ll even enlist Man-Child Matt from time to time. We’ll be fine.”

  When I continued to glare at him he quickly added, “Mind you, I likely won’t do as good of a job as you. And I can’t promise the house will always be clean. Or that we won’t weld. Or launch rockets.”

  “Launch rockets?”

  “If they don’t learn about launching rockets at home, then they’ll just learn about it on the streets.”

  I glowered at him. “That sounds like something Hitler would say.”

  Greg chuckled and shook his head. “Well done, Mrs. Archer. There’s no arguing with that.”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  A smile lingered over his lips as he examined me. “The point is, we’ll figure it out. We always do. We can’t resolve everything now, because—as you so eloquently pointed out to your knitting group earlier—this marriage thing is a work in progress.”

  My heart skipped, bouncing around the walls of my chest, because in this moment I was happy.

  We were together. We were safe. The future was unknown. However, I’d learned over the last fourteen years that there was no such thing as a happily ever after.

  “Fe.” Greg slipped his fingers under my shirt, his big palms massaging my breasts suggestively, sending spikes of lovely warmth and coiled want to my belly, fingertips, and toes.

  “Yes?”

  “My heart keeps discovering new ways to love you,” he whispered, like it was a secret. A magnificent, beautiful, perfect secret.

  My smile was immense and immediate. A rush of emotion stung my eyes. Because sometimes marriage to this man was wonderful.

  But sometimes it was a chore.

  Love was never enough, not without mutual respect and a great deal of drudgery and effort. And even then, it wasn’t enough. Wanting each other, being open to change, pushing each other to improve and grow—for the better—working to deserve each other, was the key.

  I loved him and I always would. But that was the easy part. Working to deserve him and demanding that he work to deserve me, everyday—that was hard.

  But he was worth it.

  And I was worth it.

  “Thank you, Greg. I love you so much, and I’m so grateful we found each other.”

  “Me too, my darling.” He held my eyes captive, prolonging the romance of the moment, reminding me of why I married him in the first place.

  But then, after a minute, he squeezed my boobs and asked, “Are we going to have sex tonight? I have stuff to do and it's already nine thirty.”

  -The End-

  

  About the Author

  Penny Reid’s days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her three people-children (boy-8, girl-6, tiny dictator-5 months), or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!

  Come find Penny-

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  Please, write a review!

  If you liked this book (and, more importantly perhaps, if you didn’t like it) please take a moment to post a review someplace (Amazon, Goodreads, your blog, on a bathroom stall wall, in a letter to your mother, etc.). This helps society more than you know when you make your voice heard; reviews force us to move towards a true meritocracy.

  Read on for:

  Sneak Peek of The Player and the Pixie (Rugby series #2)

  Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

  Sneak Peek of The Player and the Pixie (Rugby series #2)

  By LH Cosway and Penny Reid, coming March 2016

  Chapter 1

  *Lucy*

  Flesh was a strange color for nail polish.

  I understood black (for the Goths) and even grey to a certain extent, but flesh? You were just painting your nails the same color they already were. It was like dying your hair red when you were a ginger.

  Pointless.

  I stood staring at the selection of colors in the cosmetics section of the local department store, trying to resist the urge to pick up that oh so tempting shade of canary yellow and shove it in my handbag. You don’t need it. You don’t need it. You don’t need it. Material objects are transitory. The joy they bring is momentary and hollow…Strangely, my mantra wasn’t working right then.

  So, you’ve probably already guessed my secret. I had an addiction…or maybe a compulsion was the better word.

  I was a thief. A shoplifter. And the mere sight of consumer items small enough to conceal within the confines of a purse or a coat pocket gave me twitchy fingers like you wouldn’t believe.

  It was abhorrent, I knew that, and I’d been doing so well in my efforts to quit. Six months ago I moved to New York to begin a new job as a celebrity photographer/blogger/youtuber, and I’d made a resolution to stop. I hadn’t stolen a single thing in all that time. Yes, the Big Apple remained untouched by my habit for five finger discounts. And yet, there I stood, just itching to steal that flipping ridiculous bottle of nail polish.

  I knew the reason why, and her name began with a J. That would be Jackie Fitzpatrick, my mother, and prov
ider of inferiority complexes everywhere. It was summer and I’d come home to visit, see my brother and his fiancé, meet up with some friends. The problem was, I’d committed to staying at Mam’s for the duration. I was only back a day before she started in with the usual comments.

  When are you ever going to meet a man and settle down?

  Those baggy jeans do nothing for your figure.

  Have you considered coming with me for a Brazilian wax? (A Brazilian wax with my mother, excuse me while I vom)

  Would you please do something different with your hair? Looking at all those colors is giving me a headache.

  So yeah, stealing was that little rush, that hit of relief I needed in order to deal with my mother’s constant criticism.

  And little did she know, she was the reason for my multi-colored hair dyeing. A couple of years ago, after a rather intensive thieving session that had followed a particularly brutal argument with Mam, I’d come home with a bag full of outlandish colored hair dyes. I hadn’t wanted them to go to waste, and I thought it’d be kind of funky to have rainbow hair, so I’d set to work on my new ‘do. Somehow, the style choice stuck, and now every morning when I looked in the mirror the vibrant colors made me smile.

  Oh, feck it. I couldn’t resist. Snagging the bottle, I dropped it discreetly into my bag and turned to leave. I’d just stepped outside when a voice called, “Hey! Wait!”

  My heart began to race and heat flooded my cheeks. I’d been caught. It wouldn’t be the first time, but still, it didn’t get any less embarrassing or anxiety inducing to be found stealing. Nothing else for it, I turned and was met with a pair of eager brown eyes. Those eyes belonged to a young guy, about my age, and also an employee of the store. I waited for the expected spiel. He was going to ask me to step back inside so that he could search my bag. But then, that didn’t happen.

  “Lucy? Lucy Fitzpatrick?” he asked hesitantly.

  I glanced from side to side. How did he know my name? “Uh, yeah.”

  He smiled. “I’m Ben, Ben O’Connor. We went to school together, remember? I used to sit by you in History class.”

  If I was being honest, I didn’t remember. The guy was pretty unremarkable looking and I had a memory like a sieve. I actually had to use tricks sometimes in order to recall people’s names. For instance, when I first met my new friend in New York, Broderick, I kept envisioning him in a brown hat with helicopter wings and a long trench coat. That way my brain could make the connection of Inspector Gadget being played in the movie by Matthew Broderick, hence my new friend’s name was Broderick.

  “Oh yeah!” I lied and smiled, while on the inside I was crapping myself. Had he seen me taking the nail polish? “I remember now. It’s been a while. How are you doing these days?”

  “Great,” he replied with enthusiasm and I felt like asking, really? I couldn’t see how great it was still living in the same old town he’d grown up in. Plus, his hair line was starting to recede.

  “That’s good.”

  He nodded and slipped his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

  A few seconds of ridiculously awkward silence ensued. I never got why people began conversations with you that went nowhere. It was like, don’t come up and talk to me when you’ve got nothing to say. It was just painful for both parties. Okay, so maybe I was being overly bitchy since I was still shitting it about the nail polish. Stupid tempting canary yellow. How was I supposed to resist such vibrancy? How?

  “You look different these days,” said Ben finally.

  I laughed nervously. “Different good or different bad?”

  He shrugged. “Just different.”

  “Must be that sex change I put in for.”

  Ben just stared at me, the joke not registering. He scratched at his jaw. “Eh, yeah, so you know I’m a massive rugby fan, right?”

  And the penny finally dropped. Here was the reason for the awkward conversation of pointlessness. Ben wanted something from me, maybe an autograph, or a meet and greet with my famous rugby playing brother. I loved Ronan to pieces, but his career meant that people often wanted to be friends with me because of who I shared DNA with. Kind of depressing, but I always tried to look on the bright side. Outweighing negativity with positivity was the key to a happy life, and being related to a famous person brought with it a lot of advantages. I always tried to concentrate on those. Plus, I was a naturally happy and bubbly person when I wasn’t dealing with my mam’s undermining influence.

  “Oh, you are? That’s cool.”

  Ben nodded. “So, do you think maybe you could get me into tonight’s party? I’d love to go and meet the team. Seriously, it’d be a dream come true.”

  The Irish squad had just played their last game of the season, and tonight there was a big celebration going on to mark the occasion.

  “Um, I’m not actually sure I can swing that, Ben. The party’s in a couple of hours.”

  All of a sudden, Ben’s expression changed. He no longer appeared sheepishly polite, now he seemed cynical – cocky even. He stepped forward and narrowed his gaze. “Get me into the party and I won’t tell my manager about the nail crap you just stole.”

  Oh no.

  I swallowed, my attention flittering to the older man who was manning the service counter. It was ridiculous, but I felt a bit like crying. What a manipulative, blackmailing little shit. I didn’t let him see my tears, and instead held my head high.

  “Fine,” I gritted. “I’ll make sure your name is on the guest list.”

  I turned to leave.

  “With a plus one?” Ben called after me. I wanted to punch him. Instead, I repeated a few lines from the Tao Te Ching that I often used while meditating. Ah, that was better. I was calmer now.

  “Yes, Ben, with a plus one.”

  ***

  It was probably as a silent ‘up yours’ to Ben that I decided to wear the yellow nail polish to the party that night. My dress was cream lace, sort of floaty, and I wore my hair down with a single daisy clip at the side. I was sitting in a VIP room at the back of the party venue with my brother, his fiancé Annie, and a couple of his teammates. We were enjoying few a bottles of champagne and discussing the success the Irish squad had enjoyed during the year. Mam was elsewhere, socializing with the other team mothers, and I was glad. I just wanted to enjoy my night without her saying something to ruin it.

  We were all having a great time until the door swung open and Mr Tall, Blonde and Up Himself walked in. That would be Sean Cassidy to those not in the know. He was the teammate my brother had the most difficulty with, and not only had he slept with Brona, my brother Ronan’s ex-girlfriend, but he was also kind of an arsehole. Actually, he was a lot of an arsehole, and he was constantly doing things to try and piss Ronan off.

  I swear, half the time he said dumb shit for the sole purpose of riling my brother up.

  The conversation died down, everybody casting surreptitious glances at Sean who swaggered his way up to the private bar and loudly ordered a bottle of bubbly. That’s actually what he called it – bubbly, a prime example of him purposely acting like a twat. He was obviously intimidated by Ronan and that’s why he felt the need to throw his weight around…but speaking of bubbly…

  Almost of their own accord my eyes wandered over his broad shoulders, muscular back and down to what must have been the most perfect bubble butt I’d ever seen. You know how sometimes male athletes develop these really defined, rounded but masculine derrieres? Well, Sean Cassidy was most definitely rocking one of those, and I couldn’t resist the urge to ogle it. It was pure muscle and simply bite-worthy.

  I snickered to myself when I realized I’d almost commented on it out loud. Okay, I’d officially had too many glasses of “bubbly” as Sean so douchebagly called it. He must have heard my snicker because his attention landed on me. He stared at me for a second, arched a condescending brow, then dismissed me all in an instant, returning his attention to the bar. Huh. After about thirty seconds everyone returned to their conversations,
trying their best to ignore Sean. He was the kind of person who thrived on attention, so ignoring his presence was probably the best course of action to take.

  It was my own fault that I couldn’t stop staring. We’d never spoken before. In fact, I’d only ever really seen him from afar at parties like this one, or on television when there was a match on. But right now he was close, close enough for me to realize just how devastatingly handsome he was: light blue eyes, a strong jaw, nice lips, attractive nose.

  Sigh.

  Why were the beautiful ones always such pricks, huh?

  He leaned back against the bar, having uncorked the champagne bottle and poured some into a glass. He wore a shit eating grin as he stared right at Ronan, holding the glass to his lips, his pinky popped. I knew he was getting to Ronan when my brother muttered to Annie under his breath, “Is he fucking shitting me?”

  Annie sat beside her fiancé, wearing a gorgeous blue dress and looking worried. She quietly placed her hand on Ronan’s thigh in an effort to soothe him.

  Sean just kept on smiling while Ronan became more and more aggravated. It was only another minute or two before my brother finally snapped.

  “All right, Cassidy, you’ve clearly got something to say so say it,” Ronan announced loudly. “And put your fucking pinky down, no one’s amused.”

  Sean’s lips moved in something akin to satisfaction as he wiggled his little finger. “What? This pinky? Do my effeminate ways turn you on, Fitzpatrick?”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re about as gay as a Snoop Dog music video. Now spit it out.”

  Sean gave Ronan a bored look then cast his eyes across the room to one of the new players, an American guy named William Moore.

  He pointed his finger at him. “I know you’re fixing to have this fucking hillbilly replace me. Well let me tell you right here and now, it’s not gonna happen.”

  William was built like a brick shithouse and came from a small farming town in Oklahoma. His mother was of Irish descent and he originally played for a semi-professional team back in the states. William was also one of the kindest, most well-mannered men I’d ever met, so it irked me that Sean was targeting him.