Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City) (11 page)

“
What?” Steven placed an elbow on the table, then rested his chin in his palm and gazed at me.

“
Children.”

“
You haven’t discussed children?” His eyebrows arched over his gray eyes. “Well, don’t you think you need to? Seeing as how you’re going to marry the guy. You should find out if he wants an even or odd number—you know, like seven or ten.”

“
Honestly, he took me completely by surprise. I wasn’t expecting it at all.”

“
But you said yes?”

“
Yes. Of course I said yes.”

“
Why
of course
?”

I sighed, but
was forced to delay my response when our waitress returned with lovely little sandwiches and the bottle of Crystal. She assured us that petit fours, scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, and Earl Grey tea would be forthcoming.

Steven lifted his glass of champagne as she left and encouraged me to lift mine.
“Clink me, we’ll make a toast later after I find out why you
of course
said yes.”

“
Well, first of all, I’m in love him.”

“
You and I both know that’s not a good reason. I’m in love with my white couch, but you don’t see me getting a marriage license.”

I ignored his comment and selected a delicate looking egg salad sandwich with no crust from the serving tray.
“Secondly, I like him.”

“
Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. Care to expand on what you like about him? Other than the obvious.”

“
The obvious?”

“
His face, body, and bank account.”

I twisted my mouth to the side and crossed my arms over my chest.
“He’s more than just a face, body, and bank account.” I both loved and liked his face and body. I had mixed feelings about the bank account.

“
Well, he’s got brains too, I’ll give you that.” Steven popped a chicken salad sandwich into his mouth and spoke while he chewed; miraculously, all the food stayed within. “You’re a sensible girl, probably smarter than he is in the traditional way.” He gulped half the glass of champagne to wash down the sandwich then continued. “All I’m saying is that I could find a dozen Quinn Sullivans—handsome millionaire manwhores—but I’ve only encountered one Janie Morris.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Steven had
the uncanny ability to both compliment and insult while making both sound like a discussion about tax law.

“
Do you want me to defend my decision?” I tried my sandwich—found it delicious, took a substantial bite—then sipped my champagne.

“
No. You don’t need to defend anything to me. I’m one of your biggest fans. I just want to make sure you know why you’re marrying him. Because, to me, you’re special; you deserve the best.”

We exchanged a silent smile while our server placed a layered tray of delectable petit fours, scones, and related accoutrements on the circular table then scurried off with a promise of tea. Steven poured more champagne in
to my class then refilled his.

“
Thank you.”

“
You’re welcome. Now then, why are you marrying him?”

I glanced over Steven
’s shoulder to the garden beyond, searched for the right words, and thought of viruses.

“
You know how a virus works?” I refocused my attention to his and watched as Steven’s chewing slowed, his eyes narrowed and clouded with confusion.

“
Uh…for purposes of this conversation, let’s say no.”

“
Well, in layman terms, the long and short of it is as follows.” I sipped my champagne, placed it on the table, then leaned forward. “A virus attaches to a host cell and sends genetic instructions into the host cell. The instructions recruit the host cell’s enzymes—like propaganda—and convince the enzymes to make parts for new virus particles. The new virus particles assemble and break free from the host cell. Then the whole thing starts all over again. That’s how the virus spreads until it just takes over.”

“
O-o-o-kay.” Steven placed a scone on his plate and cut it open before applying liberal amounts of clotted cream. “Your point is?”

“
My relationship with Quinn is the virus.”

Steven frowned at his scone then at me.
“That sounds unhealthy.”

“
Yes, in some ways it most likely is. And, for some relationships, it most definitely is. But it’s not for us, not really. Every relationship is like a virus—where two people negotiate and change, stretch and grow, recruit and assimilate until you’re two things, but also one thing, one entity, working together.”

“
So, are you the virus or the host cell?”

“
The relationship is the virus, and both Quinn and I, separately, are the host cells. The key is to find a relationship, a virus, that encourages you to be stronger, a better person, but also be able to show weakness without fear of exploitation—a  relationship that challenges you, but also makes you happy and lifts you up.”

Steven
’s expression hovered between incredulous and amused. “Don’t some viruses cause cancer?”

“
Yes.” I nodded, ceding the point, and began thinking through the ramifications of the expanded analogy out loud. “And some viruses irrevocably change your DNA. But that’s like a relationship too, isn’t it? Some relationships can change how we see ourselves for better or for worse—as you say, in chronically unhealthy ways, like a cancer. And some do the opposite. They make us realize our potential.”

“
Huh,” came his thoughtful response. He studied me for a protracted moment before saying, “I love you, Janie. Only you can compare a relationship to a disease and make it sound both romantic and terminal.”

For the first
time in my life, I was wearing a ball gown.

It itched.

However, it had also elicited a prolonged, heated stare from my fiancé—likely because it was strapless and necessitated a likewise strapless bustier with a pushup bra. My breasts were distracting even to me, especially when I drew in a deep breath. They kept popping up in my peripheral vision, and I caught myself staring down at my chest wondering who they belonged to.

G
iven Quinn’s preoccupation with them in general, I imagined that to him, my squeezed-in pushed-up breasts were like two pale mounds of hypnotizing flesh.

I
’d spent most of the day shopping for necessary undergarments for the gown since I had nothing even close to appropriate. Quinn, to my total shock and surprise, cleared his schedule so that he could come with me. While we were out, he’d also made a point to have me try on, model, and purchase a good amount of bridal lingerie.

I was pleased to see he was taking
the wedding planning seriously.

The
ball gown was a deep burgundy silk and sequined with dark red and black beadwork. It was fitted through the lower waist then flared dramatically to the floor. It also had a quantity of black feathers—a modest gather at one side of the waist that increased in width and spread down the right side of the skirt like a fan.

I
didn’t choose the gown. It was sent to Quinn by the foundation hosting the ball after we RSVPed for the event. I didn’t discover until later that, along with the RSVP, his secretary—Betty—had sent in a recent picture of me along with my measurements.

All
the women in attendance had been instructed to wear the provided dresses, which would be auctioned for the sake of the charity.

Under any other circumstances, beautiful as
it was, I never would have worn it. Cleavage issues aside, I didn’t know where to put my arms. If they hung down loosely at my sides, the beads of the bodice scratched the sensitive underside of my biceps. If I crossed them over my chest, my boobs went from mountainous to volcanic.

I tried putting my hands on my hips, which worked for a short time, but
it wasn’t a long-term solution because it made me look like a stern peahen teacher.

I was debating all of this when Dan and Steven arrived
. Of course, Steven took one look at me and the awkward no-man’s-land placement of my arms and made an obvious suggestion.

“
Why don’t you wear opera gloves?” He said.

A call to the concierge
, and fifteen minutes (of me holding my arms away from my body) later, and we were on our way—with opera gloves.

Yet
again, Quinn was Sir McCoolpants Von No Touchy in the limo. I surmised that this time it had more to do with the two other people riding with us than preoccupation on his part. In fact, I was quite thankful for Dan and Steven’s presence; limo rides with McHotpants were notorious for throwing carefully applied makeup into a blender of disorder.

One time I walked into a fancy restaurant and my face was clown-town appropriate.

We arrived at the venue, and I quickly I decided that the charity event, which I hadn’t actually given much thought to until two hours before it was time to leave, was really just an excuse for rich people to get dressed up.

I came to this conclusion after asking Quinn, Dan, Steven, three random ladies, and two older gentlemen what the name of the charity was—
and no one knew. Furthermore, no one knew what the charity supported, even in general terms.

Once we were inside the event space, I modified my theory. Rich people go to charity events to get dressed up, glare at people they don
’t know, and pretend to have a good time.

The space was magnificent—a gigantic ballroom with a wide, domed stage;
a mixture of art deco and neo classical architectural elements; cream colored walls, marble columns, and gold leaf accents. Tables were arranged around a dance floor, and huge, ostentatious centerpieces of flowers, gold and white beaded stars, and ribbon jutted three feet upward in a topiary style.

Tangentially, I wondered how much the event cost to host and, given the grandeur, ho
w it could possibly break even.

The stage was occupied by a small orchestra
, and I recognized the piece being played as Mozart. I craned my neck to obtain a better look and spotted several brass instruments—trombones, trumpets, and even a tuba—lined off to one side.

During my neck craning I accidentally bumped into a stout gentleman and watched with mortification as a few drops of his drink spilled to the floor. I withdrew my fingers from Quinn
’s and reflexively placed my gloved hand on his back.

“
Oh, I am so sorry. Please accept my apology, sir.”

The man glanced over his shoulder
, and I immediately recognized his jowls. It was Mr. Carter, our primary corporate security liaison with Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems.

When he saw me, his eyes widened and he turned completely around, offering his hand.
“Not at all, not at all—why….” he paused, white bushy eyebrows lowered over his brown eyes as they ping-ponged over my form. They halted on my hair, which I’d worn down around my back and shoulders instead of up in a bun. I was also currently wearing contacts, whereas yesterday during our meeting I’d been wearing my glasses. “Miss Morris, is that you?”

I took his hand in mine
, gave it a firm shake, and released it. “Yes, Mr. Carter. It is I, Janie Morris. I’m terribly sorry about your drink, but I was trying to see the stage. Did you notice that there are several brass instruments not in use?”

He blinked at me
, and I wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard my question.

Quinn stepped closer to my side.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, drawing the older man’s attention.

“
Oh, Mr. Sullivan…of course.” Mr. Carter seemed to give himself a little shake before he continued. “Greatly pleased to see you in attendance. These functions are a tax on one’s time, but they do allow for additional discourse outside of the office, you know. Your Miss Morris is quite lovely.”