Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (35 page)

Nevertheless, after an hour in the tub drinking alone, I felt no closer to solving my dilemma. Instead I was left with an empty bottle of wine, pruney fingers, and more questions.

I was getting dressed when I heard a confident knock on my door; it was just past 9:30pm. Naturally I assumed it was Steven making good on his sleepover threat. Due to this perilous assumption I didn’t check the peephole, I just opened the door.

It was a crucial, if not monumental, mistake.

If I’d seen Quinn first through the fish-eye opening I might’ve had time to compose myself, I might have decided to pretend I was asleep, I might have trapped myself under a heavy immovable object or jumped out the thirty-story window.

As it was, I could only return his smolder with stunned, albeit tipsy, surprise; my internal organs and major muscle groups were helpless against the chemical reaction reducing them into frozen yet gelatinous goo. My heart, likewise, spring boarded to my throat and I was abruptly aware that I was attired only in a white tank top, bra, and
bikini bottoms; so, basically, my underwear.

I’d like to say that, when faced with the smoldering indigo eyes of Quinn Sullivan
after a bottle of wine, his impressively massive and muscled form hovering outside my hotel room door and big hands gripping the frame on either side of aforementioned door, I felt very little in the way of intense physical or emotional response.

If I said that then I’d be a dirty liar. A dirty, dirty liar.

Quinn, suspended like a metaphor on the abyss of in-my-room/out-of-my-room, was still in his custom cut black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie. However, he was emphatically mussed. His tie was loosened haphazardly and hung a little off balance around his neck; his shirt was wrinkled from hours of wear; his hair was askew and spiking about at odd angles; his chin and jaw were shadowed with a full day of stubble. Of course, he still looked like a GQ model. But, instead of the well groomed variety he looked like the well tousled variety.

The fact that he said nothing at all didn’t help. He just… looked. At first he held my gaze for a long moment then he looked up; he looked down; he looked all around. This was done with such a deliberate languorous insolence that I began to feel like I was being perused for purchase. I blamed
my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window shopping.

Regardless, his eyes were the bull
, all my previous attempts at detachment were the china shop, and he was smashing it to pieces- s
mash, smash, smash
.

I managed a deep breath but couldn’t seem to release it. I maybe resembled a red nosed Reindeer caught in headlights.

Then, he moved.

“Can I come in.” Quinn asked the question like it was a statement an
d, without even pretending my response mattered, he walked into my room leaving me to stare after him as I held the door.

“I don’t- I- well- if- you- I guess- how… ok.” As he walked by I smelled whiskey and whatever aftershave or soap still clung to his skin and suit.

He smelled delicious.
Smash, smash, smash
.

I released the breath I’d been holding after a further three of four seconds then
, on fragmented auto pilot, hesitantly closed the door. I kept changing my mind as I moved in slow motion, reconsidering the correctness or appropriateness of closing the door while my boss’ boss sauntered around my hotel room.

My internal dialogue went something like this:
leave it open!… but that would be strange if someone walks by… who cares? I care! Why do I care? Just close it! You can’t close it; you’re in your underwear!! and if the door is closed you might… do… something… Here is the situation: I’m in my underwear in my room with Quinn and my alcohol laden inhibitions are low, low, low. It’s like closing yourself up in a Godiva chocolate shop, of course you’re going to sample something… Don’t sample anything!! Don’t even smell anything!! If you smell it you’ll want to try it. Don’t smell him anymore. No. More. Smelling. I hope he doesn’t see the empty bottle of wine… Put some clothes on. Is it weird if I dress in front of him? I want some chocolate. Ah! Clothes!!

Finally the door closed even though I hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so. I took a steadying breath then turned and
followed, trailing some distance behind him and crossing to the opposite side of the room from where he was currently standing. I spotted my workout shirt on the bed and attempted to surreptitiously put it on.

Quinn’s back was to me and he seemed to be meandering around the space; he didn’t appear to be in any hurry. He paused for a short moment next to my laptop and stared at the screen.

He looked lost and a little vulnerable.
Smash, smash, smash

I took this opportunity to rapidly pull on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt from my suitcase. The sweatshirt was on backwards
, with the little ‘V’ in the back and the tag in the front, but I ignored it and grabbed my jacket from the closet behind me and soundlessly slipped it on too.

He walked to the window and surveyed the view as I hurriedly pushed my feet into socks and hand knit slippers
, given to me by Elizabeth last Christmas.

I was a tornado of frenzied activity, indiscriminately and quietly pulling on clothes
. I may have been overcompensating for my earlier state of undress. However, it wasn’t until he, with leisurely languid movements, turned toward me that I finally stopped dressing; my hands froze on my head as I pulled on a white cabled hat, another hand knit gift from Elizabeth.

Quinn sighed, “I need to
talk to you about your sist-” but then stopped speaking abruptly when he lifted his gaze to me.

His features, shaping into something resembling dumbfounded astonishment, were cast in a warm glow from a shaded nearby lamp.

He looked earnestly surprised and a little boyish.
Smash, smash, smash
.

His mesmerizing eyes narrowed as they looked over my now completely covered form, the only skin showing was that of my face and hands. If I’d been thinking clearly and sober I might have felt ridiculous; instead, as I was most definitely not thinking clearly and was most definitely not sober, I was cursing myself for leaving my gloves in Chicago and I was looking for my glasses.

He shifted on his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and studied me with open and growing amusement; “Are you going somewhere?”

I swallowed and tried to shrug but the movement was lost under the layers of clothing, “Yes.” I lifted my chin, feeling suddenly hot which reminded me of how hot it was outside… even at
9:30pm; I then quickly amended, “No.” I lowered my hands from the hat on my head and tugged at the sleeves of the jacket, “I haven’t decided.”

He tilted his head just so, his mouth tugging upward on one side and slowly, slowly, slowly started crossing to me, like he was stalking prey, like he was afraid sudden movements might send me into another tornado of movement. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“To gamble.” I blurted. It was the only thing I could think of in my slightly imbibed state as we were in Las Vegas and we were staying at a world infamous casino.

“Really?” He asked conversationally, like I was telling him about a good bargain down at the Save A Lot. “What were you thinking of playing?”

“Poker.” I wanted to cross my arms over my chest but, due to clothing and boobs and lack of coordination, I encountered too much bulk; my movements were restricted.

“Poker.” He nodded once, holding me in place with a clearly skeptical if not entertained expression. “Is it very cold? This place where you’re going to play poker?”

Without me really noticing he’d crossed the room. I felt like one moment Quinn was at the far side by the window and the next moment he was standing directly in front of me, no more than three feet of air, and clothes, separated us.

“N-no. Not necessarily. I just wanted to be prepared.”

“Prepared for artic temperatures?”

“Prepared for any eventuality.”

“Like what? Poker in a freezer?”

“Like strip poker.” I said the words before my brain thought them and
, due to his proximity, I saw something the opposite of calm flash behind his eyes. I chewed on my top lip to ensure I didn’t say anything else; I knew my own eyes were overtly large and watchful and repentant for the most recent movements and sounds of my mouth.

Quinn swallowed, his expression less teasing but no less intense; “We could-” his gaze flickered to my lips then
lifted to settle on my forehead, “we could play strip poker here.”

My overtly large eyes widened further and I blinked several times in rapid succession, “I- I- I-“ I reached for something to hold on to and ended up leaning against the wall behind me, “I can’t- we can’t do that.”

“But you’ll play strip poker with strangers?” He seemed to be studying me very closely.

“Well, yeah-” this was a strange conversation to be having as I was speaking both in the theoretical and the literal. Theoretically, I’d play strip poker with strangers, depending on the circumstances and the strangers, but I had no literal intention of doing so.

Quinn quickly countered, “And if I happened to be playing poker- strip poker- at the only table in the casino, would you still play?”

I hesitated, feeling like I was being led into a trap that involved Quinn getting naked... which actually sounded really nice. I reluctantly said, “No.”

“Why?”

“Because… I- you’re you.” I congratulated myself for not slurring the words even as sweat was beading on my chest and upper back.

“Do you trust me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” He lifted his eyebrows just slightly in challenge, his voice lower, “Haven’t I always been honest?”

“You’ve been technically honest.”

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”

His questions were rapid fire and the way he looked at me paired with my self-imposed heat-suit and questionable drinking alone policy made me a lot dizzy.

I hesitated again then said, “I don’t know.”

He frowned at my response but didn’t relent, “Don’t you think everyone deserves a chance?”

“A chance?”

“Yes, a chance.”

“What- what kind of chance?” My words were a little shaky as his expression remained inscrutable; but his eyes... his eyes were dark, purposeful, almost menacing in their glittering intensity.

Freaking smoldering eyes.
Smash, smash, smash
.

“A chance to prove themselves, to defy shortcuts and preconceived expectations, preferences… labels.”

I pressed my lips together. It was one of those questions you can’t answer correctly, like:
When did you stop beating your wife
? Did I believe everyone deserved a chance? Yes. But he knew that. I started to breathe in through my nose but stopped when I smelled him, whiskey and aftershave and Quinn.

He smelled great.
Smash, smash, smash
.

In a moment of weakness, likely caused by my smelling him,
my voice was quiet, laced with a note of resignation, “Yes. Everyone deserves a chance.”

He gave me one of his barely there smiles, just a hint of a smile, and licked his lips, “Then I want my chance.”

“And how do you propose I give aforementioned shhh-ance-” I swallowed in order to correct my slur, “chance… to… you? What vehicle will you use for the chance?”

We’d said the word ‘chance’ so much it was starting to sound distorted and funny:
chance, chance, chance, chance, shance, shance, shanz, shanz… shnaz

Without preamble he said, “I want to date you. I want us to spend time together like we did before I had to go to Boston last week. And, if I have to travel, I want you to answer the cell phone when I call because I want to hear your voice.”

With every syllable that left his mouth I felt my button being pushed again and again and the resulting crimson blush was truly massive. I cleared my throat and tried to say, “Oh, is that all-”

“No.” He shook his head, interrupting me, “That’s not all. I want to touch you and kiss you
, frequently, and I want you-” he shifted on his feet as though steadying himself then his hand reached out; he stepped closer and he cupped my cheek in his palm, “I want you to touch me.”

Gah! His words!!
Smash, Smash, SMAAAAAASH!!

“And…” he paused, his fingers threading through the hair above my temple and beneath the hat covering my head. He pushed it off and we both let it fall to the floor, “I want to play strip poker, with you, right now.”

I was careful to take my next breath through my mouth. I didn’t want Quinn-sniff to influence my already wino impaired brain function. A little voice in the back of my head said:
don’t trust him! You’re not special! You’re weird and awkward and a big-headed Neanderthal freak with Medusa hair!!! He’s confused you with someone else!!!!