Neanderthal Marries Human

“No time like the present.” His hand slipped from my waist to my lower back, pressed me against him, my left hand beneath his jacket, over his heart.

“We’ve only been together five months.”

“I know.” He sighed like it was irrelevant.

“Do you honestly think that’s enough time to make an accurate and valid judgment about the viability of a person as your wife?”

“With you, yes, it’s more than enough. Too much.”

“That’s completely illogical. In five months, we’ve barely scratched the surface. We can’t possibly know enough about each other in order to make a decision like this. This is the tattoo of life decisions.”

“Tattoo of life decisions?”

“Yes. Tattoo. Marriage is the forever and permanent branding of one person to another. Sure, you can get it removed—but it’s expensive, it’s a process, and you’re never the same after. You’re scarred. It’s always a part of you, visible or not. You get a tattoo with the intention of a life-long commitment. You have to defend its existence and take ownership of it in front of others for the rest of your life regardless of how it sags or droops or changes shape and color—because it will! It will change and fade, and not in an aesthetically pleasing way.”

The side of his mouth lifted as I spoke and his eyes danced between mine. “Let’s get matching tattoos.”

I yanked my hand from his and pushed against his chest. He didn’t budge.

“No.” I shook my head. “This isn’t the kind of decision you make after knowing someone for five months—five amazing, lovely, wonderful, perfect, beyond sexually gratifying months. This is the kind of decision you make after two point four years—at the least. When the spark has faded, when you’ve been through at least two flu seasons, several holidays—with relatives—and holiday travel, seven to ten misunderstandings, and maybe one surgery.”

“What does the flu have to do with this?”

“Are you a grumpy sick person? Do you prefer me to hover or give you space? I don’t know! We haven’t done that.”

“Janie….”

“There have been no hard times, Quinn! We’ve proven very little other than we’re compatible in times of feast, but we know nothing about times of famine.”

“Janie….”

“I won’t be able to repeat the words in sickness and in health because I honestly have no idea.”

Quinn opened his mouth to respond but we were interrupted by the practiced sound of throat clearing.

“Mr. Sullivan, if you and Janie are ready….” Our tour guide’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I closed my eyes for a long moment, my hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket.

Three seconds ticked by before he responded. “Of course.”

He covered my fists, encouraging me to release him, but kept hold of one of my hands, turning me toward the door and pulling me after him. I glanced at the floor then up to his profile, hoping to find some indication of his thoughts, but was disappointed.

As ever, he was cucumber cool and appeared entirely unruffled.

Not like someone who has just been refused or accepted a proposal of marriage; more like someone who glides through life in charge of everyone and taking his superiority for granted.

As soon as we were through the door, his hand moved to the base of my spine, a possessive touch, and steered me down the stone hall after our guide. She glanced over her shoulder, her smile small and sincere, and pointed out items of interest.

This time I wasn’t listening. I was too preoccupied with all that was unsettled, how I would convince Quinn that this was lunacy, yet still not jeopardize our chances to be together for as long as possible.

If I really gave the matter some thought, I supposed—if we could get past his proposal without too much damage inflicted—we likely had another four years before he irrevocably tired of me and my eccentricities.

I was okay with that. I felt like four years was about my expiration date. Four flu seasons, holiday cycles, and yearly vacations. Really, there were only four destinations worth a vacation: beach, glacier, desert, and mountains. Bonus if we could pair them with a visit to the wine country or a world heritage site.

The first two years would likely be stellar. The last two would become increasingly strained until, finally, he grew cold and aloof all the time. He would make excuses to work late, avoid discussing future plans until—finally—I would suggest we split.

It would be the look of relief that I was most dreading—that moment when he would nod his agreement. It would be the first real emotion he would show during the last months of our future three-year and seven-month relationship, and it would be the last.

After that, I would move out, spend more time at the library, and invest in a truly excellent vibrator. He would resume his Wendall/Slamp lifestyle. Maybe we could part as friends. Maybe he’d put up with quarterly lunches or at least an annual check-in dinner.

We would have to take turns paying for the dinner, and I wouldn’t have to put up with him ordering for me anymore.

I was in the middle of making a mental note to look for investment properties now in neighborhoods that might likely improve in value over the next few years when I felt Quinn’s warm breath next to my ear.

“Stop it.” He whispered, sending a sudden shiver along my spine.

I blinked. We were approaching a staircase—narrow and medieval appearing—and Quinn had wrapped his arm around my waist, pressing my side to his.

“Stop what?”

“Stop having an entire discussion without me.”

I stiffened and his hand squeezed.

“One at a time, and please be sure to hold on to the rail. These stairs are very steep.” Emma called over her shoulder and demonstrated the appropriate technique for descending the spiraled steps.

“Are you going to be okay in those shoes?” Quinn separated from me, holding my hand and bringing me to a stop.

I nodded, my voice shakier than I’d like. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t concerned about the stairs. I was concerned about what came after the stairs.

He narrowed his eyes at my tone but allowed me to precede him. I noted that he stayed close the entire way down. When we arrived at the bottom, he reassumed his position—arm around my waist—and kissed my neck.

I was handed my jacket and we were escorted to the wharf. A tent—large for two people—had been placed on wooden planks overlooking the Thames, likely to protect us from intermittent rain. Three of the sides were enclosed and the fourth was open, the Tower Bridge immediately to our left and London Bridge some distance to our right—lit and casting both shadow and illumination on the expansive river below.

Within the tent was a table, elegantly set for two. My eyes drifted over the white linens, the fine china, the crystal goblets, the silver cutlery, and the low candles. Small circular lanterns hung from the ceiling casting the inside with a warm, amber glow. A leather upholstered, heavily cushioned bench—like a tall, deep-set sofa—was positioned facing the opening, and a plethora of pillows, wool blankets, and furs were arranged along the sides and back.

And, of course, three bottles of champagne were cooling in three different standing silver buckets set to one side.

“Come. Sit.” Quinn slipped his hand from my waist and caressed it down my arm until our fingers entwined. He pulled me after him to the bench, not releasing my hand even as we sat. He placed it instead on his thigh and held it there as magical—and up to this point, invisible—waiters appeared. They poured the champagne, revealed food, unfolded napkins on our laps, and offered pillows for comfort.

The wool blankets turned out to be cashmere.

Of course. Of course they were cashmere.

I knew they were cashmere because of all the yarn fondling I’d been required to do on knit nights.

I felt like a queen, really and truly pampered, and utterly swept off my feet.

Through all this, I stared at the Thames biting the inside of my lip and trying my best to refrain from continuing my one-sided internal conversation. Instead, I thought about all the submarines that had purportedly navigated the river during World War II.

Quinn’s touch roused me from the question under consideration—the current depth of the river Thames—and I turned my face to his. He’d lifted my left hand from his lap and was touching the circle of gold on my fourth finger, his gaze was affixed to the spot.

I briefly glanced around the tent. Our magical serving staff disappeared as quickly and quietly as they’d appeared and we were left with at least the illusion of completely privacy.

“I’m glad you like the ring.”

My eyes darted back to his. I became a little lost in his man-handsomeness, noting again that he would make a horribly ugly female if he’d ever decided to dress in drag. The cut of his jaw was too strong, the angles of his cheeks too sharp, his nose decidedly masculine and Romanesque.

I pressed my lips together and swallowed once before responding. “I do. I do like it. More accurately, I love it.” My gaze flickered to the ring on my finger then back to him. “It’s disconcerting to feel so possessive of a material thing.”

His mouth hitched to the side and his eyes moved between mine. “Then keep it and wear it.” His expression changed, and he looked both grave and vulnerable. “Marry me, Janie.”