Neanderthal Seeks Human (Knitting in the City #1)(40)
Author: Penny Reid

“What do you mean ‘strange’?”

“Well, you spent time with him last Friday, right? When you had to work late? So typical. He insisted on taking you out personally to-” Steven used air quotes, “‘train you.’ I told Carlos I thought he just wanted someone to glare at. I can’t believe you’ve been so nice about it.”

I wrinkled my nose at Steven, “What do you mean? He doesn’t glare at me.”

Steven gave me a sympathetic look, “Only you would be so gracious, Janie.”

I put my fork down and stared at Steven, my tone incredulous, “What are you talking about? I’ve learned a lot from him. I’ve found the time to be beneficial.” I felt the need to defend Quinn; I didn’t want Steven thinking Quinn had been rude or done a poor job training me and, therefore, get Quinn in trouble.

“Oh really?” Steven lifted his eyebrows.

“Yes, really.”

Steven pursed his lips and gave me a pointedly disbelieving stare, “I once spent twenty minutes alone with him during a car ride from the airport to the site. During that time he said a total of three words and his face didn’t change expression once- no, wait, that’s wrong-” he held his hands up as though to stop me from interrupting, “he had two expressions: at first he was stoic but then, toward the end of the twenty minutes, his expression changed to apathetic. This is all despite the fact that my conversation was obviously thrilling.”

“Stoic and apathetic are synonymous.” I tried not to laugh, imagining Steven and Quinn alone in a car together for twenty minutes; Quinn glaring at Steven while Steven regaled the silent car with tales of his weekend clubbing exploits and latest furniture purchase.

“Sure, he’s very pretty, I’ll give you that but, you can’t tell me that you don’t think there is something off about him.” Steven looked over both his shoulders in an exaggerated manner then offered in a faux whisper, “Did you know he sometimes joins the security guards downstairs and acts like he is one of them?”

I twisted my lips to the side, debating whether or not to tell Steven that I originally met Quinn when he escorted me out after being laid off from my last position. Instead I said, “Well, isn’t he? Isn’t he one of them?”

Steven studied me for a moment before replying in a very dry tone, “In a small way, yes he is. In a much larger and more correct way, no. No, he is most definitely not.”

“Hm.” I picked up my fork again and poked at my salad, feeling pensive, “Why do you only see him during the client meetings?”

“He doesn’t go to all the client meetings; really, only if there is a problem or if he is vetting new client. Usually he sends Carlos.”

My fork stopped mid-air between my plastic container and my mouth, “Wait-” I could almost hear the clicking and squeaking of the gears in my head, “What do you mean ‘sends Carlos’? Wouldn’t the Boss decide who goes to what meeting?”

Steven blinked at me three times, his eyebrows pulling up so they looked like little umbrellas over his grey eyes, “What nonsense are you speaking? Mr. Sullivan is the Boss.”

Time stopped.

Everything seemed suspended as my brain struggled to accept reality. It was one of those moments you reflect on, later in life, and wonder how your brain could have thought so many thoughts; your heart could have felt so many feelings in the small span of a single second. The only explanation was that time must have stopped.

Quinn is my Boss.

I attempted to think back over the times I’d been with him and looked for clues. I found several. Actually, I found more than several. I wanted to hide my face in my hands and cry but resisted the urge by biting fiercely on my bottom lip.

How could I miss something so obvious?

Quinn’s words from the previous week came back to me: “…you are completely blind to the obvious.”

Really, he was more than just my boss; he was The Boss. He owned the company. He owned a really impressive, profitable company. Any previous balloons of hope I had been floating in my pretend-alternate-reality-carnival-of-dreams were immediately deflated if not brutally burst. This guy who I’d been fantasizing about for going on two months and with whom I thought I was kinda-sorta-maybe dating was not just out of my physical-attractiveness league, he was out of all my leagues.

I was in awkwardly shaped head Neanderthal league and he was in the hot ninja millionaire league.

As a co-worker, Quinn and I were on somewhat equal footing. Even if nothing romantic materialized in the long term, at a minimum I thought we were building a friendship. I hoped we were building a friendship because, blast it all, I really liked him. I thought about him with alarming frequency. He was interesting and good to talked to and I wanted to have a lasting connection.

At least, until this moment, that’s what I thought. The past weekend, the ‘training’ session, the text message jokes, our long conversations- I was becoming more and more comfortable. I thought our time together was leading towards something abiding, more than co-workers.

I was blind. I was so beyond blind. I was stupid. I was wrong. We weren’t becoming friends. Normal people don’t have enduring relationships with hot millionaires.

What did he say to me that night after the concert? That he didn’t date?

Once he lost interest in me, and he was bound to sooner rather than later, I would see him periodically at best during client meetings where he was ‘Mr. Sullivan’ and I was Janie Morris, his employee. These labels of ‘boss’ and ‘employee’ defined our relationship like the mine fields around Guantanamo Bay Cuba defined it as a US Navy base.

You don’t go for a walk in a mine field.

You aren’t friends with your boss.

And you certainly never set yourself up to have bedroom fantasies about him or unrequited longitudinal crushes. Lusting after your boss was like having a thing for your English teacher in high school; it made you more than a little pathetic.

My surprise must have been visible because Steven’s face changed suddenly from confusion to reluctant understanding, “Oh… oh my. You didn’t know. You didn’t know that Mr. Sullivan is the Boss?”

“I-” I endeavored to swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “No.” I said flatly.

“How could you not know that?” It was Steven’s turn to sound incredulous. “He recruited you. You spent all day Friday with him. I’m sure we’ve discussed him before now, who did you think I was talking about when I said ‘the Boss’…”

I didn’t hear the rest of Steven’s musings. I was in the Matrix and I’d just unwittingly taken the red pill; my thoughts became as agitated and circular as a washing machine on the spin cycle. We ate in silence for several minutes and I mostly succeeded in avoiding eye contact with Steven.

Steven interrupted my internal avalanche of misery and said, “I thought you knew when he hired you.”

I met his eyes then frowned, “He said- he said that he could get me the interview but I’d need to get the job on my own.” I was having difficulty keeping my voice steady.

Quinn was wealthy. Actually, he wasn’t just wealthy, he was a stinkin rich son of a… lady. And, once again, I allowed someone else to be the captain in my sea of destiny. Once again, I was an accidental bystander to my illusion of success.

Steven seemed to understand my thoughts, “You really did get the job on your own.” My features must have betrayed my doubt and unhappiness because he put his chopsticks down and reached across the table, his grey eyes softening, “No, really, listen to me Janie. I’ll admit, Mr. Sullivan has never recommended someone for an interview before. Usually he just recruits them and they start and, I’ll tell you what, he is always right. For instance look at me.” He gave me a wry smile.

I tried to manage one in return but couldn’t help feeling a mixture of anguished devastation and annoyance with myself; Jon or Jon’s father arranged for my interview with the last firm and likely the job itself and look what happened. I didn’t like thinking that the only reason I was hired at Cypher Systems was because Quinn Sullivan decided on a whim that he wanted to kiss me and I was good with numbers.

“Honey Cakes, can I call you Honey Cakes?” he didn’t wait for me to answer as he continued, “Really listen to me. I knew you were going to be great if Mr. Sullivan recruited you. But, if it makes you feel better, I showed you that iPad spreadsheet with the wrong formulas on your first day as a test, one which you passed with flying colors.”

I sighed, suddenly finished with my salad; I didn’t want to eat ever again. “Thanks.”

He eyed me with what I perceived to be a speculative glare, “This is his company. His baby. Do you really think he’d hire someone who wasn’t amazing? Again, look no farther than your partner at this table as proof.”

I tried for a half smile and rolled my eyes, “No, you cannot call me Honey Cakes.”

What I couldn’t tell Steven was the real reason why I felt so upset. The clarity of the moment stung. My chest hurt and I didn’t really comprehend until that moment that my aforementioned balloons of hope in the alternate reality carnival of dreams had been quite inflated despite all efforts to keep my footing on the ground.