Ninja At First Sight (16 page)

“I’m not good enough for you, Fe. But…” he shrugged, giving me his crooked smile, “no else one is either. So I might as well take you for my own. Marry me.”

The End… for now.

Fiona and Greg’s story continues in ‘Happily Ever Ninja’

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, girl-4 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!

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Read on for:

Chapter 1 Sneak Peek of Knitting in the City #5,
Happily Ever Ninja

Penny Reid’s
Booklist
(current and planned publications)

Happily Ever Ninja
releases January 19, 2016

CHAPTER 1—March 2015

Dear Husband,

I love you today more than I did yesterday. Yesterday you were a real jerk.

-Debbie

New Jersey, USA

Married 28 years

"Are we going
to have sex tonight? I have stuff to do and it's already nine-thirty."

“I only have fifteen minutes before I need to go pick up Grace and Jack from ballet.” It may have been 9:30 p.m. for Greg, but it was only 2:30 p.m. for me. I glanced at my watch to confirm this fact.  I had less than fifteen minutes. Actually, I had ten. “And we’re not doing anything until you tell me why you haven’t signed the transfer paperwork for the new retirement accounts.”

I didn’t add,
And I have a headache.
I did have a headache. I’d had a headache and no appetite for the last week, and off and on for the last month and a half, but I kept this information to myself. I didn’t want to worry him.

I watched my husband sigh, his face falling into his hands. He looked tired, burnt out. He worked sixteen hour days and usually didn’t shave when he was gone. None of the rig workers did. But he must’ve shaved a few days ago because his chin was covered in two-day old stubble, which only made him look more tired. But it also made him look devilishly sexy. I wished I could reach through the computer screen and give him a hug. And a kiss.

“Fine,” he growled, finally lifting his head and gathering another large breath. His eyes narrowed and they darted over my form, or what he could see of it from his side of the video call. “Could you at least take off your shirt?”

“Greg.”

“Show me your tits.”

“Greg.”

“I miss your skin, just… flash me.”

“Greg, be serious.”

“I am serious. Do I not look serious? Nothing is more serious to me than your body, specifically your tits and legs and mouth. And vagina, but the vagina goes without saying.”

I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t smile, or worse, laugh. I wasn’t sure how he managed it, but even when I was in a foul mood and feeling overwhelmed—like today—he always found a way to make me laugh. “Greg-”

“And your brain. Sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t mention your brain.”

I allowed myself to give in to his sweet silliness. “I love that you mentioned my brain, because I love your brain.”

With a hint of vulnerability, he asked, “But you don’t love my vagina?”

I did laugh then, thankful I hadn’t been sipping my coffee. Had I been drinking, it was the kind of laugh that would’ve sent a spray of liquid out of my mouth and nose.

The sound of his slight chuckle met my ears and it was welcome; but it was also a reminder, he was trying to distract me.

I shook my head at his antics and tried to refocus. “Okay, enough about your lady closet. Mr. Jackson needs your approval to transfer the money into the new accounts. He emailed the forms three weeks ago, why haven’t you signed them yet?”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, sighing for a third time. When he finally answered his voice and expression were free of all earlier playfulness. “I’m not happy with his fund choices.”

I blinked at the vision of my husband, the stubborn set of his jaw. Confused, I sputtered for a full minute before spitting out an incredulous, “You approved it last month.”

“But then I researched the global fund further. Over eleven percent of the principal is invested in a Monsanto subsidiary.”

My headache throbbed; I nearly growled, “Then pick a different global fund.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t like that he suggested that fund to begin with. I want to go with a different financial advisor.”

My brain was going to explode all over my bedroom, which would be inconvenient since I’d just vacuumed.

I meticulously modulated my voice so I wouldn’t shout my response. “Are you kidding? I’ve been through every investment house in Chicago and there is no one left, according to you everyone is either incompetent or corrupt. This has been going on for eighteen months, and meanwhile our retirement has been sitting in a low return savings account.”

“Better it return nothing than we invest it in malicious corporations.” He shrugged. “You know my thoughts on Monsanto.”

I…

I just…

I just couldn’t…

I took a deep breath, pushing the rage down. Greg had no way of knowing, but today was one of the worst possible day for him to deliver this news.

In addition to the unexplained headaches, I was extremely low on sleep because our daughter Grace had been having nightmares all week. The garbage disposal had stopped working two days ago, as had the dishwasher. Both kids had science projects due and every store in Chicago was out of poster board. Plus our son, Jack had forgotten to give his teacher the money and slip for his field trip later in the week—he’d lost both—and I hadn’t yet found five minutes to contact the woman about sorting it out.

Added to all of this, I’d just started contract work for my old engineering firm two months ago and was already behind in my latest project. Everything I touched was breaking, or broken, or a failure.

Therefore, I endeavored to be reasonable… or at least sound reasonable. “Pick a different fund.”

His eyelids lowered and he shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not investing my money with a corrupt wanker.”

“He’s not a corrupt wanker. Mr. Jackson is a grandfather who volunteers his free time with the Boys and Girls club and organizes the South Street soup kitchen. Alex checked him out—like
checked him out
—and he’s completely clean.” Alex was my good friend Sandra’s husband, and also a world class computer hacker. When I said Alex had checked out Mr. Jackson, I truly meant it. The man was a saint.

“Then why would he suggest a fund with an eleven percent stake in Monsanto?”

“Probably because he’s trying to do his job, which is invest our money where it’ll have the best return. We can pick a different fund.”

He said nothing, just continued to shake his head slowly. Meanwhile I was holding on to my composure by sheer force of will. But when we ended the call I was likely going to dismember Greg’s favorite boxer briefs and hide his cell phone charger. He always did this. He always found a reason not to sign.

Desperate and beyond aggravated, I scoffed, “If I show you my breasts will you sign the papers?”

Greg’s eyes narrowed until he was squinting. He turned his head to the side, glaring at me as though he were both trying to discern whether or not I was being serious, and whether seeing my boobs was worth compromising his morals.

“Add an emailed photo of your ass and you have a deal.”

I did growl then, and this time my face fell into my hands. If he didn’t sign those transfer papers, then I would send him a picture of an ass. Maybe lots of asses. Only they wouldn’t be mine. And they wouldn’t be human. They would be equine.

“Fiona, darling, I’m not trying to aggravate you. You know where and how we invest is important to me.” His voice was soft, beseeching, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I loved his voice; I loved his posh British accent; I loved it when he called me darling, which—after fourteen years of marriage—he rarely did anymore.

Usually I could laugh off his churlishness and bring him around to my perspective using well-reasoned arguments and my wifely-wiles. But I didn’t have the time or the mental energy at present to entertain my forty-one year old husband’s plethora of opinions—opinions I usually considered endearing and charming.

For some reason, in this instance, his opinion didn’t feel at all charming. It struck me as burdensome and self-indulgent. Like he was being dismissive of the work I’d done, the massive amount of time and effort I’d spent on resolving this vitally important issue.

“I have to go,” I finally said, because I did have to go. But also because my head hurt and I couldn’t talk to him anymore without losing my temper.

“Okay…”

I wasn’t looking at him, my brain was full of fire ants, but I heard the reluctance and his surprise in his voice.

“Okay. Bye, Greg.” I lifted my gaze and scanned the screen for the location of the courser, moving the mouse to the
end call
button.

“I love you, Fiona,” he said, his voice still soft, coaxing, and maybe a little confused.

I gave him a flat smile and nodded, responding reflexively, “I love you, too.”

“Don’t be angry.”

I shrugged. “I have to go.”

“Okay love.”

“Bye.”

“Wait, Fiona-”

I ended the call before he could complete his thought and immediately regretted it. I would apologize to him later. Staring at the desktop icons for a full minute, I contemplated what to do next.

I wouldn’t dismember his boxer briefs, I loved it when he walked around in just his boxer briefs. He’d maintained the lithe runner’s build from our college days. Even if he hadn’t, I would still enjoy watching him walk around half naked, because he was my husband, he was mine and I was his. I truly adored him… most of the time.

But if he didn’t pick a different fund and sign those papers, I was seriously considering hiding all the cell phone chargers he kept in the apartment.

I shook my head, dispelling the childish impulse, and checked my watch again. It was time to go.

As I grabbed my bag and left our apartment, a sinister voice in my head—tired of being covered in fire ants—reminded me there was another option. I could fake his signature and never tell him, invest the money without him knowing. Just contemplating it made my stomach hurt. It was a line I wasn’t ready to cross. I’d already allowed Grace—our five year old daughter—to have a princess costume to wear to a slumber party, and our eight year old son Jack to play soccer without Greg’s consent.

I hadn’t even asked Greg because I knew what he would say.

That’s right, Greg had an opinion about princess costumes and boys playing sports—he was against both. I knew for a fact he hated princess-culture, loathed the ‘
Disney machinery of feminine oppression and objectification’
as he called it. He’d also said in the past if Jack played sports then Grace had to as well. Which was why Jack was currently taking ballet with Grace—because if Grace took ballet, Jack had to as well. Jack didn’t mind learning to dance, as long as he also got to play soccer.

But Grace didn’t want to play soccer. She wanted to wear pink and play with dolls. She also loved superheroes, Legos, drawing, Darth Vader, and astronomy. She was a great kid, who happened to love dressing as a princess. So, while he was gone, I bent the rules. Just a little.

“Hey, earth to Fiona. Anyone home?”

I started, blinking as I brought my neighbor into focus. He was holding the elevator doors open, had likely said hello, and I’d been so lost to my thoughts I hadn’t noticed. This level of distraction was
very
unlike me; awareness and the cataloging of my surroundings was typically second nature. Apparently, I was extremely upset.

I rushed forward into the lift and turned to give him an apologetic smile as he walked in after me. “Oh, hi. Thanks. Sorry Matt. I’m a little preoccupied. Sorry.”

He pressed the button for the lobby and stepped back to face me, tilting his head to the side, his light brown eyes assessing as they moved over my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. How are you?”

“Just fine.” He responded slowly, openly inspecting me according to his habit.

I’d first met Matthew Simmons when I was nine. He’d been two. His parents and my parents were both unhappily married and belonged to the same country club. I babysat for him a few times over the years, one of the few normal teenager activities I’d been allowed.

Matt had moved in next door to me and the kids two weeks after Christmas. I hadn’t realized it was the same Matty Simmons until I’d brought him a welcome-to-the-building dinner and he’d blurted, “
Peona
!” The name he’d given me when he was a toddler.

This habit, openly scrutinizing people, was something he’d done even when he was still in diapers. And after living next door to Professor Matthew Simmons for the last two months, I knew evaluating and calculating were his adult default as well.

My smile grew more sincere the longer he scrutinized me. Matty—now Matt—had grown to be adorably peculiar and nerdy. In fact he was brazenly nerdy; but he was also nice and genuine. He’d always been nice and genuine.

Regardless, I’d had Alex run a background check on the professor—I might have been a little slap happy with the background checks, but suspicious was my default—when the Grace and Jack had warmed to him so quickly. The man was an open book. Undergrad at Caltech, post grad at MIT, computer scientist, associate professor at the University of Chicago, divorced two years ago and presently married to his work, terrible cook. He was also surprisingly good with kids, though he had none.