Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

“Relationships are the ultimate work in progress,” I agreed. “Think of being in a committed relationship like knitting a scarf that never ends, with lots of mistakes and dropped stitches.”

“That sounds frustrating and expensive,” Kat chuckled, but I could tell she was trying to infuse some humor into the discussion. “Think about all that yarn you’d have to buy.”

Greg picked up on Kat’s attempt and ran with it. “That’s right. If the good ones are like unicorns, just think about how expensive his upkeep would be. What does one feed a unicorn?”

“Fillet, not prime rib,” Elizabeth suggested, making her husband laugh.

“A steady diet of lady closet,” Sandra recommended with a twinkle in her eye.

“Rhinoceroses are probably the closest non-mythical animal to a unicorn, and—contrary to popular belief—they’re vegetarians. Black rhinos get most of their sustenance from eating trees and bushes. But white rhinos graze on grasses, walking with their enormous heads lowered to the ground,” Janie said, obviously the only one who was giving the matter of feeding unicorns any serious thought.

Not missing a beat, Greg nodded at Janie’s information share as though it were exceptionally fascinating—because it was—and added, “But just remember, Marie, it doesn’t really matter what you end up feeding the unicorn when he is found. Because here’s the take-home message: there’s a man unicorn out there, right now, who cannot wait to dine on your lady closet and give you the horn in his pants.”

***

“We should have named Jack ‘The Hague.’”

I caught the tail end of Greg’s eye-roll as he threw some balled-up item into our laundry basket and walked past where I sat perched on the bed.

“What? Why?”

“He’s so judgy,” he responded from inside the bathroom, then poked his head out and glared at me. “I blame you and your choice in college major.”

“What are you talking about? My major was electrical engineering.”

“No. You majored in being a hot piece of ass.”

Charmed by his remark in spite of myself, I forced myself to glower—especially since I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of me.

He held his hands up, walking back into our bedroom and not fighting his smile. “It’s funny because you’re brilliant. If you were stupid then it wouldn’t be funny, it would be true.”

“It’s not funny at all.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Whatever. Back to Jack. What happened?”

“He won’t wear the Miami Dolphins 1984 Super Bowl Championship shirt I brought him back from Nigeria.”

“Probably because the Miami Dolphins lost the 1984 Super Bowl.”

As soon as we were home, and our babysitter had been paid and sent away, Jack had come out of his room with a scowl pointed at his father. I left the two of them to it and sauntered into the bedroom to undress.

Now Greg closed the door to our room and pulled off his sweater. “He should be rejoicing in the oddity of it rather than focusing on its veracity.”

I smirked as I unfastened my sweater, saying nothing. Jack and Greg were a lot alike. It would be interesting to see how Greg handled a teenage version of himself.

We both disrobed in silence, lost to our thoughts, and my mind wandered. We still had so much to discuss, to talk about. The issues with soccer and Jack and Grace hadn’t been resolved, nor had we figured out what to do about Jack’s musical talent. Plus our retirement accounts. Plus the baby . . .

Our list of to-do discussion items felt endless. At this point I was going to have to make an agenda and hold him hostage until we’d agreed to an action plan for the most pressing items.

Greg cut through my musings by saying, “I need your help.”

“Sure,” I responded automatically, “how can I help?”

I expected him to follow up with something like,

I can’t find my cell phone—will you help me find it?

I can’t find my keys—will you help me find them?

I can’t find this very-random-piece-of-paper-with-a-number-written-on-it—will you help me find it?

Because those requests were typical and he knew I didn’t mind helping. Losing a thing was always made more frustrating when no one would help you find it.

Imagine my surprise when he said none of those things, but instead replied with a solemn, “Help me figure out what to do next.”

I’d been removing my leggings when he made his request, so I stopped mid-movement and shifted my attention to my husband. He stood in front of me, not quite frowning.

“What do you mean?”

Greg sat next to me on the bed, his fingers slipping between my legs to rest on the newly bared skin of my thigh. “I received a call from John at Nautical Oil this afternoon.”

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