Probably one of those guys afraid to commit to anything more than his morning jog, which, by the way, judging by his physique, he obviously managed to do on a fairly regular basis.
“But I hope to have a whole houseful someday,” he added casually.
Ooh . . . Rebecca had not expected that response. Particularly and most especially because she had once dreamed of the same thing. She peered closely at Matt, prepared for the possibility that he was messing with her.
“You’re early,” he said.
“So are you.”
He paused, nodding thoughtfully at her. He was, Rebecca hated to acknowledge, awfully good-looking.
“Anyone else here?”
“Ah . . . no, just us.” Rebecca folded her arms, looked out the window, feeling suddenly very self-conscious under his casual perusal as her previous, self-visualized kick-ass campaign strategist evaporated into thin air. What was the matter with her, anyway? Men looked at her all the time—well, not precisely like that, really. Actually, they never looked at her like that. Men ogled her. But Matt wasn’t ogling, he was just . . . looking. And that, for some odd reason, put butterflies in Rebecca’s stomach. He had a certain way about him, an air or something. It was what her book Friends and Lovers, and How to Tell the Difference called brooding. Yeah, brooding, that mysterious thing going on, like he knew something she didn’t.
At the moment, he was smiling. An amused little smile. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said, looking around at the small American and Texas flags and the motivational poster promoting teamwork.
“Really?”
Matt looked around again. “Honestly? I think this is about the ugliest place Tom could have found.”
“I thought the same thing,” she admitted, mildly disappointed he hadn’t commented on the personal touches. “But I guess looks don’t matter when you’re on a campaign budget, right?”
Matt glanced at her as if she were completely out of her mind (which she probably was—evidence: She was here). “Image is everything in a campaign. You have to look and act the part if people are going to believe you can do the part. Candidates spend thousands and thousands on getting just the right image across. I’d think you of all people would know how important image is.”
Her of all people? And what was that supposed to mean? “Yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “I think I see what you mean . . . sort of like, if you really want to be a smart-ass, it helps if you look like one, too.”
“Or,” he said, not missing a beat, “if you want to be gorgeous, you pretty much have to look gorgeous.” And then he smiled that dimply, heart-sinking smile, and no amount of racking her brain was going to come up with a pithy comeback for that one. Not that Matt cared—he was too busy looking at one of her motivational posters. “I sure hope you didn’t spend a lot of money on this shi . . . stuff.”
“Mom always spends lots of money,” Grayson said.
“Gray!” Rebecca said quickly, but Matt’s dark brows had arched above his gray eyes, and dammit if she didn’t feel a little warmth in her cheeks. Warmth? Oh nooooo, she wasn’t having any of that! Self-consciously, she lifted her hand to her nape and rubbed.
“So, what did you do before this?” Matt asked, having lost interest in the motivational poster as he walked closer to where she stood, still wearing that lopsided smile.
“I was at home doing some research,” she said, wondering frantically now if her cheeks were actually showing any sign of this absurd warmth she was not going to have.
His smile broadened. “I meant before this campaign.”
Now her cheeks were flaming. “I, ah . . . I was living in Dallas until a few months ago, and since I’ve been in Austin, and . . . hmm . . . well, I’ve been settling in.” Grayson chose that moment to poke his head under her arm. She pulled him around to stand in front of her and tried to smooth his hair as Matt stood there, hands on waist, being very cool and curious in his silk blue suit.
“So what did you in Dallas?”
Why did everyone ask her that? What, was she the only person in all of America who had not worked before the age of thirty? “I suppose you want to know if I have any campaign experience,” she said, trying to sound pleasantly unconcerned. “Well, no, I don’t.”
“Ouch, Mom!” Grayson cried, swatting at her hand on the top of his head; Rebecca realized she was unconsciously twisting his unruly hair and immediately let go. “Sorry,” she murmured, and quickly added, “In Dallas, I was a stay-at-home mom to Grayson.”
“Uh-uh,” Grayson piped up. “Lucy was my mom in Dallas.”