“Just sitting there with your own little vineyard, you mean . . . Hello! Yes, an order to go . . .”
“I was trying to do a good job! That’s all I ever wanted to do, a good job. And then you came along,” she pouted as he ordered the steaks.
“And saved you,” he added, clicking the phone off. “Don’t forget that. Now quit looking at me like I’m some sort of molester. Just relax. I won’t even mention strip mining or deer.”
“Or stupid campaign slogans, either,” she added, wagging a finger at him.
“I won’t mention the campaign at all if you won’t.”
“Then . . .” She cocked her head to one side as she tried to focus on him. “What in God’s name will we talk about?”
“Excellent question,” he agreed. “But we’ll think of something.” In fact, he was already racking his brain. “First, let’s get you sober.” He started the car, pulled out of the parking garage, and drove a couple of blocks to a convenience store, where he bought her some water. Rebecca gratefully took the bottle and drank the entire contents in one gulp, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Are you all right?” he asked, chuckling.
“Right as rain,” she said cheerfully, beaming that knockout grin at him again.
They continued on, Rebecca now rambling about how she never drank and Heather’s need of a comb until he pulled up in front of Stetson’s. The valet went in to check on the food, returned and said it would be a bit. So Matt pulled into a metered spot.
They sat there in silence for all of four seconds before Rebecca blurted, “See? There is nothing to talk about.”
“Sure there is.”
“Name one thing,” she challenged him.
“Okay,” he said, and not able-to think of even one thing he could possibly have in common with her, he blurted, “How come you’re always mad at me?” Where, exactly, that had come from, he had no earthly idea, and it surprised him, because honestly, he didn’t care what she thought or didn’t think about him.
Much to his indignation, however, Rebecca responded with another very unladylike snort of laughter. “Are you kidding?”
“Well, no. No, I’m not kidding.”
Rebecca’s head lolled back against the seat, and when she lifted it again, her blue eyes (damn those eyes) were shining with amusement. “You’ve got it aaaall wrong, Mattie,” she said, tapping the console with her finger to emphasize each word. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t like you.” And she flashed a charmingly crooked little smile.
But it flabbergasted Matt—what was not to like? Everyone liked him! Even the judges who hated him liked him! “How could you not like me?” he asked, aghast.
“Oh, it’s easy!” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “But I do think you’re very cute.”
But Matt’s head flew right past the cute thing and went straight to the not like thing.
“No, no, it’s not easy. I’m a pretty likable guy,” he insisted. “Ask anyone.”
She laughed loudly. “You’re not likable at all! You’re just really cute. And that is as far as I can go,” she said, swinging one arm out wide to demonstrate just how far she could go and barely missing his chin.
“Well,” he said, more than a little miffed that she would not like him, like she was such a piece of cake to like or something, “you’re not exactly the easiest person in the world to get along with, either, Miss Priss.”
“Why not? I am very polite,” she said, with an emphatic nod.
“No, sweetheart, you’re actually a little on the stuck-up side.” Had to be, or else she’d like him.
“I am not stuck-up. I am very nice,” she said, now punching the dash with her finger. “In fact, everyone says I am too nice!”
“No one on this planet,” he muttered, looking around for the valet. What had possessed him to appoint himself her protector and bring her here? Miss Priss probably thought if a guy didn’t fall on his knees the moment he saw her, there was something wrong with him. “You know, that Miss Texas thing you have going on is a little too much,” he added irritably, if only to make himself feel better.
Rebecca groaned. “You don’t know what you are talking about, Mattie! I didn’t even want to be Miss Texas!”
“Please! All girls want to be a beauty queen when they grow up.”
“Not all girls want to be a beauty queen when they grow up, you . . . you moron,” she said, and inexplicably, the moment the words were out of her mouth, she made a soft little gasp and smiled, a beautiful, radiant smile, as if she were proud of herself.