“I’m not embarrassed.”
“You act like you are. And you said as much last night.”
“I did?” she asked weakly.
“Maybe not in so many words, but you definitely sounded like there were some regrets. I don’t get it—why not be a former beauty queen?”
Rebecca paused in front of some iron sculptures, obviously pondering that question. “I guess it just doesn’t seem very important,” she muttered.
“Important?” Matt laughed. “We could all look back at our lives and say the same about any number of things. What’s important, really?”
“Art,” she said resolutely. “Art is important. For example, look at this piece,” she said, pointing to a strange looking thing, explaining what she saw in the maniacally shaped vase with holes in it, while Matt quietly wondered how it held water. And when they moved on to the next booth of paper sculptures, shapes delicately molded and painted, Rebecca pointed out a bouquet of flowers that was truly exquisite with unusual colors and lines. Matt picked it up; she suggested that it was a nice gift for his mom. It was something that his mom would like.
He paid for it and found her outside at the next booth, admiring some pottery work. With the flower thing in the crook of his arm, he asked if she had dabbled in any other art besides painting. Pottery, she said, pausing to look at more pieces. And when he asked what her favorite art form was, Rebecca slowly began to talk about a life she once had as a teenager, the life of a budding artist, who had painted and made sculptures from clay, and had even sold a few pieces to friends of her parents who thought she was destined for greatness. She talked with such animation that Matt could see it really had been important to her. Still was, regardless of what she wanted him to believe—or what she was trying to make herself believe.
More importantly, by the time they reached the end of the booths, he realized he had glimpsed a woman behind the beauty queen, one who was far more interesting and vibrant and funny than he had originally thought, and he was fascinated. She was a challenge, too, as he imagined ways one might draw that vibrant woman out of her shell of suppressed perfection. The only problem was—and it was sort of a big one—she didn’t particularly like him. For the first time in his life, Matt was looking at a woman who didn’t like him. What had happened to the universe as he knew it?
They wandered out of the art festival, and he took her to her car, feeling more and more disturbed with each block as she chatted about art. He had the strange and unusual compulsion to prove to her that he was likable, that he could be more than a one-night stand, and when she got out of the car with his mom’s gift that she had held in her lap, he got out too, grabbing her bag from behind the seat and walking around to her side of her car.
She looked up at him, lifted a brow in question.
How odd that he should feel so awkward—he held out her bag to her; she took it with a faint smile and slung it over her shoulder, then attempted to hand him his mother’s gift.
“You know what? You really shouldn’t be uptight about that Miss Texas thing. I mean, if ever there was a woman who was meant to be a beauty queen, it’s you.”
A strange expression washed over her face, and Rebecca looked down at the gift she was holding. Matt had the uneasy feeling that she had heard this a million times before, and it made him feel an even bigger fool as his brain groped the rusty parts for how to express his feelings. “I’m not . . . Look, Rebecca, I’m a lawyer, not a poet. But there are some things I just know, and all I am trying to say is, you are so damn gorgeous that you probably steal into men’s dreams all the time without even knowing it. You are a man’s dream.”
Rebecca said nothing, but slowly pushed the floral piece toward him.
Matt took it in one hand, and with the other, he impulsively reached up, touched her temple, unable to stop himself from feeling her skin beneath his fingertips once more. “If you ever want to finish off that drought,” he muttered, listing forward to kiss her while she stood, paralyzed. Her lips, slightly parted, quivered beneath his, and as his hand drifted to her neck, he felt her pulse racing. And then she was responding, lifting up to him, kissing him deep, stepping closer, her hand on his neck, her tongue in his mouth, kissing him deeper. Every fiber, every cell in him was suddenly alive; he could feel a draw from his groin to his throat, and as he began to snake his arm around her waist, she broke the kiss.
Dazed, Matt just stood there.