My black eye resolved quickly. Pam, the epitome of professionalism (or the embodiment of indifference), didn’t ask about it. She was in high spirits on Tuesday. The Surrogate was everywhere. She had a phone interview with the Denver Post at noon and a face-to-face with Gail Wieder of Denver Buzz, a morning talk show, on Wednesday.
“If only Matthew could see all this,” Pam said. She avoided my gaze and my purple-yellow eye. “But he would have hated it, wouldn’t he? The attention.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. Poor Matt, fame is so rough. I winced at my uncharitable thought. Jeez, where did that come from?
Maybe I was still upset about Alexis the private driver from Craigslist. I didn’t care what Matt said; that business smelled funny.
But—the girl was gone. Out of state. Miles from Matt. I smiled and booted up my work computer. I’m not a jealous girlfriend, not really, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the redhead wanted to put her paws all over my man.
Over my dead body.
On Friday, I wore a special springtime set of lingerie—a sheer floral bra from Fox & Rose and lacy crotchless panties—and I drove out to the cabin. Matt took me from the car to bed. Mmm, I loved having that effect on him.
“I’m crazy about things that don’t hide you,” he told me. “Things that show me your body—like this.” He bit my nipple through my bra and pushed a finger into my sex. He fucked me while I wore the lingerie, and he made me say I wanted it and that I wore the panties so he could put it in me easily, and that I wanted it in me all the time—which I said with pleasure.
The warming weather seemed to revitalize Matt. He talked about his writing—in general terms, of course—and he was less broody, less prone to anger. Only once did he lapse into a mood that weekend. I made the mistake of mentioning the private driver, Alexis. I said, “You sent her packing, right?”
Matt frowned and said he wanted to write. Then he sat at his desk and doodled in his notebook for half an hour. Classic.
Apart from that, we had an idyllic weekend. The following weekend was the same, and then it was April. And despite my certainty that Matt’s fake death and my lies were coming undone, I began to hope. To hope that we were in the clear.
A call from Nate changed all that.
It was the middle of the first week in April. Unseasonably warm wind blew through Denver. At work, I daydreamed too much about Matt. At home, I opened the windows and let the sweet breeze swirl through our condo. And I daydreamed about Matt. Matt beneath me, holding me close, pounding into me …
Or the two of us lying in bed, laughing … walking in the woods … watching the stars …
My cell rang and I rose lazily.
When I saw Nate’s number, my good mood faded. But not entirely. I even smiled a little, because how could I really dread a call from Nate? He was so uniformly good to me, so mannered and gentle. I remembered his concerned face and dark eyes.
“Hey, Nate,” I said. My voice sounded dreamy.
“Hannah.” And Nate sounded truly happy, his voice radiant with warmth.
“I’ve missed you!” I flopped onto the couch. “Really. You’re like the older brother I never had. That’s how I feel.” I’d had a large glass of wine when I got home from work, which made it easier to say those things—but it was how I felt.
“Well, I’m honored. And you’re like the little sister I never had.”
“Not that little.” I laughed. “How old are you anyway?”
“Thirty-five. That puts, what, eight years between us?”
I counted on my fingers. “Seven in May. How do you know my age?”
“I have a dossier of Hannah facts. I keep up to date on these things.” Nate chuckled. “No, Matt told me—in Geneva. He was very drunk at the time, mind you, and waxing on about how he wouldn’t stop drinking until Hannah forgave him. So I said, tell me about this Hannah, and he said, she’s twenty-seven but you wouldn’t know it to look at her, she’s always going to look young because she’s full of light, and I’m never going to love anyone else.”
I smiled and hugged a pillow. Oh, Matt … “What did you say?”