The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) - By Tamara Morgan
Chapter One
“Is this seat taken?”
Whitney Vidra looked up from her phone and stifled a sigh. The man approaching her in the poorly lit bar didn’t have a popped collar or the scent of Axe Body Spray wafting around him, which counted as a few points in his favor, but that didn’t mean she wanted his company.
Yes, she was dressed to the hilt in her favorite red dress. And yes, her hair looked fantastic, if she did say so herself. But it had taken all of five seconds to recognize this place for what it was—a backwater attempt at trend, and a fairly poor one at that, what with the middle-aged DJ encouraging them all to start grooving and the cheap black paint blistering on the walls. Her friend Kendra might be content to swap spit with one of the locals out on the parquet dance floor, but Whitney would rather reserve her saliva for digesting the stale bowl of pretzels on the bar.
“I’m not saving that particular stool for anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, striving for a politely distant tone.
Taking it for an invitation, the man sat, holding up two fingers to the bartender—either a secret code or a macho attempt to order her a drink without asking first. She hated when guys didn’t ask.
“Your friend’s a really good dancer. You don’t dance?”
Whitney switched off her phone and tucked it carefully in her purse before turning to face her accoster. Now that she was seeing the man head-on, she could tell she was going to have to take it a little easy on him. He wasn’t bad looking—in fact, the hesitant smile and tousled sandy hair signaled nerd chic at its best, and there was a slight depression in his cheek that she thought might transform into a full-blown dimple if he tried. But the guy wore a corduroy jacket with elbow patches and drank something pink with little bits of fruit floating on the top.
He was obviously clueless.
“If you’re asking can I dance, the answer is yes.” Whitney took care not to provide any encouragement. “But I’m choosing not to at this particular moment.”
She cast a glance over the dance floor, nodding when Kendra sent up a cheerful wave. Her best friend and business partner had insisted they go out tonight, an official commemoration of their first night as Pleasant Park residents. But although Kendra felt the permanence of their signatures on their new office building as a good thing, Whitney had never been nearer to breaking out in hives. There was so much finality in a ten-year lease.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” the man offered.
“Imagine that,” Whitney said dryly, taking in his crisp khakis at a glance. In her experience, men who ironed their pants and men with great moves—on the dance floor or off it—were mutually exclusive entities. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a regular Don Juan.”
“I like to do my part for womankind.” He deflected her sarcasm with some of his own. “Your friend said you might want some company.”
Aha. Things were beginning to make sense. “Let me guess—you’re friends with the guy she’s currently grinding against, aren’t you?”
“He’s my brother,” the man corrected her, “not my friend. Well—I guess he’s my friend too, since we’re obviously out together tonight. But you know what I mean.”
Seriously? Whitney had known coming in that her new life would take a little getting used to. That was kind of the whole point. Take one part upscale Pennsylvania borough, add three parts big-city beauty professionals. She, Kendra and their third partner, John, were practically their own bad joke: a chubby plastic surgeon, an overeducated esthetician and a hirsute massage therapist walk into a bar...
The move had been a long time coming, of course, and she didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It was just that she’d somehow failed to realize that setting up their medical spa in an upstate outpost meant living in an upstate outpost—complete with an agonizingly slow nightlife and guys like awkwardly conversational elbow patches over there.
She lifted her finger to stop him from going any further. “Save yourself the trouble. I am not now, nor have I ever been, the DUFF. So thank you, random stranger, for your oddly endearing company, but you’re off the hook for the night.”
The man’s brow wrinkled, and something like a frown crossed his face. The dimple potential disappeared with it. “Matt. My name is Matt.”
Despite herself, Whitney softened. “It was lovely meeting you, Matt.” She stopped short of offering him her hand and swiveled on her stool, effectively ending the conversation.
Which was why it was so surprising when his finger tapped lightly on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry—I don’t think I did that right. I’m still kind of new at this.” His voice was soft but firm, and he stuck out his hand, holding it steady until she had no choice but to take it. “Hello, there. My name is Matt. I somehow got wrangled into coming out with my brother tonight.”
“And how is that my problem?” The words came out a lot crueler than she intended, but she bit back the urge to apologize. Men these days sometimes had to be pried off a girl’s leg with a crowbar.
“It’s not,” he said pleasantly, not the least bit put off. “You look nice, so I’m offering to buy you a drink. And if you don’t mind my asking, what in the world is a DUFF?”
The bartender chose that moment to drop two shots of amber liquid in front of them, followed shortly by a pair of limes and a salt shaker. Whitney stared at the drinks for a moment before looking up.
“You’re moving on to tequila now? Really? Would you like me to sprawl out here on the bar so we can just skip to body shots?”
He shrugged and reached for the salt shaker. “I’m beginning to think you’re making fun of me.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve been transplanted here from another universe—one that’s stuck about twenty years ago.” Whitney watched as he licked the salt from his wrist, just inches above the band of his outdated wristwatch, and kicked back his shot. He did it all with a kind of understated grace, as if he knew how ridiculous he appeared and simply didn’t care.
“Do you want yours?”
Whitney shook her head as he drank the next shot straight. He made a face, wincing and flashing his teeth, but the expression was gone in a moment, replaced once again by a strangely kind smile.
“Don’t underestimate finger foods?” he asked, tilting his head at her.
Say what, now? Whitney blinked. “Um...I guess I like an amuse bouche as much as the next girl.”
“Deranged undernourished fighting fish?”
“I think you’re the deranged one.”
“Am I getting close? How about...” He paused and looked thoughtful. “Dangerously unhealthy French fries?”
Realization forced her to sit up a little straighter, and Whitney studied her partner with renewed interest. He was playing a DUFF guessing game. It was almost as cute as his dimples, which were coming out in full force now. He was like some sort of saintly, attractive man-child, dropped here for her amusement.
“Designated ugly fat friend,” Whitney offered, taking pity on him. “But you were close.”
She nodded toward the dance floor, where Kendra had somehow gotten her leg hooked around the brother’s knees and was doing some strange whipping thing with her head. When Kendra had said she wanted to go out to celebrate their new venture, she’d obviously meant celebrate.
A hand, warm and soft, found its way on top of hers. “Hey. That’s not true. I think you’re lovely.”
Whitney laughed, only stopping when she brought her pint of Guinness to her lips and took a long pull. “Thanks. I happen to think so too.”
“Then why did you—?”
“Look,” Whitney said, setting down her glass, “you won’t be the first man to assume that because I prefer sitting alone at the bar over grinding to dubstep that I’m somehow faulty. But I am not the consolation prize in a bar mating game.”
Matt frowned. “That sounds awful.”
“It is awful, which is why I don’t play. I don’t care what Kendra told you or promised you or begged you to do. I don’t need you to babysit me. Good night.”
“Do you mind if I sit here anyway?”
Geez, he was persistent. Most guys were only too happy to be handed such an easy out. It wasn’t that she couldn’t pick men up at a bar—it was hardly rocket science—but never, in her thirty-three years of existence, had she ever accepted DUFF droppings. Contrary to what most men thought when they first saw her, the thirty extra pounds she carried mostly in her hips didn’t make her a victim of low self-esteem or discounted standards. She liked that weight right where it sat—and she would have been the first to advocate going under the knife if she felt otherwise.
“I guess I can’t stop you from sitting wherever you want,” she said slowly.
He released an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you. I don’t know why I let Lincoln drag me out tonight—this place isn’t really my style. To be honest, the women here kind of scare me.”
“No kidding? You? With your tequila shots and fancy lime wedges?”
“You’re making fun of me again.”
She snickered. She really was.
Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it out to find an email from her mother coming in. Since there seemed every chance that her new friend Matt would try and read over her shoulder if she opened the message inside, she nodded a polite dismissal and made for the door.
The air felt clean as she slipped outside—a nice departure from the dank miasma she was used to back in Philadelphia. One thing she hadn’t been expecting about this place was just how breathable it was. Country air did great things for her complexion.
She scrolled through the screen, hesitating for only a second when she saw the subject line. You’ll never guess who I ran into today... It was just like the woman to be purposefully coy, and Whitney had half a mind to simply ignore her. Unfortunately, if she didn’t respond right away, her mom would email again, then text, then call. The Vidra women were nothing if not persistent.
But as soon as the email opened, Whitney groaned and snapped the phone shut. Not content with simply spelling out his name, her mother had included an oversized jpeg with the header that had been all over the industry publications last month. Dr. Jared Fine Resigns from Charity Post, Returns to PA. Like she cared. Let him take up residence in state for the rest of his life, brandishing his golden scalpel and transforming the lives of the underprivileged. She was on to bigger and better things.
Well, maybe not bigger. The fellowship at Temple University she’d turned down had been pretty big. And not everyone in the medical community shared her belief that the term better applied to her chosen focus on boob jobs and liposuction in place of more sedate medical care. But this was her life, her rules.
“Thanks but no thanks, Mother.” Whitney pressed delete without bothering to read the rest of the email. Her parents had never understood why she was so willing to turn her back on the man she’d loved enough to follow to the ends of the earth, the plastic surgeon god who’d fathered her own career aspirations. But then again, they hadn’t caught him with his pants around his ankles, plowing an anesthesiologist in a third world country.
Make the World Smile, he’d said. We’ll fix cleft palates, change children’s lives for the better, he’d said.
Call her cynical, but that seemed like a poor substitute for fidelity.
Her first instinct was to rush inside and pour her heart out to Kendra, but she hated to interrupt her friend in the middle of what was obviously a conquest for a fitting one-night stand. John was probably meticulously packing the rest of his things in anticipation of the train ride up tomorrow morning, and there was no way in hell she planned on calling her mother.
Which left...what? A man in the bar wearing elbow patches, friendly and clueless?
She put her phone away. He is awfully cute.
As she suspected, Matt was sitting right where she’d left him. His gaze was concentrated on Kendra and her dance partner—Lincoln, he’d called his brother—but the dim light made it difficult to tell if he was envious, outraged or merely...spectating. She suspected the latter.
“You came back,” he said pleasantly as she took her former seat. Her beer sat, seemingly untouched, but even though Matt didn’t look like the sort of man who carried spare flunitrazepam in his pocket, Whitney had spent too many years as a single woman to play fast and loose with her beverages. She pushed the drink away.
“Was it good news?” he asked.
“Was what good news?”
He nodded at her purse. “The phone?”
“Oh.” She paused for a moment. He’d been paying attention—it seemed the oddly earnest elbow patches were more than just a fashion choice. “It was from my mother.”
“So...that’s a no, then.” He signaled once again for the bartender.
She laughed and relaxed, letting him make his next macho move. Crowbars and legs aside, she did kind of appreciate the reminder that she was worth pursuing.
“I don’t suppose I can buy you that drink now?”
“Sure. But make it a beer, please. Newcastle.”
A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he placed the order with the bartender. Whitney was just about to ask him what it meant when a pair of hot, sweaty arms latched around her back. She might have been scared, if not for all the scratchy sequins pressing through the fabric of her dress, the tangy scent of girl sweat and citrus perfume wafting up. She didn’t have to look to know that the arms around her were the dainty, perfect limbs of her best friend, who’d donned an electric pink bobbed wig for the evening, a perfect complement to her party girl aesthetic and molten gold skin tone.
“Whit-ney,” Kendra’s singsong voice called. “I’d love for you to meet Lincoln.”
That was fast. Whitney swiveled on her stool to confront Kendra’s dance partner. Kendra’s remark was the code phrase for their schtick, their safety net. Whenever either one of them found a partner for the evening, he had to first answer a few pertinent questions before the cab was called. It was a routine they’d developed in college and perfected over the years.
“Hello, Lincoln,” she said, sizing him up. He was exactly what she expected from a guy Kendra dragged home—but not at all the kind of guy she imagined her new friend Matt of the elbow patches being related to. Although their hair shone the same tawny color under the lights and they shared a slightly bulbous nasal tip she could fix in under one hour flat, Lincoln was clearly cut from a different cloth. He wore a shiny button-up shirt, jeans that were tastefully faded along the fronts of his thighs and shoes that probably cost more than hers did. None of that would have been particularly noticeable if not for the bright synthetic tan that set it all off.
Classy. But then, Kendra was a born-and-bred city girl riding the wave of their recent success. Classy wasn’t a requirement—or, apparently, a consideration.
Whitney cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, waiting until Lincoln gave her his full attention before asking, “When was the last time you were tested for STDs?”
Matt spit out a huge mouthful of whatever he was drinking.
Lincoln, the poor sap, looked back and forth between her and Kendra, color leaching from his orangey face. “Um...I dunno? A few years ago?”
“Hmm. That’s not a good sign. You carry condoms?”
His eyes, a rare icy blue Kendra always fell for, widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you always use them? Never get that urge to tell a woman how much better it feels all natural?”
“Um, no? Of course not.”
“Good for you. Now—have you ever been hit with pepper spray?”
His head swiveled some more. “Is that a real question? Listen, I’m not sure...”
Whitney held up a finger. “Did you know that a person can’t join the Secret Service unless he’s been shot before? It’s an official job requirement. They want to make sure that everyone tasked with serving the president of the United States knows what it’s like to take a bullet, and is prepared to do it again.”
“I don’t get it. Is she going to shoot me when we’re done?” Lincoln shifted a little until he was at Matt’s side, as if he was in search of some kind of protection. Not that Matt would have done him any good at that moment. He was hunched over the bar, his shoulders and head shaking with laughter.
“Just answer the question.”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Lincoln said slowly. “Our dad had some bear spray when we were kids, and Matt dared me to use it. I had the nozzle pointed wrong—it hurt like a bitch and I couldn’t see for days. But I still don’t understand the question.”
“Kendra always carries spray. So do I. And believe me when I tell you that neither one of us is afraid to use it to, ah, protect the president. Do you get where I’m going with this?”
She had no idea how much alcohol Lincoln had consumed during his Saturday night quest for companionship, but if the puzzled look on his face offered anything to go by, it was quite a lot.
“You’re saying her vagina is the president?”
Beside her, Matt let out what could only be termed a guffaw.
Whitney reached out and clapped a hand on Lincoln’s back, sweaty through the synthetic material. “You’ve got the idea now, big boy. Now, just let me have a quick peek at your ID and you two kids are all set.”
Bewildered, Lincoln reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Kendra cooed something comforting into his ear, her eyes dancing at Whitney. No matter how many times they did this, it never failed to amuse.
When he finally handed over his driver’s license, Whitney jotted the details down on a cocktail napkin. Name, address, ID number. It was amazing how well that simple step worked. A person had to show proof of documentation to buy alcohol, vote or even take a flight, but few people bothered verifying the identity of the person they dragged home to swap bodily fluids with.
“Okay, Lincoln Fuller of West Cirque Lane. You’ve been cleared for the evening, but you should know I’m not throwing this napkin away until she’s back home safe and sound. No funny business, got it?”
Kendra leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Thanks, Whit. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Have a good night.” Whitney waggled her eyebrows. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. You’ll be all right getting home? Is there anyone you, ah, want to introduce me to before I go?” Kendra looked pointedly over at Matt, who had finally regained his composure.
“Please don’t,” he interrupted with a laugh, holding one of his hands up. Quite big hands, actually. Funny she hadn’t noticed that before. “My intentions are completely honorable.”
Well, that settled that, then. She’d have to content herself with a friendly chat over a couple of beers—which, come to think of it, didn’t seem like that bad of a plan. This guy was growing on her.
Kendra and Lincoln used the opportunity to walk-stumble out the door, where a cab already waited, their hands shoved into places that were probably sweatier than the rest of them.
Ah, young lust. It warmed her to the core.
Before the padded door swung to a close behind them, Matt spoke up. “So...now that we’ve been abandoned, do you want to get out of here?”
“Hey, now.” Whitney shook her head. “Did you just miss that whole part about checking IDs? We aren’t kidding about that.”
“I’m sure you’re not, and I respect you both for it. But I’m not inviting you to my crappy one-bedroom apartment or an unmarked van out back. I meant coffee. It’s almost two in the morning—we might reasonably squeeze in some pancakes.”
She pretended to think for a moment. “And bacon? Can there be bacon?”
Matt placed a reverent hand over his chest. “There can always be bacon.”
Whitney sighed contentedly and drank the rest of her beer in one gulp. There was something about a man who made jokes about pork products that got her right in the heart.
Matt grabbed Whitney’s coat and helped her into it, an action so ingrained into him he didn’t realize he was doing it until one of her perfectly arched eyebrows rose.
“Why, thank you, Galahad,” she teased. “I had no idea the country was such a chivalrous place.”
“Sorry.” He covered his faux pas by putting way more money on the bar than he needed to. That was one of the first things Lincoln had warned him about—that he had to be a lot less gentleman and a lot more barbarian if he wanted to blend in with the rest of the bar crowd. “It’s a force of habit.”
“It’s a good habit,” Whitney assured him.
He took her at her word. It was amazing how everything about this woman carried such candid self-assurance. All he could see about Whitney, from the way she held herself to the way she put Lincoln, the world’s most confident man, in his place, spoke of the same thing. Her rich, dark brown hair hung in tumbled waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, a piercing shade of gray that seemed to see everything, were made up with sixties-style makeup that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else.
He was going to be in big trouble if this was what the dating world had to offer these days. Lincoln told him that women were more assertive than they’d been the last time he’d dipped his hand in the cookie jar, but Matt had assumed his brother was exaggerating in this, as in most things.
Not anymore. Not if Whitney was anything to go by. Strange as it seemed, Lincoln might actually know a thing or two about this stuff.
“So, your ex-girlfriend do the training? Current girlfriend, maybe?”
Matt pushed open the door and followed her through it. “Ex-wife, actually.”
Now that he stood next to Whitney, Matt felt woefully underdressed. Her heels made her almost as tall as he was, and the red dress she wore wrapped like a series of tight bands around her body, stopping just above the knee. But no matter how restrictive the material might look, it was hardly enough to keep her ample curves in check. The whole effect was a grand departure from the loose linens that most of the women in their town favored. Or the soft, floaty, floral things Laura always wore.
City girls. He’d forgotten how different city girls were. How much...more they were. The last time he’d dressed up for anything had been when he was the best man in a friend’s wedding, and even then, they’d gone with chinos and button-down shirts appropriate for a Hawaiian destination ceremony.
“Oho! You have a sordid past lurking inside there, don’t you?” She shook her head. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
He grinned, glad she seemed so accepting. He’d been half afraid women would hear that he was divorced at twenty-nine and immediately run for the hills. “That depends on your definition of sordid. It was what they call an amicable split, and we even divided all our books without arguing about it.”
“No fiery blowups or horse heads in the bed?”
He shook his head. “No passion of any kind. That was the problem.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he paused. “Oh, crap. Was that oversharing?”
She laughed again, a sound that started out deep and throaty but moved higher as it increased. It was a sound that made him want to make her laugh even more, just to see how far her range went.
“Yes, it was.” She linked arms with him. “But I’m under the distinct impression you don’t get out much.”
* * *
The diner Matt had in mind was located about a block from the bar—in Pleasant Park, everything in the main section of the downtown borough area could be found within walking distance. As they approached the building, which was little more than a converted train car, he realized he’d underestimated the local nightlife. Two o’clock in the morning normally found him in his plaid flannel pajama pants and deep in the reaches of sleep.
Apparently, he was the only one.
It wasn’t that he was completely unhip or clueless—he had a surprisingly large working knowledge of Justin Bieber and vampires that sparkled. But Whitney was right. He didn’t get out much. If he was going to move past sitting alone in his apartment above a cheese shop, eating cereal out of the box and smelling of Jarlsberg, he was going to have to learn.
“So,” she said once they were seated in a corner booth that squeaked every time one of them shifted. “Your brother is orange.”
Matt choked on his glass of water. “It’s not that bad.”
She shook her head, her hair bouncing around her shoulders. “He was glowing underneath the disco ball of the dance floor. I think that’s why Kendra liked him. She couldn’t help herself—she was a moth, drawn to a beacon of light.”
“To be fair, the color isn’t totally his fault—the tan was a gift for his birthday.” Matt gave in to the profound urge to chuckle. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in one evening. “It was from our sister, Hilly. No one thwarts Hilly. She and her husband own Paradise Tan and Espresso over on Fourth.”
Whitney wrinkled her nose. “Spray tans and coffee at the same place?”
“A warm glow inside and out.”
“Please tell me that is not their actual slogan.”
“My sister wrote it herself—and if you think you could cow her into being ashamed of fake tans, you’re wrong. She’s impervious to insult. She’s impervious to everything.”
Whitney nodded as though that made perfect sense. “I can see how that might run in the family.”
He grinned. She was making fun of him again. Even though he might not know a thing about the current dating pool or why so many men thought being a jerk to women was the key to it all, he did spend an inordinate amount of time with six-year-olds. Girls always teased the boys they liked.
“Strange color notwithstanding, he’s a good guy, you know,” Matt said. “He won’t hurt your friend.”
“I know he won’t. That’s why I let him take her home.”
A waitress, tired and harassed-looking, came by to take their order. They’d just decided to split the lumberjack special, which boasted no fewer than ten plate-sized pancakes, when a wadded up napkin went sailing through the air and bounced off the back of the waitress’s head. She didn’t turn—just picked up the offending item and shoved it in the deep pocket of her apron.
“Teenagers,” she said, shrugging. “They want more coffee. I’ve been slipping them decaf for the past hour.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Whitney asked the moment the waitress turned away.
Matt hadn’t been aware that he was looking at her with anything other than frank admiration, but he took the bait anyway. “I’m half afraid you’re going to go over there and yell at those kids for being mean to the waitress.”
“Would that be so awful?”
“No,” he said truthfully. “But I get the feeling you say exactly what’s on your mind no matter what.”
“And I get the feeling you’re trying to soften me up.” She leaned over the table. “Don’t bother. You’ve already promised me salty pork products and refused the ID interrogation. It’s all downhill from here.”
Matt could hardly believe his good luck.
It was officially eight months since he and Laura signed the divorce papers, and most of that time had been spent hiding in his apartment, avoiding women and Lincoln’s single-minded insistence that Matt needed to put himself out there again.
He’d finally caved, and the first woman he’d gathered up the nerve to approach turned out to be this one. Easy to talk to, funny, pretty in a straightforward, no-nonsense way he wasn’t used to. And best of all, she’d already made it abundantly clear she had no intention—or expectation—of sleeping with him. She was like training wheels.
Awesome, bacon-loving training wheels.
“So...what brings you to Pleasant Park?” Matt asked conversationally, blissfully bereft of pressure. “You’re clearly not from around here.”
“Work stuff,” she said, toying with a straw wrapper. Her eyes met his squarely, full of challenge and promise.
“Is your work top secret? I’d offer to tell you what I do for a living, but you’ll laugh.”
“Oh, I already know what you do. You’re an English professor. The elbow patches and Oxford shirt give it away.”
Matt looked down at his attire. Sure, Lincoln had said a button-down shirt and jacket would put him on the firm path to celibacy, but Matt refused to take fashion advice from a man who owned two-hundred-dollar jeans. “Should I have left a few of the buttons undone? Lincoln said chest hair is passé.”
Whitney grinned widely, and Matt couldn’t help his elated feeling of pride. See? He was funny. He could still do this.
“And I’m not an English professor,” he added. “But good try.”
“Lecturer?”
“Getting warmer.”
“Oh, crap—you’re a poet, aren’t you?”
He braced himself. “Actually, I teach kindergarten.”
The silence that followed lasted for exactly five seconds before Whitney burst into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that shook her whole body, and, predictably, she held none of it back.
Matt was used to getting strange reactions. People—especially female people—couldn’t help but find something to talk about in his chosen profession. Most of them thought it was sweet. Some thought it was creepy. Trust this woman to find it downright hilarious.
“That is so adorable it almost hurts my teeth,” Whitney said once she finally regained her composure. A kindergarten teacher? Did a more nauseatingly endearing profession exist anywhere in the world? “So you, like, sing songs all day? And clap and play games and stuff?”
Rather than take offense to her reply, as she expected, Matt laughed, his same soft chortle that never seemed to contain any malice. Whitney found it strangely addicting.
“There’s a little more to it than that. But yes, I’ve been known to sing.”
“I swear to God, if you tell me you karaoke on the weekends, I’m walking out the door,” Whitney warned.
Divorced, chivalrous, kid-loving, kind...it was like someone had taken a poll of all the non-threatening, asexual characteristics a man could possibly exhibit and rolled them up into a tidy package. Somehow, it worked for him—and the feelings being aroused in Whitney’s breast were anything but asexual.
“Singing in front of six-year-olds and singing in public are two different things.” Matt smiled, deepening his cherubic dimples. “And to be honest, I’m not very good at either one.”
Whitney was not the sort of woman who paid any attention to her ovaries or what was expected of them as she strode confidently into her mid-thirties, but she could have sworn they swelled in autonomic response to that smile.
The waitress came by then, her hands laden with plates of towering stacks of pancakes that glistened with butter and late-night calories. With the promise that she’d be by with more coffee in a few minutes, she left them to divide their bounty however they saw fit.
Sharing a plate of food with someone you just met was supposed to be an awkward experience. In the thick of a relationship, cutting up pancakes and fighting over the last piece of toast had a comfortable feeling to it, a dance of breakfast food and camaraderie perfected over time. She almost liked the first time better. Hesitancy, fumbling, mumbled apologies—there was no better way to get to know a man than to see how he handled them all.
But Matt just smiled charmingly at her and doled out her pancakes as if she was six. God, he was cute. Too cute. What was she doing here at this diner, with this man, in the middle of the night? She hadn’t come all the way out to quaint, bucolic Pennsylvania to woo the local catch—and a divorced schoolteacher to boot. Clichés were for young women, for dewy-eyed nursing students who thought it was the height of romantic fantasy to follow their boyfriends into the wilds to save the downtrodden and medically bereft.
“You gave me all the bacon,” she pointed out, accepting her plate. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“If it’s going to make you frown at me like that, you don’t have to eat it.”
“I’m not frowning at you.” She grabbed one of the pieces of bacon and took a huge bite. Crispy, just the way she liked it. “I’m frowning at the situation.”
He paused in the motion of bringing his fork to his mouth. “And how, exactly, is this a situation? Where I come from, we call it breakfast.”
“And where is it you come from? Stepford?”
“There you are again, making fun of me when I least expect it. You have a gift.” Although his words were mild, Matt followed up by narrowing his eyes and watching the group of teenagers in the back get noisily out of their booth and make their way out the door.
Whitney thought for a moment that she had succeeded in scaring Matt away, that her admittedly faulty tendency to speak her mind had finally proved too much for his mild-mannered adorableness and he was going to escape with the crowd.
Disappointment twinged somewhere in her nether regions. But then he held up a finger and tossed his napkin on the table, a total gentleman when he added, “Would you excuse me for a second?”
Matt hated to walk away just when the teasing was coming out of Whitney’s mouth again, but he remembered all too well his own misspent youth. Well, misspent was a bit of a strong word. The worst thing he’d ever done was hit a car in the parking lot with a grocery cart and not leave a note for the giant ding it left in the door. But he had spent considerable time in diners like this one, taking up valuable restaurant real estate and leaving handfuls of pennies in return.
The restrooms were located near the back, so he headed that way, passing the table covered in empty creamer cartons and sugar packets, making it look as though a war had taken place. He stole a quick peek at the check—all of ten dollars for five cups of coffee, and not nearly enough tip for a timestamp that went back three and a half hours. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it to the table, hurrying past so the waitress wouldn’t see.
When he slid back into the booth, ready to tackle his plate, Whitney reached out a hand. “Give me your wallet.”
“Is this a holdup?” he joked.
She kept her hand in place. “Back there at the bar, did you really not know what a DUFF was?”
He crossed his heart. “I swear. I would never do that to anyone. I thought you looked nice.”
“The wallet, please.”
He handed it over, watching as she pulled out his ID and scribbled his name and address on a napkin. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was doing, and a part of him—a rather important part—perked up with sudden interest. He’d been alone for over half a year now, lonely for a lot longer than that.
But by the time Whitney got to his address, he put a hand over hers. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Her eyebrow rose. “We’re not going anywhere without it.”
“I thought we were just having pancakes.”
Her eyebrow went even higher, if such a thing were possible. “Listen, Matt. You’re cute. And you’re sweet. I saw what you did over there for the waitress—and it was either the most clever move a guy has ever made on me, or it was the most charming act of kindness I’ve seen in a long time. Either way, you win. That’s why I’m going to make this as easy as possible for you. Would you or would you not like to accompany me to my house to have mindless, attachment-free sex until the sun comes up?”
Matt blinked. Okay, so Lincoln was right. Women were a hell of a lot more forward than he remembered. And it wasn’t that he didn’t find this woman attractive—he did—but... Whitney released an irritated noise and leaned over the table, actually grabbing him by the shirt collar and forcing him to meet her halfway.
Whatever her plan was in that moment, it worked. Damn, did it work.
Her lips were just as hedonistic as their bright red lipstick promised—the right combination of soft and pliable, pressed against his with a forcefulness that seemed fitting, given what he knew of her personality. She wasn’t shy with the tongue, either, flicking lightly into his mouth with the syrupy sweetness of pancakes, heedless to the other people trying to enjoy their wee-hours-of-the-morning breakfast.
He let himself fall into it, into her, and deepened the kiss almost against his will. That slow, sensual graze of her tongue against his, the soft moan that rose from her throat and tumbled into his—that was where the stirrings of lust became a pounding, forceful reality. This was the kiss of a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. This was the kiss of a woman who would probably never end a marriage because of a lack of passion.
It was also the first kiss that Matt had shared with anyone other than his ex-wife in over five years.
Which made things difficult.
Whitney pulled away and licked her lips, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her meaning clear. “Well?”
Matt leaned back, dazed and slightly bewildered and no longer capable of pretending that his mild interest hadn’t erupted into something much more...substantial. This was not how this whole dating pool thing was supposed to happen. He wanted to ease into it, dip his toes in and all that. Not plunge headfirst... Well, not plunge. Period.
“I haven’t been with anyone since my wife,” he blurted out. He paused and then let loose a laugh. He couldn’t help it—this whole situation was beyond absurd. “And I believe I might be oversharing again.”
She paused in the middle of putting the napkin with his ID information securely in her purse. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“It’s not that weird.”
“It’s a little bit weird. How long have you been divorced?”
Matt crossed his arms and firmed his resolution. This whole get-back-on-his-horse, clamber-aboard-the-wagon, jump-in-the-sack thing was too much. He might be woefully behind the times when it came to dating, but he refused to believe that casual sex was the cure for a failed three-year marriage. “Eight months.”
She let out a small huff. “And didn’t you say there wasn’t any passion before that?”
“I’ve really got to stop saying everything that pops into my head.”
“Don’t you dare. I adore it.” She dropped a bill on the table and rose to her feet, reaching for Matt’s hand and pulling him up behind her. The space between them, infinitesimal as it was, felt thick with promise. “What you need more than anything right now is a rebound girl.”
“I do?” Then, “What’s a rebound girl?”
She smiled brightly. “I am. Here’s how it works. I don’t want you to buy me a ring. I don’t want to bear your children. I don’t even want to be your girlfriend. All I want is you and me and as much sex as we can possibly squeeze into the four hours before dawn.”
Matt’s mouth went dry. “That’s a real thing?”
“Oh, Matt. Poor, sweet Matt. You have no idea. You’re obviously one of those men built for monogamy and the kind of love that lasts until you’re wrinkly and don’t remember where you put your teeth—which of course means that you’re completely wrong for the bar scene and for women like me.”
“Then why would I go home with you?” The rational part of him warned him to cool off and back away. The still mildly tequilaed part of him, the rigid stirring in his groin—they had plenty to say on the subject.
“Because,” she said with painstaking calm, “you can’t start a long-term relationship until you rebound, and believe me when I say I’m exactly the kind of girl you want in the interim. I’m an exceptionally good lover. And commitment makes me itchy.”
“I think you’re making this up.”
“I think you’re overanalyzing.”
“Am I?” His head whirled.
“Besides.” She smiled coyly and wound her fingers through his. “I’m feeling generous.”
“Are you trying to say this is like charity?”
She laughed. “Only if you’re really bad at it.”
“I’m not bad at it,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. But he stepped away, putting some much-needed distance between them. He wasn’t that guy, the carefree one-night stand, no matter how much his body might disagree. And it disagreed—rather strongly. With a deep breath that did little to redirect the flow of his blood, he said, “And while I’m flattered that you would offer, I think this is where I call it a night.”
The look Whitney cast him was full of all those things that indicated a woman scorned. Her lips downturned in a frown, and her eyes narrowed with icy disdain. “You’re saying no?”
“It’s more like I’m saying I’d like to see you again. During the daytime, maybe.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in seeing you again?”
He shrugged, trying not to show how much those words stung. He’d heard it wasn’t uncommon—the city girls hitting the small-time local clubs in hopes of a brief, illicit fling in which follow-up dates and awkward morning conversations need not apply. But Matt was kind of looking forward to the awkward morning conversations, those heady first days of intimacy.
Whitney was right. He was built for monogamy and toothless love.
“It was just a hunch.” He extended his hand in an offer of friendship. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you wanted. Do you think you can get home all right?”
She eyed his hand warily. “I’m a grown woman. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“I can call you a cab.”
This time, the corners of her mouth lifted in a wry, twisted smile, and she gave his hand a firm, decided shake. “Thanks, Galahad, but I’ll manage to find my way. I always do.”
Without another word on the subject, she grabbed her things and made for the door, leaving an almost visible trail of regret and temptation behind her.
“Lincoln isn’t going to believe this.” He barely believed it himself. Plopping back down to the vinyl seat, he grabbed a piece of bacon—cold and greasy—from Whitney’s plate and ate it.
And he’d thought he hadn’t understood women before.