Chapter Eighteen
“It was nice of Whitney to include us.” Lincoln took the hairpin turn at a leisurely forty-five mile per hour pace. He drove a bright orange Dodge Challenger this time—yet another of his turnaround investments. Matt was pretty sure he’d read an article last week about a car just like this taking part in a drug bust over in New Jersey. “I didn’t even know they rented out the McCullough barn for parties.”
“Me either.” Matt tipped his cowboy hat. “But you have to admit—it’s the perfect place for a hoedown-themed birthday bash. I haven’t been to a costume party since...”
“Ever?” Lincoln’s laughter got lost in the rev of the engine. “Face it, Matt. You’ve never exactly been the adventurous type. Your flannel looks fetching, by the way.”
Matt looked down. He hadn’t had much in the way of cowboy clothes in his closet, so he’d settled for borrowing a workshirt and boots from Donald. At least the jeans were his—a faded pair he distinctly remembered wearing the first day of college. “The shirt is a little snug,” he admitted, tugging at the collar. Although Hilly was built like a linebacker, her husband stood five foot six, if measured generously, and had the daintiest wrists. He and Lincoln had once tried to figure out the dynamics of a sexual relationship between the two.
But only once. He shuddered.
“I rolled up the sleeves so you can’t tell they’re so short,” Matt said. “Don’t cowboys wear tight things?”
“Of course they do,” Lincoln said, clearly patronizing him. “Helps with the aerodynamics of roping a bull.”
Since his brother had opted for pointy white alligator shoes and red denim, Matt decided to take Lincoln’s insults with a generous helping of salt.
They pulled into the drive leading up to the McCullough barn, a towering two-story structure reputed to have once been the seat of the biggest moonshine distillery in the state. It was set back from the house by a good three miles, secluded enough that you had to be looking for it to find it, which made it ideal for running booze.
Tonight, though, it had been transformed. The faded wood-grain doors had been pulled open and lined with pots of colorful flowers, and in the fading twilight Matt could make out dozens of strings of twinkling lights illuminating the interior. Cars lined an impromptu parking lot along one side, and people milled about, most of them with glasses in their hands.
“You came!” Pearl Vidra wrapped her arms around Matt and hauled him from the car. Although it was rare for him to feel the pangs of missing his mother—Hilly had admirably stepped up to take on the role—the scent of this woman’s floral perfume and the tight squeeze of her arms awakened something sad in him. As if sensing it, Pearl pulled away and pinched his chin. “I insist you call me Mom. We can’t tell you how happy we are Whitney has found a...friend like you.”
Lincoln snorted at the invocation of the word friend but composed himself enough to take Pearl’s hand. “You must be Whitney’s sister,” he said, bowing theatrically low. “She never mentioned she had such a gorgeous family.”
Pearl rolled her eyes at Matt but let Lincoln continue his ministrations. “I’m as impervious as the next middle-aged has-been to flattery,” she said, by way of apology. Allowing Lincoln to take her arm and lead her into the barn, she nodded over her shoulder. “You’ll find Whitney inside. She’s holding court at the birthday girl table.”
“Holding court?”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, her voice and tone so similar to Whitney’s it made him smile. This was one family where it was pretty obvious the apple didn’t clear the first set of branches. “I hope you brought one heck of a nice gift. My daughter has never, in all her thirty-four years of existence, failed to turn her birthday into a celebration of all things Whitney. She’ll be the one with the crown over her cowboy hat. Expect to grovel.”
Matt laughed and wandered into the barn in search of the woman in question.
There were a lot more people there than he expected, given Whitney’s lack of reception in the town thus far, but closer inspection revealed mostly faces he didn’t recognize. He nodded and tipped his cowboy hat to a few, taking in their crisp western shirts and creaky boots, and realized most of them were from the city. Whitney’s real friends. Her professional ones—the ones who wore suits and saved lives and did otherwise important things with their time.
He shifted uncomfortably. The faded red flannel he wore suddenly seemed too authentic, making him a small-town hick amongst royalty.
“I hope you brought Whitney a good present.” Kendra sidled up next to him and offered a perfunctory kiss on his cheek. Like the rest of the guests in the twinkling barn, she wore a middle-class version of cowgirl chic, her short denim skirt matched by a pair of pink cowboy boots, her midriff bare under a blue-and-white checkered top that tied at her waist. When she turned, Matt caught sight of twin piercings in the dimples of her lower back. He hadn’t even known you could pierce those.
He returned her greeting with a smile. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Is there some kind of present-giving contest I don’t know about?”
“Only if by contest you mean your worthiness as a human being and as a man,” Kendra said. “Whitney takes birthdays pretty seriously. I bought her a pony. I hope you can top that.”
He cast a look around, searching the dark, hay-filled corners for signs of life. “An actual pony? Why am I only hearing about this birthday obsession now?”
Kendra reached up and patted his cheek. “I’m sure whatever you got her is fine. But tread lightly, Matt. She’s had a bit of a rough week.”
Left with that enigmatic threat and visions of a palomino out back, Matt tucked his gift to Whitney in his back waistband. He’d had to specially order it online, but the present wasn’t pony good.
Besides—how was he supposed to know what was appropriate to give one’s rebound girl? A book was too little, jewelry too much, edible underwear too predictable. And what he really wanted to give her—the formal title of girlfriend—was something he knew all too well she wouldn’t accept.
As he had been forewarned, Whitney stood near the back of the barn, surrounded by a group of about seven or eight people, all of them laughing at a shared joke. Of the bunch, only John was familiar. Matt hung back a little, watching her interact with her people.
Like Kendra, Whitney’s version of country fashion included the least functional attire in the world. Tiny denim shorts that cupped and lifted her ass, a tight electric-blue tank top layered with twin bandoliers that strapped diagonally over her chest, black cowboy boots that just hit the middle of her perfectly shaped calves—she was much more fantasy outlaw than rustic farmhand.
Matt leaned on the nearest beam and let himself enjoy the simple act of admiration. Her face lit up and her hands moved quickly as she chatted, oblivious to the way her infectious joy impacted everyone in her immediate circle.
And while he could have stayed there all night, perfectly happy to be part of her captive audience, John spotted him and nudged Whitney with his hip. Their eyes met across the musty, straw-scented distance, and her smile dimmed—but not in any kind of way that signaled sadness. On the contrary, the difference was one of gentle transformation. Gone were the trappings of delight, replaced in an instant with the reality of it.
Surrounded by people she adored and who adored her right back, on what was obviously her favorite day of the year, dressed to seduce every man in sight—that smile told him one thing. She was his.
And God help him, even though he knew it was the last thing she wanted, Matt loved her.
* * *
Whitney waggled her fingers in Matt’s direction, but he didn’t move from his spot near the back of the barn. In any other man, she would have assumed it was timidity keeping him at bay, but not Matt. In order to feel awkward or shy, he’d also have to be the kind of person who compared himself to others—he’d have to have arrogance or false pride.
Matt had neither of those. She’d known that since the first night they met, when he approached her in the bar with his quiet, calm earnestness. It was still there—and she still found herself undeniably attracted to it.
“Who is that guy staring at you?” Her friend Liz, a matronly psychiatrist who worked in a nearby county, made a pointing-but-not-pointing motion in Matt’s direction. “I think he might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Tight pants suit him,” Whitney murmured, agreeing. He looked like a real cowboy, all faded and comfortable, the perfect fit. As if he knew her weakness for rough men in rolled-up sleeves, he crossed his arms and nodded once. “That’s Matt. He’s a local.”
“I thought you said the locals hate you.” Jerry, a graduate-level sociology student and one of Kendra’s many ex-lovers at the party, raised a brow. It was obvious he’d had Kendra recently thread them—men simply didn’t have eyebrows like that on their own. “You’re supposed to be our own baby pariah.”
Whitney’s smile gentled. “Well, all the locals but that one.”
Without another word of explanation, she moved to Matt’s side, working her bandoliers with a thumb hooked on either side. She looked sexy as hell and knew it—but if she’d had any doubts, they would have been erased as she caught the gleam in Matt’s eyes, the slight part in his lips where his breath came hotter and heavier.
“Howdy, pardner,” she drawled, loosening her stance and shaking her chest so the fake bullets rattled. “Save me a dance for later?”
“Am I allowed to kiss you hello?”
Whitney paused. Was it her imagination, or was there a hitch in his voice as he asked that? “The merest peck,” she offered flippantly. “We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
“Oh, no,” he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving hers. There was an intensity to them that rooted Whitney to the spot, cementing her in his presence. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Gently, and with a carefulness almost agonizing in its precision, he took her hand in his. He brought the appendage to his lips and, true to her request, gave it the merest of pecks. Lips fluttered over her skin so softly she might have imagined it, yet the mark they left behind went deep enough to flood her entire body with tingling sensation.
“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, Galahad. You win.”
She turned her hand so that it gripped his, and, using the momentum of catching him off guard, pulled him close. She wanted none of that chaste, knightly kissing, so she met him with her lips parted and ready. Their hats knocked off, but neither one of them seemed to care. His gorgeous mouth, so hot and willing, robbed her of all her breath in a matter of seconds, and she found herself hitching a leg against him in order to keep standing, wrapping her arms around the soft flannel that rippled over his lean musculature.
“Jesus, Whitney,” he groaned against her mouth, his tongue pausing only momentarily before it plunged back in, sweeping languid circles despite the urgency that swept through her. “This is not a peck.”
A catcall sounded in the distance, warning her that she was overstepping a boundary—hers or Matt’s or the crowd’s, she didn’t know. But this was her birthday party, dammit, and she wanted to kiss her lover without fear of retribution. Without pulling away, she lifted a hand and flipped whoever it was the bird. Then, deepening the kiss, she snaked that hand around Matt’s back and continued on a dedicated journey to the tight fit of his jeans around his ass.
Crackle.
She pulled away. “Is that what I think it is?”
“That depends...” Matt paused. “What do you think it is?”
“You brought me a present, didn’t you?” She jumped up and down, clapping her hands and giggling. “And it’s in your pants!”
“You act like you haven’t been given a present before.” He shook his head and reached around, pulling out a smallish package, a bit longer than her hand but so thin it might have been a padded envelope. The paper was covered in cheerful birthday lassos. “Kendra already told me about the pony.”
Whitney giggled again. She knew it was ridiculous for a woman of her advanced years to put so much stock in one day out of the year—ordinary but for the celebration of her birth—but for as long as she could remember, her parents had made this day magical. Even when she’d been halfway across the world, they’d sent her a care package full of instant gourmet hot chocolate mix and well wishes and even a bulk-sized box of lacy underwear, since her mother was sure every woman needed something pretty downstairs, even if she toiled under the tropical sky.
Even though children of her own had never been something Whitney particularly wished for, the one concession she’d allowed herself was the unspoken promise that if they existed, their birthdays would be epic. Everyone deserved epic.
“I don’t think she told you what The Pony really is, or you’d be blushing so hard there would be no blood left for your other parts.” She looked purposefully at his groin, which bulged with promise and a definite lean to the right. A girl had to love tight cowboy pants.
He licked his lips, eyes wide. “And what, may I ask, is the pony?”
She laughed. Matt was so adorable when he was flustered. “Let’s just say it’s long and hard and something all girls love to ride.” Dropping her voice, she leaned in and plucked the present from his hand. “If you’re very good, I might be willing to show you later.”
“I’m not even going to ask what your parents got you.” Then, realizing what she held in her hands, he quickly added, “It’s just a little thing. Silly, really.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
She examined the package carefully, taking her time, noting the weight and texture—more to annoy him than anything else. It looked an awful lot like an envelope stuffed with something, like maybe a mixed tape. Oh, God. She hoped it wasn’t a mixed tape.
Matt leaned back against the wall, watching as she tore in. At first, she was confused—it was an envelope, but a plastic one in black and white. It wasn’t until she lifted the fold and pulled out what was inside that she realized what he’d gotten her.
It was a golfing glove...but not just any golfing glove. Bright pink leather, hand-stitching along the seams and, best of all, an embroidered flamingo located dead center. She looked up at Matt and back at the glove, feeling oddly wobbly where she stood. “Where did you find it? I know you didn’t buy this from Natalie.”
He shifted on his feet. “Oh, this novelty company online. It’s no big deal.”
“Matt.” She got up on tiptoed feet and kissed his cheek—a peck this time. She didn’t feel capable of more. “This is really sweet. Thank you.”
He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think the better of it.
“What?” she asked, instantly suspicious. “Come on. Out with it.”
“I was just wondering if my gift made you feel good.”
Good? Reeling, yes. Breathless, sure. Touched by the quiet thoughtfulness of it, absolutely. But good?
“You know, good enough to show me the pony later.”
The comment hit her from the side, and Whitney was so surprised she staggered. And laughed. The sound of it was so loud several people around them stopped talking to see what had happened—who had gone so far off her rocker she brought birds down from the rafters. By the time she got her composure back, her eyes were moist, and she’d never been more certain that despite the mess of her life, this might possibly be the best birthday ever.
And she knew exactly why.
Lean, charming, dimpled. Quiet. Strong. The exact opposite of everything she’d ever thought she found attractive in a man.
“Matt—for that comment alone, you get a private Pony showing that will have you coming so much harder in those tight little pants than you ever dreamed possible.” She smacked him on the ass and walked away, tossing back over her shoulder. “Come find me when the party’s over.”
* * *
Matt couldn’t say for sure exactly when he became aware of the other man’s presence.
Stocky, in his late thirties and the only one not wearing a cowboy hat, there wasn’t much else about him that stood out—at least not as far as Matt could tell. There were lots of people here he didn’t know. What difference did one more make?
“Did you see that guy over there in the cargo pants?” Lincoln took a seat next to Matt at one of the long tables near the food and dropped his head in his hands. “Ugh. I hate douchebags like that.”
Matt nodded once. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the guy.
“Do you know him?” Matt handed his red plastic cup to his brother, thinking he’d set it down. Lincoln had to go on duty tomorrow before the sun came up, and had already declared his intention to forgo the birthday cake and all its empty buttercream calories. “Whoa—that’s beer, Lincoln. I thought you were watching your fluids.”
“Maybe I want a night off for once, okay? Back off.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Kendra, does it? Look, Lincoln—you told me right from the start that city girls had a tendency to do this.”
Lincoln gulped back the rest of the cup’s contents and pointed it at him. “Not everything in life is about that mushy romance crap. Maybe you’re happy designing your life around the crook of a woman’s finger, but some of us have real problems.”
Matt steeled his jaw, taking his brother’s low blow without complaint. There had been rumblings that Lincoln was facing suspension from the force yet again, something that arose every couple of years and made them all miserable by extension. “I don’t design my life around women, Lincoln. I treat them like actual human beings. There’s a difference.”
Lincoln grabbed another red plastic cup from a woman walking close by. “Is there? Is that why you’re letting that guy move in on your girlfriend without so much as a murmur?”
“First of all, she’s technically not my girlfriend.” Matt glanced over at the man and did his best to fight a rising wave of panic. “And he seems nice. He’s probably a doctor friend.”
“They’re all f*cking doctors.” Lincoln gestured widely. “Even that dude over there with the dreads down to his knees. Who ever heard of a doctor with dreads?”
“You’re absolutely right, Lincoln. How stupid of me. No man who makes style decisions you object to has a right to attend medical school. You should arrest him.”
Lincoln slumped farther in his seat. “Gimme my keys. I’m going home.”
“I think maybe you should go get some air first.” No way was Matt letting his brother behind the wheel of that speed trap in his current condition. “Give me a few minutes to let Whitney know where I’m going, and I’ll drive you.”
“I don’t need you to drive me. Besides—I think I’m about to become the least of your worries. Look.”
Matt’s first thought was that Laura had somehow followed him here, and he sat up straighter, unconsciously correcting his posture. But that was ridiculous. Even though she’d been clingy as of late, she wasn’t obsessive. And she barely had the energy to leave the house anymore.
When he finally looked over, his gaze didn’t land on that of his ex-wife, looking uncertain in her surroundings. It landed on Whitney...and the mystery doctor. Dancing.
No. Not dancing.
The way the pair of them moved across the barn floor—faces close, lips moving, bodies swaying—wasn’t the embrace of two friends meeting for the first time in months. If he didn’t know better, Matt would say that Whitney had the other man’s neck in a chokehold.
“I, uh, think I might need to intervene.” Matt got to his feet and moved quickly. One thing he was sure of about Whitney—she wouldn’t forgive him for letting her murder someone on her birthday.
As he drew closer, hesitation settled in. Although Whitney’s face was unquestionably clouded with rage and homicidal thoughts, the man didn’t seem to feel the oncoming storm. The words party crasher, arrogant and a*shole streamed rapidly out of Whitney’s mouth, and all he did was swoop her into a dip and flash a dazzlingly white smile.
Matt’s stomach churned acid. Who was this guy? And why, if Whitney so clearly disliked him, was she putting up with his arms winding tighter around her waist? Before he knew what he was about, his feet carried him all the way across the barn floor, his steps long and sure.
“Mind if I cut in?” he asked, barely recognizing the James Bond voice that slipped past his lips. “I believe you promised me a dance.”
Whitney and the man stopped spinning, but their hands stayed in place as the music twanged on. It would have been an opportune moment for introductions or for an exchange of pleasantries as Whitney changed dance partners, but Matt felt a sudden urge to prove a point.
What that point might be he had no real clear idea—but it had its roots in an overwhelming urge to have Whitney in his arms and as far away from the blindingly white smile of the arrogant a*shole party crasher as possible.
Without waiting for either one of them to do the polite thing, Matt grabbed Whitney’s hand and twirled her away from the man’s grasp. He slid his fingers along the curve of her waist and pulled her close, glad when he heard a hitch in her breath.
“That was rather debonair of you,” she said, watching him closely. “Care to share what’s got you so riled up?”
“Not really.” The music slowed into a ballad about teenage love, and Matt adjusted his step to match. Every eye in the place was on them, but he didn’t dare loosen his grip. “Can’t I dance with my non-girlfriend on her birthday if I feel like it?”
“I had no idea you were so light on your feet,” she said, ignoring his question. “Have you been having fun?”
They’d reached one edge of the eight-by-eight patch of flooring that served as the dance floor, so Matt spun Whitney to begin a path back across. Unfortunately, that put him squarely in view of the mysterious doctor, who stood somewhat apart from the others, watching Whitney with a look of keen interest.
“I’ve enjoyed being here for you,” he said honestly. Honesty was necessary, as he meant to counteract it with a slight deception. It wasn’t his fault—he wanted to know who the hell that guy thought he was. “I believe I got around to meeting just about all your friends. There are only one or two newcomers I missed.”
“Oh? Any ladies catch your eye? I should introduce you to Gertrude.”
Matt’s grip on her waist tightened, and he hooked his thumb on one of the wide straps of her bandolier. He ran his fingers up to where the leather passed over her nipple, allowing his touch to linger on the hardened peak. Juvenile it might have been, but he relished the reassurance of her body’s response to him. “That’s not funny. You know there’s only one woman I want.” Then, before she could do more than open her mouth to protest, he went for it. “Who was that you were dancing with?”
“Who?” Whitney avoided his gaze. The obvious fact that she was hiding something only made the fire in Matt’s stomach burn higher. He remained silent until she was forced to speak, their dancing all but stopped in the middle of the floor. “Oh, you must mean my old friend from med school days. He just arrived in town this week.”
Perfect. Lincoln was right—they were all doctors. “For your party?”
“Possibly longer.” Then, lower, as if to herself, “Hopefully not.”
They turned again, this time bringing Whitney within clear view of the mystery medical man. Her body tensed, and a full twenty seconds passed before she was able to shake herself off.
Matt wished there was some way he could see what sort of an exchange had passed between the two, but the music switched to a faster song—one of those thump and grind ones Lincoln favored when wooing a woman. Something inside Whitney switched, too, and she drew closer.
“Oh, I love this song,” she said, her hips coming to rest against his. The beat picked up, drums and electric guitar pounding, and Whitney’s dance moves picked up with it.
Before Matt could do more than wonder at the sudden change, Whitney twirled so that they stood front-to-back, her entire body flush with his. The press of her ass—so tightly packed in those tiny jean shorts—as it wiggled against his groin proved too much for Matt’s restraint, and he placed his hands on her hips to still the grinding movements. He still had to walk away from the dance floor on just two legs, regardless of how wonderful it felt to bury his head in the curve of her neck and lose himself in the moment of sound and sensation and her.
“What do you say we get out of here?” Matt said, his voice low as his lips brushed against her ear. “I saw this great pile of hay out back.”
“Tempting.” Whitney turned back around and pulled his face down to hers. Her lips barely grazing his, she breathed against them, “But right now I need you to kiss me, Matt, please. Kiss me like you mean it.”
He didn’t need much more of an invitation than that. Without hesitation, he pressed his mouth against hers—softer than the music and his straining erection called for, but the exact way he’d wanted to kiss her since the day they met. Slow. Deep. Sharing breath and fusing souls. The rest of the room fell away and they stopped dancing. All that remained were his hands cupping the sides of her face, holding her tenderly while his kiss said all the things she wouldn’t let him say with words.
Like he meant it.
Matt was the first to pull away, dazed, robbed of all memory of where they stood and who made up the audience around them.
Whitney’s lips remained parted, her cheeks flush with color. It was too dark to read her eyes, but her body language—heavy breathing, her whole body unnaturally still—was clear. She brought her fingers to her lips slowly, as if testing to make sure they were still there, and the only thing that prevented Matt from capturing them again was the crash of a table overturning and Lincoln’s voice, loud and insistent, that he was perfectly capable of seeing himself home.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, tearing his gaze away. “Whitney, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to take him home.”
All of Whitney’s guests were watching the spectacle of Lincoln attempting to right the table by himself and sliding in the Jell-O salad. All except one. The mystery doctor stood rooted to the spot, watching Whitney.
No. Watching Matt.
The man nodded once, tipping his head in a way that suggested conciliation or capitulation or even...recognition. But recognition of what?
He didn’t have time to wonder. Kendra appeared at his elbow, asking if he wanted any help getting his brother out to the car, but Matt shook his head firmly and forced himself to leave the mystery alone for now.
“I can handle Lincoln.” Maybe nothing else in his life made much sense, but the inevitability of Lincoln screwing up was almost a comfort. “Just get him outside. I’ll do the rest.”
He faced Whitney, intending to apologize for such an abrupt end to an unforgettable kiss, but she had already recovered her senses, and he could practically see the shift in her eyes as she regained control. “Go rescue your brother, Galahad. The people of Pleasant Park are counting on you.”
“You’re not mad?” Matt was furious. Lincoln was going to owe him big time for this.
“Of course not. You’re the nice guy, the dependable brother. I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She brushed the hair from his face and rubbed her thumb along his jawline—an intimate gesture rendered void when her gaze shifted somewhere over Matt’s left shoulder. He knew, without needing to look, who she was staring at. “Thanks for coming. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Matt felt a burning urge to glance back as he exited the barn, to see if Whitney went to talk to the mystery doctor.
But he didn’t.
For one, Lincoln was retching all over the lanterns lining the path.
For another, he knew, with a roiling certainty in his gut, that the answer was one he wouldn’t like.
* * *
“Thirty-four looks good on you.”
Whitney froze in the midst of tossing a stack of plastic cups into the garbage bin. Determined not to let Jared goad her, she tossed her hair and kept cleaning. “Was there ever any doubt? The Vidra women are a well-preserved breed. You should know—you spend enough time with my mother.”
Jared’s hand fell on her shoulder, forcing her to turn and face him. “Don’t take it out on her. I made her invite me to your party. We need to talk, and you won’t return my calls. I didn’t have many other options.”
She dumped a stack of plates in the bag. Kendra and John were also supposed to be cleaning up, but they had conveniently disappeared into the night, leaving her alone in a stale, sweat-scented barn with the last man on earth she wanted to see on her birthday.
She wanted Matt. She wanted him in ways she didn’t know existed.
That kiss—that kiss had changed everything. That kiss was what women dreamed of and fought for and carried with them to the grave. That kiss brought life to parts of her untouched by the most inventive sexual positions. That kiss made her believe, for the first time in what felt like forever, that love might be worth the risk.
“You have until I finish clearing off this table,” she offered, feeling suddenly generous. If Jared brought out the worst in her, Matt brought out the best. “Go.”
“Who was that guy you were dancing with earlier?”
She twisted her head to peer at Jared. As always, his grim smile was difficult to read. “Really? This is your big grovel moment and you’re wasting it talking about my boyfriend?”
Boyfriend. The word just slipped out, hovering in the air like a cloud—and now that it was there, she kind of liked it. Matt Fuller, her boyfriend. The local kindergarten teacher, her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, who kissed like a god and worshiped like a mortal.
“I think he’s relevant, don’t you?”
“I think he’s incredible, and I also think he’s none of your business.” She moved faster, sweeping up piles of napkins with her whole arm. Matt’s benevolent influence over her only went so far.
Jared squatted to retrieve a few fallen beer bottles. “But he’s proof that you win. Isn’t that what you want to hear? You win.”
“I win?” Red-hot anger filled her, twisting her insides and making her ill. Earlier in the evening, Matt had rescued her from having to confront this man, saving her from herself before she even knew she needed it. But he wasn’t here now, and she was on her own. “What the hell does that mean? A nice, handsome guy happens to like me for me. So, what? Is that so out of the ordinary? Is that such a stretch of the imagination I need a trophy to commemorate it?”
“Dammit!” Jared smacked an empty beer bottle on the table with a loud crash. “Can’t you see? You have everything. Our friends. Our private practice. My career. Family. Security. Love. All those things we set out to build together—it’s all yours. And there’s not a single scrap left over for me.”
“And whose fault is that?” Her heart swelled against the cage of her ribs, her body not nearly big enough to contain her emotions. “You could have had all of it. That whole life you’re imagining I stole from you was yours for the taking. Remember? But you didn’t want it—at least not as much as you wanted to feel a shiny new vagina wrapped around your dick.”
There was no mistaking the expression on his face this time. Fury twisted the saturnine features, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. Jared wasn’t a violent man—at least, he hadn’t been back when she’d known him—but she could see that he was reaching the edge of his endurance.
Sighing, she added, “I’m sorry you feel left out of our plans. With all your fancy world travel and media popularity, how were we supposed to know you even cared about this kind of thing anymore?”
“You could have asked. After you ran away from Guatemala—away from me—you could have answered one letter, taken one call. You could have let me know you were okay.”
Shock robbed her of breath and of the ability to come up with an appropriate reply. How could she tell this man that despite what he saw on the outside, she wasn’t okay? Family and a medical degree and friends were great recovery tools, but they weren’t a promise that she wouldn’t get hurt again. They weren’t a guarantee she’d be able to give Matt the love he so clearly deserved.
That was what Jared had really taken away from her in Guatemala.
“I’m okay,” she said flatly. “Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you.”
Predictably, her words only enraged Jared further. With a flourish, he cleaned up the last of the table, ending their conversation and leaving her feeling worse than ever before.
“Happy f*cking birthday, Whitney,” he growled, and stormed loudly out the barn door.
Happy f*cking birthday, indeed.