“Who’s Matt?” a voice at my left asked, making me jump and crouch into a fighting stance as my eyes flew to the source.
And then I saw him.
I saw Greg.
He was . . . here.
Standing in the entranceway to the apartment, a small duffle bag on his shoulder. His day-old scruff was gone. He looked exhausted, but happy.
My confused heart stuttered then leapt, beating excitedly before my confused brain could figure out what was going on.
We stared at each other for several seconds, his grin growing wider, until I finally managed to breathe out, “Oh my God!”
“No, darling. It’s just your husband.”
Not giving me three seconds to recover, he dropped his bag to the floor, crossed the room, and wrapped me in his arms.
I returned the embrace as I was too stunned to do anything else but sputter, “How-when-how . . . ?” And, inexplicably, my eyes stung.
Greg backed me against the wall in the living room and kissed me, groaning when his mouth met mine. Meanwhile, my eyes were wide as I watched him, blinking away the unexpected rush of liquid emotion, unable to process the truth of his presence, here, home, and not off the coast of South Africa on an oil rig.
“Stop staring and kiss me, would you?” His hand fisted in my hair and he tugged, angling my head back, then bending to bite my neck, sending wonderful sensation shivers racing over every inch of my skin. “Ah, you’re delicious.”
I shook my muddled head and placed my hands on his shoulders, pushing him away so I could see his face. I needed to see he was real and not a figment of my imagination.
Before I could speak, Matty’s voice carried to us as he exited the kitchen. “Yes, sorry about the water. I’ll run downstairs and turn it back . . . on.”
Greg stilled then tensed. I watched as he twisted and glanced at Matty over his shoulder. Still feeling astonished and confused by the sudden appearance of my husband, I stared at his neck and jaw for a long moment. I blinked, half expecting him to disappear. When he didn’t, I peeked around Greg’s large frame to where Matty was suspended just inside the kitchen.
I sensed Greg stiffen further and straighten. He turned from me to face our neighbor. “Who the hell are you?”
Matty’s eyes were wide, clearly confused, and more than a little concerned when they met mine briefly, then flickered back to my husband’s. “Uh, I’m Matt.”
“Mat? As in, a small rectangular piece of carpet made for the express purpose of cleaning dirt from one’s shoes?”
Greg’s impolite words and clipped tone pulled me from my stupor and I smacked his shoulder. “Greg!” I pulled my towel tighter and walked around my rude husband to stand in between the two men.
“Oh, you’re Greg,” Matty said, sounding less confused, but more wary.
“Yeah. I’m Greg,” he growled, making no attempt to disguise his hostility; but then, he never did.
“Greg, this is Matthew Simmons. He is our next door neighbor.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” I ground out, “that is so.”
Matty, holding a kitchen towel, gave his palms another wipe before reaching out his hand to Greg. “Nice to meet you . . . ?”
Greg made no movement to accept the handshake, instead opting to narrow his eyes threateningly. “Why don’t you have a shirt on, Matt?”
Matty’s eyes widened and he dropped his hand as he glanced at his bare chest. “I, uh-I was just—”
“He was replacing the garbage disposal,” I supplied, irritated with Greg’s bad-mannered behavior. Furthermore, I was irritated that I was irritated, because my husband was home. He was home! He was here and I’d missed him and, instead of taking advantage of his presence, I was standing in my towel in the living room being irritated.
“My garbage disposal?” Greg’s frown was severe as his gaze moved to me, ripe with accusation. “You let him replace my garbage disposal?”
“Your garbage disposal? What are you talking about?”
“I just installed that disposal.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s been three years. And Grace ruined it in January.”
“How did she do that?”
“She put Jack’s rock collection in the sink and turned it on as revenge for him hiding her Barbie dolls.”
Greg blinked and he appeared to be digesting this information with some difficulty. At last he said, “Grace has Barbie dolls? When did she get Barbie dolls?”
Sigh . . .
I glanced at the ceiling and shook my head, then turned to poor Professor Matthew Simmons. “Thank you for your help, Matt. I really appreciate it.”
Matty’s eyes moved between us, then finally settled on me. “No problem. I’ll just get my tools and . . . other stuff.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder, lingered awkwardly in the doorway for two seconds, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
I slid my eyes to Greg and found my husband still staring at the spot where Matty had been standing, an angry frown creasing his tired features.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked in a tight whisper, gripping the towel at my chest.
“What is wrong with me?”