He pulled away and studied her face as if he was going to paint it. “Just what I imagined,” he murmured, kissing her nose. “You do look beautiful in the morning.”
“That’s because I’m still wearing my makeup from last night,” Kathryn joked. “MAC stays on forever.” They laughed, and Walker drew her tighter to him.
“I could get used to this, kiddo,” he said, stroking her hair.
Kathryn reached up to touch his cheek. Even needing a shave, he was remarkably sexy. “Don’t,” she replied. “Please . . . don’t. I’ll be very honest . . . I can’t do this. I . . . don’t have the same kind of . . . resilience you guys have.”
“Why are you lumping me in with your opinion of every guy on the planet?” he asked her softly. “You think we all operate on that martian John Gray’s rubber bands?”
“If you break my heart, I’ll never get over it . . . and probably never forgive you. I still haven’t forgiven you for dragging my sister out of the house in the middle of the night and breaking your promise not to butt into my life.”
Walker defended himself. “I was worried about you. Can’t a man worry? It’s a crazy world out there.”
“Bear, I was out with one of your clients. I assume you have a way of screening people. I’ll bet you checked the three character references I wrote on my Six in the City application.”
He issued a nonverbal, noncommittal grunt.
“It’s none of your business anyway. Other than that finding me a husband is your business—literally. Trying to keep me away from one is counterproductive for you, personally and financially.”
Walker ran his hand contemplatively along his jaw.
“Yes, you need a shave,” she noted. “And you know something? I can sense this: you seem just a teenyweensy bit pleased that my first encounters with the three men you’ve fixed me up with have not led to a second date with any of them.”
“Maybe I’m just an idiot.” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know you well enough to agree.”
“I want to make love with you, Kathryn,” Walker said, still staring into the space above his head.
A silvery shiver ran through her spine. Kathryn rolled over and propped herself on her elbows. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I want to make love with you, too. Desperately. I admit it. And I’ve been fantasizing about it since the interview in your office. But, unlucky you, perhaps for the first time in my life . . .” She remembered the incident at the Plaza from just a few hours ago. “Perhaps for the second time in my life,” she continued softly, “I am going to deny myself what might possibly be an earth-shattering sexual experience.”
Walker noticed her grammatical correction. “Were you referring to last night as the first time?”
“None of your business,” Kathryn replied. It was her turn to stare at the white ceiling above them.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Absolutely not.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Kathryn looked at Walker like he was insane. “Of course not.” She grew quiet again. “He wouldn’t wear a condom. Okay? Are you happy now? You know all the gory details.” Disgusted, she rolled away from him onto her side. “Oh, that’s right,” she added, “I’m supposed to let you know how it went. For your ‘marketing strategy.’ ”
Walker stopped himself from giving her what he would have intended to be a sympathetic caress on the back. He was jealous, whether or not he had a right to be. And he was pleased that things hadn’t been consummated between Kathryn and Rick. Although Walker had never really loved the work, for the first time since his mother had left him to manage her matchmaking business— however temporarily—he truly hated his job.
“If I really wanted you,” he began, addressing her back. “Hypothetically . . . I would do just about whatever it takes to make love to you.”
Kathryn remained facing the wall. “In your case, it would take a lot more than agreeing to wear a condom.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Kitty?”
“One assumes that Rick—like all of the bachelors in Six in the City’s stable—has enrolled with a dating service because he is ready, willing, and able to make a commitment to a woman.” She rolled over to look Walker in the eye. “A commitment to a committed relationship, which could eventually lead to connubial bliss. You gleefully admit that you don’t fit the profile.” She gave him a long look and spontaneously, lightly ran her fingers over his chest. What kind of mixed messages am I sending here, she wondered. Damn!
Walker stopped her progress, placing a warm hand over hers, clasping it over his heart, holding it there.
“I feel like we’re on a carousel here,” she said quietly. “Over and over, up and down we go with each other, covering the same territory and never getting anywhere. But do we want to get anywhere?”
“I want to make love with you,” he said evenly.
“I’ll cherish the thought,” she replied, wanting more than anything to jump on top of him right then and there and show him just how much she desired him. “Believe me. But—and take this as a compliment—it will probably make me fall in love with you.”
He glanced over at her. She tried to read his expression. “I told you; I can’t afford the emotional price, Bear.”
“Brunch?” he asked, as though they hadn’t been discussing anything weightier than who was a weaker actress: Pamela Anderson or Carmen Electra. “I love Sunday brunch with The New York Times. Have you got any bacon?”
She was grateful for the change of subject. “I always have bacon,” Kathryn replied, throwing on a New Orleans Saints jersey that fit her like a minidress. She continued the conversation while she went to retrieve the morning paper from the hallway outside her apartment. “Except for when the movie Babe came out. Then I felt really guilty about eating pork for about three months.” Kathryn returned to the bedroom where the half-clad Walker was still stretched out on her bed and deposited the sports section on his flat stomach. “Here. I figured you might want this.”
Maybe I could get used to this, Walker mused. “Let’s eat first,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He was wearing longish Calvin Klein briefs that defined the contours of his upper thighs. Walker followed her into the kitchen and grabbed the package of bacon from the inside door of the refrigerator. “Got a frying pan?”
Kathryn gestured to a heavy black cast iron skillet on top of the range. “I thought you told me you couldn’t cook,” she said.
“I don’t. I just like to fry bacon,” he grinned. “There’s something about the smell. Very domestic.” Walker laid six strips of bacon across the bottom of the skillet. “The house I grew up in was very rarely a home.”
“Sorry.” Kathryn flipped the switch on her coffee maker, then removed two eggs, a stick of salted butter, and a quart of milk from the refrigerator. “How do you feel about pancakes? I’ve got an old family recipe that I haven’t been able to make in ages, because . . . well, you can’t really cook pancakes for yourself.”
Walker was relieved by this remark, which he interpreted to mean that Kathryn usually woke up alone.
Kathryn pointed a couple feet above her head. “Ooh! You’re tall—could you grab that little pitcher for me? Do you take cream in your coffee?”
He nodded in the affirmative, then reached up into her kitchen cabinet for the delicate creamer, which was sandwiched among several vases of varying shapes and sizes.
“Hey! Watch it—please!” Kathryn called out, as his groping toppled a cobalt decanter, nearly sending it flying off the high shelf. “Jeez—you can be a menace in the kitchen, didja know that? A real bull in a china shop!”
Walker looked pained.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry . . . it’s . . . I should have said ‘ Bear in a china shop.’ No, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Just . . . forget it.”
He retrieved a
red stepstool from behind the refrigerator and ascended so he could safely reach the creamer. Kathryn found herself watching his muscled rear, the contours of which were displayed to exceptional advantage in his form-fitting underwear. She felt even guiltier for having berated him.
He handed her the little pitcher. “I’ll . . . check on the bacon,” he said evenly.
Kathryn felt worse. He wasn’t trying to bust up her stuff on purpose. But he could be so clumsy, sometimes. This time, was his lack of coordination just a casualty of male ego? Not realizing the shelf was higher than he’d thought?
They regarded each other tensely for a moment.
Kathryn changed the subject. “Yup. That’s what I grew up with. Pancakes on Sunday mornings. And football all afternoon. In the fall, anyway,” Kathryn said.
“Good,” he replied. “Then you’ll feel right at home.” He went for the remote control and immediately turned on the television, locating the one P.M. NFL game.
“I am home,” Kathryn reminded him. “ You’re the visiting team, remember? Besides, in my house, if there’s a baseball playoff game on TV, no NFL on weekends until after the World Series.” She whipped up the pancake batter in the blender, turned off the machine and tossed in a shot of brandy. Walker raised his eyebrows, impressed.
Kathryn looked across the kitchen, watching him tend to the frying bacon strips with extra tender loving care. For an instant, she wanted to sneak up behind him and put her arms around his waist. There it was again—that feeling of security, in the best possible sense—that she derived from his presence, even if he was a bit of a klutz.
Walker drained the bacon and lay the crisp strips on a double thickness of paper toweling to soak up any excess grease. Then he handily lifted the heavy iron skillet and drained the fat into an empty Redpack tomato puree can—without spilling a drop—while Kathryn heated the bottle of pure Vermont maple syrup in the microwave. She laughed. “This sort of technology, we didn’t have when we were growing up. I remember when my father bought my mother a dishwasher as an anniversary gift, and it was a big deal.”
“If your mother is anything like you, Kathryn, it was probably a big deal because it was an unromantic present.”
“Did you learn your sleuthing skills from Detective Eddie Benson, Midtown South Vice Squad? You’re good.”
He scruffed the back of her neck, and despite brief thoughts to the contrary, lifted her thick mane of hair and kissed her soft, bare skin. “Look at this place,” he said, pointing his chin in the direction of her living room. “Anyone can see that you live for romance. Scarves over the lamps, your own needlework on display, home-baked cookies, Pre-Raphaelite prints on your wall . . . and just about the only time I’ve seen you when you weren’t wearing velvet, you were wearing silk. Or lace. You’re barely of this century.”
Kathryn served the stacks of paper-thin pancakes and decanted the warm maple syrup into a small pewter cruet. “I have jams and jellies, if you prefer,” she offered, gesturing to the refrigerator. “Apricot, and something with Chambord in it. Either damson plum or wild black cherry . . . I can’t remember which.”
“No, this is fine . . . this is great,” Walker responded, leaning over his plate to inhale the sweet, warm aroma of the pancakes. He brought their plates over to the coffee table and set them down, using the “Automobiles” and “Help Wanted” sections of the Sunday Times as placemats.
“Oops, I almost forgot. Ready for coffee?” Kathryn asked.
“You betcha,” Walker said, tasting the pancakes. “These are delicious.” He closed his eyes, to taste them better. “What about a splash of brandy in the coffee, too? Since this is a special occasion.”
“With the cream? Oh, what the hell, it’ll taste like Bailey’s. What are we celebrating?” Kathryn questioned, as she poured some brandy into each of two handmade ceramic mugs.
“Our first Sunday brunch together. I never had a neighbor I could spend Sunday brunch with before.” He took the coffee mugs from Kathryn and set them down by the plates, then nestled himself in a corner of the sofa.
Kathryn sat on the opposite end of the couch and leaned over to the coffee table to retrieve her plate, which she set in her lap. “It’s either this or sit on the floor and pretend it’s a Japanese restaurant,” she said. “Otherwise, the pancakes won’t survive the journey from the plate to my mouth without half the forkful landing on my shirt.”
Walker lifted her legs, swinging them across the sofa and onto his lap. He gave her toes a playful squeeze. She reached over for the remote control and gleefully played with the mechanism until she located a National League game. “That’s my girl,” Walker said appreciatively.
She tasted the brunch, crunching on a strip of bacon. “Good job, ‘roomie,’ ” she said between bites, appraising the doneness of the meat. “This is damn near perfect.”
His warm hand rubbed one of her calf muscles affectionately as he glanced over at her, then glued his eyes to the baseball game. “Yup. It damn near is.”
Kathryn couldn’t remember the last time she had so much fun doing next to nothing on a Sunday afternoon. By the time the Mets had lost to Atlanta, 10–7, her hangover was all but gone, the weather outside looked spectacular, and she was feeling just a tinge of cabin fever. “C’mon, let’s go out somewhere,” she urged Walker, jumping to her feet.
“I’m so comfy,” he half protested.
“We need some sunshine. Let’s go, big guy. Who says the best things in life can’t be free?”
“Most people.” Walker rose from the couch reluctantly. “Where exactly did you have in mind?”
“Central Park. We can toss a frisbee or something in the Sheep Meadow. On second thought, we can’t. I suck at that. I’ll probably hit someone’s labrador retriever in the head and suffer bad karma for the rest of my life.”
“I’ll help you with your aim. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”
Walker left Kathryn’s apartment, and reappeared a few minutes later with two very well-worn catcher’s mitts and a softball. “Okay, put some shoes on and let’s go. And not those spike heels you usually wear.”
“I thought athletes were supposed to wear cleats on the field,” Kathryn teased. “So instead of several, I have just one on each foot, that’s all.” She bounced into the bedroom feeling extraordinarily peppy and returned wearing a tank top, tight jeans, a pair of white leather Keds, and carrying a large canvas tote into which she deposited the sports gear and her purse. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from the bag and slipped them on her head to hold her hair away from her face. “Ready when you are, sports fan,” she said to Walker and led him out of the apartment.
“You’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be,” Walker said, tossing Kathryn the softball.
She caught it deftly in her mitt. “Thanks a whole helluva lot. I appreciate your confidence in me,” she called to him. She sent the ball sailing slightly past his reach. “Of course, my problem is consistency. I knew I shouldn’t have blown off spring training.”
“Okay. Get ready for a fast ball high inside the strike zone,” Walker yelled. The next pitch he hurled was probably intended to have been shoulder level, but given their vast height difference, it was zooming way over Kathryn’s head. She jogged backwards into the sunlight, waving away anyone trying to cut across her path. The softball thudded into her glove.
“Great catch!!” he yelled.
“Thanks! I know I’m a great catch!” she called back, deliberately twisting the meaning of his words. “It’s just that you haven’t figured it out yet,” she muttered to herself. She looked at her watch, then shouted “Bear? We’ve been doing this for almost half an hour. It’s really fun, but I’m beginning to get tired. The last time I had such a good cardiovascular workout was when I ran for a crosstown bus. Can we get a lemonade or something?”
He approached her, took the ball and mitt from her hands and dumped them in the canvas bag. “Wimp.” He put his arm around her shoulder affectionately. “Let’s
go get you watered and fed.”
“What am I now, a horse?”
They took a shady west-east path that meandered along the perimeter of the softball fields where a few amateur teams sponsored by local merchants were in the midst of heated competition. “Here’s a good place to stop,” Kathryn said, indicating the little café to their left. “Urban rustic. Isn’t it cute?” She collapsed into a metal patio chair.
“One lemonade coming up,” Walker said.
“Pink.”
“One pink lemonade coming right up. Anything else besides ‘girl lemonade’?”
Kathryn shook her head.
Walker went to purchase their drinks and returned with Kathryn’s pink lemonade and a chilled Heineken for himself. He raised his bottle to her plastic cup. “Cheers.”
“Bottoms up.” Kathryn felt so dehydrated, the lemonade was half gone after one extensive gulp. “Much better,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair. She heard the strains of a calliope, muted, in the distance. “Rain-drops keep falling on my head,” she sang softly, moving her body in time to the music.
Walker looked confused. “What are you singing?”
“What does it sound like? Don’t tell me you don’t know a Burt Bacharach song when you hear one. Or that you’ve never seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Can’t you hear the music? It’s from the carousel.” She took another long sip of lemonade, put the cup back on the table in front of them and sat up excitedly. “Can we go on it? It’s only a few yards away.”
Miss Match Page 14
