by Jo Leigh
“I need a fill-up.” Matt held the door to a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf café for her.
“You’re buying from one of Ellie’s competitors?”
“People go to Dark Gothic Roast for Ellie as much as the coffee. No one can compete with that.”
“True.” She liked how well Matt knew his sister and how obvious his affection for her was.
At the oak counter, Candy studied the menu.
“I think you’ll want the macchiato with an extra shot of espresso,” Matt said. “It’s the closest to café de Sade.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “You know my coffee?”
“And you take it with sweetener, cream and cinnamon.”
“Ah. You’re remembering the time I sprinkled your shoes.”
Another awkward Dark Gothic Roast meeting. She’d been relieved she hadn’t added scalding coffee to the cinnamon topping she’d applied to Matt’s wing tips.
“I just know what you like.”
In bed. The message was clear. “Oh.” Heat rose between them and she knew they were both remembering their erotic encounter.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Matt said, jerked out of the moment. “She’ll have the machiatto with a shot of espresso.”
“And he’ll have Columbian regular,” Candy said. When the clerk left, she turned to him. “Black, right? I know what you like, too.”
“Oh, yeah. You do.” More heat, more trembling.
Somehow, they made it to a table, and she vowed to keep her mind on their professional relationship, not their recent intimacy.
“Nice job on the PowerPoint,” Matt said, clearly trying to shift the topic. Did he sound surprised?
She realized she should clear up another misconception he probably had about her. “That reminds me, while we’re overcoming bad impressions, I want to explain about that report I was late with-the next morning? After I fell?”
“The report that was missing pages and riddled with typos? I don’t remember that one.”
She cringed inside. “Exactly. You see what happened was-”
“It’s water under the bridge. You don’t have to explain.”
“I need to explain. The reason I was late was I had to help my neighbor look for her lost dog. She was sobbing in the parking lot, so what could I do?”
“Express sympathy and get to work on time?” But he smiled, teasing her. “You could never do that.” He leaned closer and she realized she’d moved in, too, her head at a flirty angle. They were behaving like lovers in public, hinting at secret moments they’d shared. Sex had changed their rapport, which wasn’t good, no matter how lovely it felt.
She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Anyway, helping her made me late and I’d forgotten that I hadn’t finalized the report. It was not like me. I meet deadlines and am committed to quality and-”
“Did you find the dog?”
“The dog? Oh. Yes. Covered in mud. You should have seen my backseat, but we found her.”
“So it was worth it.”
“Except that it left you with a bad taste in your mouth about me.”
“I think you tasted quite nice that night. Sweet and salty from the margarita. Spicy, too. Your own taste.”
His words set her entire body on fire. How was she supposed to talk about work when this could happen so easily?
“The point is that I’m responsible and dependable and-”
“Your work speaks for itself, Candy. If this is about me being your boss, I wish you’d forget it. You’re fine with me. I know your strengths.”
And her weaknesses? Would they keep him from choosing her as a team leader? She was dying to ask, but that seemed inappropriate and too pushy.
The clerk called out their orders, then Candy took hers to the condiment station. When she returned to the table, Matt said, “I don’t get why you ruin perfectly good coffee with all that junk.” He nodded at her cup, which she was still stirring.
“Because plain coffee is boring. I like to change it up.”
“Why change something that’s already great?”
“To make it better?”
“I guess we see things differently,” he said, which was a perfect reminder. They’d had a one-of-a-kind sexual head-on that would have never happened in the real world where their romantic interests were as different as their taste in coffee.
“So, on this makeover…” Matt said, obviously changing the subject. “You’re not going for blue hair or anything, right?”
“Hmm. Not sure.” She looked at him through a picture frame of her thumbs and index fingers. “Blue would clash with your eyes. Maybe magenta.” She sipped more coffee.
“Lord. I’m putting myself in your hands, you know.”
“Yeah. You said that.”
Her fingers trembled, so she put down her cup. They both took shaky breaths. Matt seemed to force a smile.
“I’m glad we straightened things out,” Candy said. “About the report and about that night.”
“You see I’m not the complete dork I was that night?”
“I was the one with my thong on display.”
“Ah, the thong…” He smiled wistfully. “I loved the thong. Tiger-striped, too. Are those things as uncomfortable as they look?”
“You get used to it,” she said, feeling herself blush.
“I speak for all men when I say thank you for making the effort.” He tapped his cup against hers.
“So you enjoyed my humiliation?”
“Not the humiliation part. The thong part, yeah.”
They both chuckled, the sound blending like music in the small shop, then fading, though they held each other’s gaze.
“How’s the hangover doing?” she asked.
“Better,” he said, as if he’d forgotten. “You were right.”
“I’m right a lot,” she said.
“I have no doubt. I had fun yesterday, hangover notwithstanding.” His eyes were soft and his smile spread. “I don’t even regret the karaoke.”
“Why would you? We were great together.” She heard “You’re the One that I Want” again in her head. “How about the dancing? Did you like that?”
“With you, sure.”
“I mean the girl grinding on you.”
“That was weird. I felt like a pole in a strip club.”
“Surely it was nicer than that.”
“It depends on who’s doing the rubbing.”
“I guess.” Every time he made a remark like that she got a zing. It was wearing her out. She remembered she hadn’t told him about the girls’ plan for the festival competition.
“Listen, Matt, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Definitely not magenta,” he said.
“No. It’s about the festival.” She told him about the competition, the prize, Sara’s spreadsheet and the points he’d already helped them win.
“So I take it I’m your teammate?” he asked.
“I promised them we’d do some of the events, yes.”
“Nothing too humiliating, I hope.”
“Depends on how you feel about Jell-O wrestling.”
“With you, I’d consider it.” He winked, making her tremble like the gelatin dessert they were discussing.
“Red Jell-O stains, so forget that.”
“Damn,” he said, snapping his fingers in pretend dismay.
“But how about a limbo contest? It’s early-before the Hot Shot Scavenger Hunt.”
“Limbo? Backbends to music? Doesn’t sound like me.”
“Sure it does. It sounds exactly like Fun Guy. Plus it’ll be networking practice.”
Matt sighed. “You could talk me into anything, Candy. Like I said before, I’m in your hands.”
And that was both delightful and scary. She could end up with the promotion
she craved or in deep professional weeds, depending on how she handled herself.
7
THE NEXT THING MATT knew, Candy was hustling him past the shops toward his appointment with an optician, babbling about how contacts would let him see the world in a whole new way, and wouldn’t that be fabulous?
For a moment, he longed to be back at the beach house quietly catching up on work, not jangled and tugged and hassled by his chirpy colleague. He’d almost ditched the hangover, but Candy made his head hurt all over again.
“While you’re getting fitted for lenses, I’ll pick out clothes you can try on. Multitasking. Sound good?”
“Sure.” She was so damned eager to fix him up, he could hardly say no.
“Your hair appointment’s in an hour. In between, we’ll collect some business cards.”
“Business cards?”
“Networking practice. We’re competing for business cards, remember?”
“Uh, sure. I guess. Sounds…hectic.” He was having enough trouble with losing his glasses and whatever hair style she would cook up. No dye. Or bleach. He’d say no to that.
“That’s how I like to work, Matt. Efficient, organized, on top of things, never waste a minute.” She snapped her fingers three times.
“Unless a neighbor’s got a missing dog.”
“That was an unusual case.” She frowned at him.
“I’m joking, okay?” What was with her? She kept trying to hide her personality, pointing out how non-Candy she could be. It was as though she were interviewing for her job. That was a downside to becoming a manager. People stopped behaving normally around you. He hated that. In fact, he intended to talk about it at the first meeting of his new teams.
That made his gut clutch. He should be planning the teams now instead of dawdling at a mall. He had to consider skills, knowledge, work style, potential and, thanks to the PQ2, personality. Everyone had pros and cons and some people worked better with others.
Candy was one of his problem placements. She was creative and a high producer, typo-laden report notwithstanding. He wished he could clone her for all five teams.
He’d love to set her up to float, but that wouldn’t work. To ensure mutual responsibility, the teams had to be self-sufficient. Only outside consultants worked that way. If only Candy were one. She’d perform rings around the guy Scott hired when they were overloaded or stumped.
Matt had to figure out where to put her. And where everyone else would work best. The personnel aspects of the VP job were his weak point. It was related to his lack of people skills, he guessed. What had Candy said he was? Nonsocial. Yeah. He smiled.
Hell, Candy could put the teams together in a heartbeat. She knew everyone down to shoe sizes. He’d love to get her opinion, but that was impossible. Inappropriate with someone he supervised.
Even worse now that they’d slept together. Candy had had to shake him from his sexual haze, reminding him that a perfect storm of booze, vacation and opportunity had brought them together.
You’re not my type. She’d had to remind him. She was right, but it hurt to hear. He should be grateful she’d been so eager to forget what had happened. For all her wild ways, she was a practical person. He still felt uneasy, though. What he’d done was so out of character, even taking the Tsunami into account, he hardly recognized himself. After Candy was finished with him today, he’d look like a stranger, too.
At the eyeglass place, Candy signed him in and breezed off to select a new wardrobe, intent on her role as his female Henry Higgins, transforming him into Fun Guy.
When Candy returned, the optician was watching him practice putting the blasted lenses into his eyes. He’d flipped the right lens across the room, then onto his shoe. The left one was now tucked so far back under his eyelid it might require surgery to remove. No way would he go through this hassle every morning.
“Let me see how you look,” Candy said.
“Hang on.” He dug deep enough to bruise his eyeball, captured the plastic disk and centered it over his pupil. He blinked and Candy’s face swam into focus, almost making it worth the trouble.
“Oh, you look great,” Candy breathed. “Doesn’t he?”
“He has nice eyes,” the optician-Carol-said. “Very blue. They remind me of Greg Kinnear’s.”
“Exactly,” Candy said. “Or maybe Patrick Dempsey’s?”
“Oooh,” she said. “From Grey’s Anatomy? Him, too.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Matt cleared his throat, embarrassed to have two women carrying on about his eyes.
A clerk bagged up his paraphernalia-cases, cleaning fluids, spare lenses-and rang up the charges and he had to blink repeatedly to see clearly enough to determine whether he had a credit card or his driver’s license in his hand.
Once outside the shop, Candy danced backward in front of him as they walked. “Isn’t it great to be free of glasses?”
He blinked and squinted, fighting the lenses, which slid across his eyes like a car on ice. “I guess.”
“It feels funny at first, I know. That’s why you’re blinking so much. Soon you’ll be used to them.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s so worth it. No dents on your nose. Full peripheral vision. No steamed-up glasses when you make pasta. You can see to swim and in the shower and in bed at night. No bumping glasses when you kiss.” She stopped abruptly. “I mean…Anyway…I can really see your eyes now,” she said.
“So you feel closer to me?”
“Matt,” she said, warning him away from that kind of talk. He liked the way color flared in her cheeks, visible even under the pink from yesterday’s sun. “We’ve got thirty minutes before your haircut, so let’s go for some business cards.”
They agreed to meet at the hair salon and he watched her walk away, sandals clacking, butt tight, hips rocking in that irresistible way she had… Damn.
Thirty minutes and six business cards later, Matt entered the hair salon, which smelled so strongly of hairspray his eyes watered. Personally, he preferred an old-fashioned barber shop.
He was relieved to see he wasn’t the only male customer in the place. One guy was in a recliner at the sinks getting his hair washed and another was getting aluminum-foil squares painted into his hair. What? No way would he allow that to be done to him.
Candy waved him over, grinning and eager, and he realized he’d get cornrows and a lip piercing if she wanted it. What a chump he was.
“Here he is, Raul,” Candy said, when he reached her. “Raul, this is Matt. Matt, this is Raul and we are so lucky he could squeeze us in.”
“Sit.” Raul patted the back of the chair. “Let’s see what I have to work with.” Once Matt was in place, Raul ran his fingers through Matt’s hair, then fiddled with the ends, making shocked noises. “Look at that…So damaged…You’re using a harsh shampoo…And no conditioner. Men!”
He blew out a breath, then spoke to Candy. “Why they think it’s macho to neglect their hair, I’ll never understand.”
He braced his fingertips at the top of Matt’s head and wiggled them around, frowning like a doctor with a difficult diagnosis. “Light curl…lots of body…thick…” He fingered a strand, then dropped it, a scientist evaluating an experiment.
“Is that good?” Matt ventured.
Raul jerked his eyes to the mirror, as if startled that his victim was alive. “For some things.” He put his finger to his chin and stared at Matt’s reflection. “I’m thinking texturing, short in the back, tapered for style. Razor the ends. Oh, and a definite weave. Golden ash, I think.”
“A weave?” Matt said. Was that like braids?
Raul flipped open a notebook that held tiny whisk brooms of hair in a million shades. He held one next to Matt’s face. “Maybe honey blond?” He seemed to be talking to Candy now. “It’ll bring out his eyes. He has the best eyes. Brad Pitt without the smoky green.”
“The opti
cian said Greg Kinnear,” Candy said. “But I was thinking Patrick Dempsey.”
“Not quite. Keifer Sutherland maybe? Anyway, gorgeous. So, honey blond it is.” He whipped away the hair and shut the notebook.
“Hold it,” Matt said, figuring out where this was going. “You’re not dying my hair blond.”
“It’s just highlights, Matt,” Candy said. “Your hair will look sun-kissed. That’s how they do it.” She pointed at the foiled-up guy who was now under a dryer. A dryer?
“No. No way. Just a cut. You can do the razor thing, but no sun-kissing anything.”
Raul and Candy looked at each other.
“I think he means it,” Candy said with a sigh.
“Shame.” Raul shook his head, acting like a surgeon forced to settle for a bypass, when he’d wanted a full transplant, but he went after Matt with several kinds of scissors and some electric clippers, talking with Candy about movies and celebrity adoptions the whole time. They acted as if they’d known each other for years instead of minutes. That was Candy all the way.
One good thing about the contact lenses was that he could see her clearly in the mirror. He’d always had to remove his glasses for haircuts. She sat on the stool to his right, skirt riding high, swinging her leg, her sandal heel dangling.
He found himself lulled by Raul’s snips and tugs and the music of Candy’s voice, her light laughter, her chatter. After the cutting, Raul rubbed in some gel, then some foam, then a spray and finally pointed Matt’s chair at the mirror. “There,” he said. “Is it magic or is it magic?”
It wasn’t too bad. Short on the sides and back, the longer top part stuck up a little from the goo, which made it too shiny for his taste, but he could live with the cut. Matt was relieved. It could have been so much worse.
“It’s magic, Raul,” Candy said, answering for him. “Isn’t it?” she asked the woman in the next chair.
“Gorgeous,” the woman said. “Especially with his eyes. I think definitely Greg Kinnear.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Candy said, tilting her head to study him more closely.
Mortified, he cleared his throat. “What’s the maintenance on this?” He’d sounded like he was discussing an oil change.
