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 apar
tment 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 final
ly 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?”
The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) Page 2
