Rather than take offense to her reply, as she expected, Matt laughed, his same soft chortle that never seemed to contain any malice. Whitney found it strangely addicting.
“There’s a little more to it than that. But yes, I’ve been known to sing.”
“I swear to God, if you tell me you karaoke on the weekends, I’m walking out the door,” Whitney warned.
Divorced, chivalrous, kid-loving, kind...it was like someone had taken a poll of all the non-threatening, asexual characteristics a man could possibly exhibit and rolled them up into a tidy package. Somehow, it worked for him—and the feelings being aroused in Whitney’s breast were anything but asexual.
“Singing in front of six-year-olds and singing in public are two different things.” Matt smiled, deepening his cherubic dimples. “And to be honest, I’m not very good at either one.”
Whitney was not the sort of woman who paid any attention to her ovaries or what was expected of them as she strode confidently into her mid-thirties, but she could have sworn they swelled in autonomic response to that smile.
The waitress came by then, her hands laden with plates of towering stacks of pancakes that glistened with butter and late-night calories. With the promise that she’d be by with more coffee in a few minutes, she left them to divide their bounty however they saw fit.
Sharing a plate of food with someone you just met was supposed to be an awkward experience. In the thick of a relationship, cutting up pancakes and fighting over the last piece of toast had a comfortable feeling to it, a dance of breakfast food and camaraderie perfected over time. She almost liked the first time better. Hesitancy, fumbling, mumbled apologies—there was no better way to get to know a man than to see how he handled them all.
But Matt just smiled charmingly at her and doled out her pancakes as if she was six. God, he was cute. Too cute. What was she doing here at this diner, with this man, in the middle of the night? She hadn’t come all the way out to quaint, bucolic Pennsylvania to woo the local catch—and a divorced schoolteacher to boot. Clichés were for young women, for dewy-eyed nursing students who thought it was the height of romantic fantasy to follow their boyfriends into the wilds to save the downtrodden and medically bereft.
“You gave me all the bacon,” she pointed out, accepting her plate. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“If it’s going to make you frown at me like that, you don’t have to eat it.”
“I’m not frowning at you.” She grabbed one of the pieces of bacon and took a huge bite. Crispy, just the way she liked it. “I’m frowning at the situation.”
He paused in the motion of bringing his fork to his mouth. “And how, exactly, is this a situation? Where I come from, we call it breakfast.”
“And where is it you come from? Stepford?”
“There you are again, making fun of me when I least expect it. You have a gift.” Although his words were mild, Matt followed up by narrowing his eyes and watching the group of teenagers in the back get noisily out of their booth and make their way out the door.
Whitney thought for a moment that she had succeeded in scaring Matt away, that her admittedly faulty tendency to speak her mind had finally proved too much for his mild-mannered adorableness and he was going to escape with the crowd.
Disappointment twinged somewhere in her nether regions. But then he held up a finger and tossed his napkin on the table, a total gentleman when he added, “Would you excuse me for a second?”
Matt hated to walk away just when the teasing was coming out of Whitney’s mouth again, but he remembered all too well his own misspent youth. Well, misspent was a bit of a strong word. The worst thing he’d ever done was hit a car in the parking lot with a grocery cart and not leave a note for the giant ding it left in the door. But he had spent considerable time in diners like this one, taking up valuable restaurant real estate and leaving handfuls of pennies in return.
The restrooms were located near the back, so he headed that way, passing the table covered in empty creamer cartons and sugar packets, making it look as though a war had taken place. He stole a quick peek at the check—all of ten dollars for five cups of coffee, and not nearly enough tip for a timestamp that went back three and a half hours. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it to the table, hurrying past so the waitress wouldn’t see.
When he slid back into the booth, ready to tackle his plate, Whitney reached out a hand. “Give me your wallet.”
“Is this a holdup?” he joked.
She kept her hand in place. “Back there at the bar, did you really not know what a DUFF was?”
He crossed his heart. “I swear. I would never do that to anyone. I thought you looked nice.”
“The wallet, please.”
He handed it over, watching as she pulled out his ID and scribbled his name and address on a napkin. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was doing, and a part of him—a rather important part—perked up with sudden interest. He’d been alone for over half a year now, lonely for a lot longer than that.
But by the time Whitney got to his address, he put a hand over hers. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Her eyebrow rose. “We’re not going anywhere without it.”
“I thought we were just having pancakes.”
Her eyebrow went even higher, if such a thing were possible. “Listen, Matt. You’re cute. And you’re sweet. I saw what you did over there for the waitress—and it was either the most clever move a guy has ever made on me, or it was the most charming act of kindness I’ve seen in a long time. Either way, you win. That’s why I’m going to make this as easy as possible for you. Would you or would you not like to accompany me to my house to have mindless, attachment-free sex until the sun comes up?”
Matt blinked. Okay, so Lincoln was right. Women were a hell of a lot more forward than he remembered. And it wasn’t that he didn’t find this woman attractive—he did—but... Whitney released an irritated noise and leaned over the table, actually grabbing him by the shirt collar and forcing him to meet her halfway.
Whatever her plan was in that moment, it worked. Damn, did it work.
Her lips were just as hedonistic as their bright red lipstick promised—the right combination of soft and pliable, pressed against his with a forcefulness that seemed fitting, given what he knew of her personality. She wasn’t shy with the tongue, either, flicking lightly into his mouth with the syrupy sweetness of pancakes, heedless to the other people trying to enjoy their wee-hours-of-the-morning breakfast.
He let himself fall into it, into her, and deepened the kiss almost against his will. That slow, sensual graze of her tongue against his, the soft moan that rose from her throat and tumbled into his—that was where the stirrings of lust became a pounding, forceful reality. This was the kiss of a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. This was the kiss of a woman who would probably never end a marriage because of a lack of passion.
It was also the first kiss that Matt had shared with anyone other than his ex-wife in over five years.
Which made things difficult.
Whitney pulled away and licked her lips, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her meaning clear. “Well?”
Matt leaned back, dazed and slightly bewildered and no longer capable of pretending that his mild interest hadn’t erupted into something much more...substantial. This was not how this whole dating pool thing was supposed to happen. He wanted to ease into it, dip his toes in and all that. Not plunge headfirst... Well, not plunge. Period.
“I haven’t been with anyone since my wife,” he blurted out. He paused and then let loose a laugh. He couldn’t help it—this whole situation was beyond absurd. “And I believe I might be oversharing again.”
She paused in the middle of putting the napkin with his ID information securely in her purse. “You can
’t possibly be serious.”
“It’s not that weird.”
“It’s a little bit weird. How long have you been divorced?”
Matt crossed his arms and firmed his resolution. This whole get-back-on-his-horse, clamber-aboard-the-wagon, jump-in-the-sack thing was too much. He might be woefully behind the times when it came to dating, but he refused to believe that casual sex was the cure for a failed three-year marriage. “Eight months.”
She let out a small huff. “And didn’t you say there wasn’t any passion before that?”
“I’ve really got to stop saying everything that pops into my head.”
“Don’t you dare. I adore it.” She dropped a bill on the table and rose to her feet, reaching for Matt’s hand and pulling him up behind her. The space between them, infinitesimal as it was, felt thick with promise. “What you need more than anything right now is a rebound girl.”
“I do?” Then, “What’s a rebound girl?”
She smiled brightly. “I am. Here’s how it works. I don’t want you to buy me a ring. I don’t want to bear your children. I don’t even want to be your girlfriend. All I want is you and me and as much sex as we can possibly squeeze into the four hours before dawn.”
Matt’s mouth went dry. “That’s a real thing?”
“Oh, Matt. Poor, sweet Matt. You have no idea. You’re obviously one of those men built for monogamy and the kind of love that lasts until you’re wrinkly and don’t remember where you put your teeth—which of course means that you’re completely wrong for the bar scene and for women like me.”
“Then why would I go home with you?” The rational part of him warned him to cool off and back away. The still mildly tequilaed part of him, the rigid stirring in his groin—they had plenty to say on the subject.
“Because,” she said with painstaking calm, “you can’t start a long-term relationship until you rebound, and believe me when I say I’m exactly the kind of girl you want in the interim. I’m an exceptionally good lover. And commitment makes me itchy.”
“I think you’re making this up.”
“I think you’re overanalyzing.”
“Am I?” His head whirled.
“Besides.” She smiled coyly and wound her fingers through his. “I’m feeling generous.”
“Are you trying to say this is like charity?”
She laughed. “Only if you’re really bad at it.”
“I’m not bad at it,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. But he stepped away, putting some much-needed distance between them. He wasn’t that guy, the carefree one-night stand, no matter how much his body might disagree. And it disagreed—rather strongly. With a deep breath that did little to redirect the flow of his blood, he said, “And while I’m flattered that you would offer, I think this is where I call it a night.”
The look Whitney cast him was full of all those things that indicated a woman scorned. Her lips downturned in a frown, and her eyes narrowed with icy disdain. “You’re saying no?”
“It’s more like I’m saying I’d like to see you again. During the daytime, maybe.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in seeing you again?”
He shrugged, trying not to show how much those words stung. He’d heard it wasn’t uncommon—the city girls hitting the small-time local clubs in hopes of a brief, illicit fling in which follow-up dates and awkward morning conversations need not apply. But Matt was kind of looking forward to the awkward morning conversations, those heady first days of intimacy.
Whitney was right. He was built for monogamy and toothless love.
“It was just a hunch.” He extended his hand in an offer of friendship. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you wanted. Do you think you can get home all right?”
She eyed his hand warily. “I’m a grown woman. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“I can call you a cab.”
This time, the corners of her mouth lifted in a wry, twisted smile, and she gave his hand a firm, decided shake. “Thanks, Galahad, but I’ll manage to find my way. I always do.”
Without another word on the subject, she grabbed her things and made for the door, leaving an almost visible trail of regret and temptation behind her.
“Lincoln isn’t going to believe this.” He barely believed it himself. Plopping back down to the vinyl seat, he grabbed a piece of bacon—cold and greasy—from Whitney’s plate and ate it.
And he’d thought he hadn’t understood women before.
Chapter Two
“John!” Whitney launched herself at her friend of more than fifteen years, unable to stop her exuberance from showing. Even though she built up quite a bit of momentum, what with her body mass and the acceleration of excitement that propelled her across the parking lot, he caught her easily. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”
He held her for a moment, smelling of laundry soap and mint, before placing his hands on either shoulder and forcing her to take a step back. With a crinkle in his eyes, he took her in, indulging himself for a full minute before nodding with satisfaction.
At over six feet tall and with a robust, bearded physique perfected over time and a love of pastries, John was a comfort to be around. He was slightly older than her—not that he would ever admit to it—and his role as snuggly paternal figure was more than complete.
“You look well,” he said in his clipped voice. He might look like a behemoth, but he spoke like the polished boarding-school baby he really was. “However, our office does not. I’ve seen prisons more welcoming than this. I thought they were supposed to start this week?”
Whitney turned to survey the exterior of their soon-to-be medical spa and rejuvenation clinic, New Leaf. In the chill of March, with nothing but dead grass and gray skies to set it off, it did look rather like a concrete block beloved by criminals and avoided by upstanding citizens of the world.
“Why do you think it came so cheap?” Linking arms with her friend, she added, “It’s not so bad inside—it’s older than dirt and they say we’re going to have to gut the plumbing, but just think of it in terms of potential. Sweet, beautiful, money-making potential. And we can plant chrysanthemums or something for the outside. People love flowers.”
“Only the elderly love chrysanthemums.”
“That’s half our target demographic right there.” Whitney pulled out her key ring—with all the keys to the office and her new condo, she felt like a jingling janitor—and unlocked the door. “Welcome to your new home.”
She gave him a minute to adjust. The former dental office, located just outside the center of town, stood a testament to 1980s architecture everywhere. Not for them the quaint, historic brick that dated to the country’s earliest settlement period or the turn-of-the-century Victorians that lined up like gingerbread houses along the north of the borough. No. They got dated carpeting and vertical blinds.
So maybe the office wasn’t exactly the way they’d pictured it, but leasing this heap of rubble was a heck of a lot cheaper than building their facility from scratch, and had the added bonus of making them saviors to the community. The building was an eyesore, a scab. They were going to transform it into beauty, all upscale and sleek.
That was the whole point, actually. Pleasant Park was chock-full of people flush with disposable income and desperate for all things upscale and sleek, unwavering in their desire to be urban but surrounded by the bucolic Pennsylvania countryside that was anything but.
“Well, it is roomy,” John eventually said, nodding once to confirm his approval. “You’re sure they said three months?”
Whitney hoisted herself up on one of the laminate counters, feeling inordinately pleased with herself for navigating the tricky maneuver in her tight pencil skirt and dangerously high-heeled boots.
“I’ve seen the plans myself. I believe I’m si
tting in the surgery suite right now.”
“How charming,” John murmured. “I can practically see the love handles melting away.”
“I don’t have love handles!” Whitney protested, sitting up straighter. “I’m a strictly junk-in-the-trunk miss. Now you, on the other hand...”
“I’m not going anywhere near you and your scalpel of fury, so don’t even try.” John laughed, his love handles jiggling delightfully in the process. “Besides, for someone who advocates artificial beauty so much, I don’t see a whole lot of discreet scars on your body.”
“I’ve had at least half a dozen moles removed, and you know as well as I do this isn’t my real nose. And I thought about getting a breast enlargement to balance my upper and lower halves.” Whitney stuck her arms straight out in front of her, her B cups smooshing together in the process. “But those babies would get in the way of my technique something fierce. Can you imagine stitching sutures with a couple of double Ds in the way? It’d be like you trying to perform a Shiatsu with a couple of cantaloupes taped to your chest. Alas, I’m destined for average beauty and ninja surgical skills. We all have sacrifices to make.”
John leveled her with one of his signature looks—bushy eyebrow raised in an exact emulation of a young Sean Connery. “I have not now, or ever, accused you of being average. I wouldn’t dare.”
Before she could plant the kiss on his lips he so clearly deserved, the front door swung open with a crash. Kendra, bedraggled in the sparkly shirt from the night before, her heels in one hand and eye makeup smudged halfway down her tiny, heart-shaped face, took one look at John and let out a squeal. Like Whitney, she launched herself into their friend’s arms, though she became almost engulfed by the breadth of them.
Whitney laughed as they said their hellos. Kendra effused an aura of stale perfume, stale beer and fresh coffee—the unmistakable scent of the Walk of Shame—and John was doing his fastidious best not to notice.
The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) Page 3
