Hilly, on the other hand, took after their father, an unapologetically brazen bear of a man who never spoke but barked. Commands, questions, queries about the weather—she didn’t distinguish. In her mind, all communication required complete attention and decibel levels that would endanger anyone subjected to them for longer than a few minutes at a time.
And since Hilly didn’t believe in getting sick, he and Lincoln didn’t get sick. She yelled the germs away.
But not today. Today, his head felt as though it was seconds away from ripping into two, his entire body aching in sympathy with it. He knew, in a vague, swimming-through-water type of way, that he needed to call in sick to work. As this feat sucked away the last of his will to live, he dropped to the couch, which still carried the thrift store smell of unwashed hair and unidentifiable meat products, and reconciled himself to inevitable death.
The pounding on the door came later. Hours, minutes, days...Matt had no real idea of anything except that the apartment was dark and his face pressed so hard down into the threads of his couch he probably had a permanent tic-tac-toe grain on his cheek.
“Mahamanama,” he called, his mouth unable to form any distinguishable syllables. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and promptly tucked his head between his knees, the world dangerously close to tipping on its side.
In the blur of semi-consciousness that took over, Matt recalled a moment, when he and Laura had first been married, that he’d gotten food poisoning from a questionable lamb curry. Even though Laura was squeamish about bodily fluid, she’d been by his side with some sort of vitamin-infused remedy and her cool, efficient hands.
He couldn’t help but feel that if she were here right now, Laura would have gotten rid of the person at the door. She would have force fed him chicken soup until he felt better.
This wasn’t the first time he missed Laura. But it was the first time he realized just how alone he was since he left.
Before he could wallow any more than he already was, the pounding at the door picked up. A glass of stale, tepid water on his coffee table helped alleviate the worst of the nausea, and he’d even gotten so far as to put both feet on the floor and stand when his phone started ringing.
The phone was easily cast aside, but the pounding monster clearly wasn’t going away any time soon. He shuffled to the front door, which was, thankfully, very close—one-bedroom apartments did have their advantages from time to time. He unlatched the lock but didn’t have to pull. The door moved all by itself.
Okay. Not by itself. There was a force on the other side much stronger than wood or air or him.
“I cannot believe you stood me up, you asshole.”
“Come on in,” Matt croaked, gesturing for Whitney to cross over the threshold. She looked chipper and bright, her hair pulled into a ponytail and a wool coat covering a tiny dress the color of a Smurf.
Tennis dress. That was a tennis dress, and she carried a racket under one arm. In his stupor, he’d somehow forgotten he promised to take her to the country club he had a lingering membership to, courtesy of Laura’s family. After the golf store fiasco, Whitney had made him swear to teach her how to play tennis and how to host a tea party—two activities she somehow equated with both him and the ladies-who-lunch crowd in Pleasant Park. He’d been so excited at the prospect of seeing her again, on what was almost a real date, the insulting portion of that comparison hadn’t sunk in until later.
“Oh, shit. You look awful.”
He nodded and kept moving, force propelling him to the couch and allowing him to collapse onto it.
“Are you dying or something?” Whitney followed him inside and stood over the couch, her arms crossed.
“It’s possible,” Matt mumbled. “You’re the doctor.”
“I only ask because that is the sole acceptable excuse for not picking up a phone and calling. Or even texting, for crying out loud. Your fingers look fine.” As if to reinforce her point, she picked up his hand—and then immediately dropped it, moving to place her palm on his cheek instead. “Well, you’re hot, I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks. I work out a little.”
She laughed. “I see your sense of humor survived. Seriously, though. That wasn’t very nice of you. I thought that of all the things wrong with you, not being polite wasn’t one of them.”
“The only thing wrong with me is the flu,” he groaned, sinking farther into the couch. Whitney plopped down near his feet, lifting the appendages and tossing them to the floor to make room for herself. “And it wasn’t my fault I missed the tennis, er, non-date,” he added. “I only just now woke up.”
“Yeah, well.” Whitney reached for his remote control. “You’re lucky I’m not an insecure person—in fact, I have a strong suspicion you’re totally into me. I brought a note. You can check yes or no.”
“You’re funny,” he muttered. The room was beginning to grow a little fuzzy. “So when I stood you up, you decided to stop by my house to aggravate me? That’s the whole plan? By the way...while you’re here, do you think you could get me a fresh glass of water?”
“What am I, your servant?” Whitney clicked on the television, scanning through until she found a Lifetime movie. “Oh, I love this one. The hero travels through time to save his wife’s parents from dying in a horrible car accident, but he makes a mistake and ends up killing his wife before they have a chance to meet. Makes me cry every time.”
Matt blinked and tried to sit up some more but the room spun. “I’m surprised you can cry.”
“Only when the movie is really over the top. I’m a sucker for melodrama.” She looked over and smiled. There was something warm and comforting in that smile. “Relax, Galahad. I’ll grab you a juice and some acetaminophen during the commercial break. You’re not near death yet.”
“How do you know?” he asked miserably.
“Because you’re cracking jokes and kicking me with those freakishly large feet of yours.” She paused, listening for a moment. “And your breathing sounds good.”
“That’s your professional diagnosis?” He settled a little more comfortably on the couch. This wasn’t the kind of sick-time pampering he was used to, but he couldn’t deny that there was no fault to find with the company. And there was something about the brusque, no-nonsense way Whitney treated him that seemed right.
Like her. It feels like her.
“Shh. This is a good part. He messes up the time-travel machine knobs and ends up in the middle of the French Revolution.”
Matt closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t play tennis with you. I was looking forward to it.”
Whitney picked up his feet, which he was having a hard time keeping still, and dumped them in her lap. The warmth of her seeped into his bones, stilling some of the restlessness and making him feel at home for the first time in his god-awful apartment.
“You can make it up to me when you feel better,” she assured him, running her hands firmly over the soles of his feet, her thumbs strong and dexterous where they landed. He should have known she’d be an excellent foot rubber based on the way just a few capable strokes of those hands could reduce him to nothing but about eight inches of nerve endings. “Don’t worry, Matt. I’m not going anywhere. You still have a lot of recovery to do.”
He relaxed and let her hands go to work. Recovery seemed like a golden future beckoning on his horizon—especially since he had the suspicion she was talking about a heck of a lot more than the flu.
* * *
Men were huge babies.
It was something every woman knew, but Whitney had daily proof of this fact, brought to her in the shape of men who whined and complained through every stage of plastic surgery.
She could extract the exact same amount of fat from the asses of both a woman and a man using the same techniques, and the only one who would complain abou
t the bruising and pain afterward would be the man. Women accepted that pain and beauty were inexorably linked. Men, on the other hand, threatened to sue her for malpractice.
Unfortunately, if there was one thing she’d learned on the job, it was that telling men how useless they were rarely got the desired effect. It was better to pander, to soothe and coo and be the benevolent angel they sought.
That was why she stopped by all that week, bringing Gatorade and trashy magazines, which Matt pretended he hated but she knew he secretly adored. He knew an awful lot about Justin Bieber for a man nearing thirty.
“I thought you were supposed to be working,” Matt protested on the third day. He’d only stayed home from work because she’d prescribed one more day of rest—which had nothing at all to do with how enjoyable hanging out in his apartment had become and everything to do with the aforementioned truth about men and their inborn wimpiness.
Yeah, right.
“I swear it’s like you never go to work,” he added.
“I’m a plastic surgeon, Matt.” Whitney breezed in the door with an armful of flowers, which she proceeded to artfully arrange in a big blue plastic tumbler—the closest thing to a vase Matt owned. “Even if our facility was ready to open, I only intend to work nine to five with a generous hour for lunch. I bet you have to put in more time at the day job than I do.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s genius, that’s what it is. Look around you, Matt. You’re not exactly living the grand lifestyle.”
She finished putting the last daisy in place and surveyed the rest of his apartment. It was exactly what one pictured when imagining a man striking out on his own after an unhappy relationship had sucked away the largest portion of his twenties. It had none of the cold, clinical charm of a typical bachelor pad, and none of the comforts of a home. She was going to have to buy him a new couch too. She was pretty sure this one wanted to break underneath her weight.
“How are your germs doing?” she asked, coming up behind him and snaking two arms around his waist. God, she loved the lean strength of him. It was all flat abs and hard lines for as far as the fingers could explore. Which she promptly set hers out to do. “I’m not so sure I can take much more of this incubation period stuff. Hmm...well, hello there. I guess you might not be able to take much more of it either.”
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half shudder. “I’m pretty sure you could bring a man back from the dead with that move. What are you—?” His cock, stiffening against the flat of her palm, gave a satisfying twitch before she let go.
“I’m just making sure all the parts still work,” she whispered, nipping the side of his neck. “I think we should feed you. Get your strength up. Then I’m going to find ways to assemble your parts you’ve never imagined.”
“That is both the most intriguing and the most disturbing sexual proposition I’ve ever received,” he murmured.
Whitney released a crack of laughter. “I’m happy to hear it. Now sit. I brought sandwiches.”
“Oh, good. I’m starving.”
Matt grabbed the to-go bag she’d laid down next to her purse and started rifling through it. Unlike most men she knew, who would grab the best-looking part and settle in, he went to his cupboards and pulled down plates, also taking the time to set out silverware and napkins. Just a small gesture, and one she was pretty sure he didn’t even know he was making.
But she noticed, and she appreciated it. She was also put on her guard. It would be very easy to get used to a man who was helpful in the kitchen.
“Am I all clear to return to work tomorrow?” Matt asked, taking a huge bite of his pickle. He was cavalier about it, as if he knew that having a large phallus between his lips was actually a turn-on. And it was. He was the exception to the rule, the one man who could probably walk into a movie theater, order the largest pickle they had, and not cause fits of hilarity behind the popcorn machine.
Dammit. Now she was the one getting aroused.
“I hate leaving the kids for this long,” he added. “They prefer stability.”
“They prefer recess and cookies,” Whitney returned. It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids—she’d done one or two ear pinnings a month during her residency—but it was hard to imagine a life where their presence was the end all and be all of her earning potential. “Take another bite of that pickle, would you? Slower this time.”
Laughter lit his eyes as he processed her request. “You mean, like this?” Without losing eye contact, he began running his tongue around the width of the condiment in an exaggeration of a blow job—and a rather poor one at that, if you asked her. Far too delicate.
“No, no. Don’t be so shy with the poor thing,” she commanded. “You’re supposed to wrap your lips around it like you’re starving. Like you couldn’t bear it if you missed out on a single delicious inch.”
He lowered his hand, eyes wide. “Is that your trick?”
“It’s not a trick, Matt. When I take your cock in my mouth, it’s my intention to enjoy as much of that hard, throbbing beast as I possibly can. I don’t want to miss a single delicious inch.”
Matt’s throat worked up and down, and the pickle fell to the table. If it was possible to fuck someone with just a gaze, he was doing it right now. With that kind of fierce, blue power, he could have had her stripped and panting between blinks.
Which was why, when a loud knock at the door sounded a few seconds later, it took them both a moment to process the interruption.
“Are you expecting company?” she asked, the first to speak, though her voice came out a little hoarse. “It’s a good thing you dropped that pickle. Things were about to get very inappropriate in here.”
He frowned. “I don’t think so. What time is it?” The insistent rat-tat-tat filled the apartment again. “Excuse me just a second.”
Whitney didn’t want to appear too interested, so she focused on her food. The deli by her condo baked rye bread that was so good it made her want to do illicit things with whole grains. If the past ten minutes in Matt’s company had been any indication, she was going to need the energy. And possibly some illicit whole grains.
Matt checked the peephole. “Oh, crap.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Laura.”
“The evil ex?” Whitney tried not to let her surprise show, but she did a poor job of it. The woman called and she showed up at Matt’s apartment unannounced? That took some kind of nerve. “You could pretend we’re not here. By all accounts you should be at work anyway.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I might have, if you hadn’t just said that loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”
“Right. Sorry.” Except she wasn’t—not really. She felt a powerful urge to see this unfaithful creature for herself, to judge and stone. “You can’t let her stand there forever, you know.”
With a deep breath and a nod, Matt pulled open the door.
“Hey, Laura,” he said kindly, though Whitney noticed he didn’t move out of the doorway enough to let the woman in. Or, she realized, to let her catch a glimpse. “What are you doing here?”
“I called the school, but they said you were sick.” The woman’s voice was soft and light, almost sing-song, like it came from a princess in a Disney cartoon—the kind who only spoke in rhymes. “I brought soup.”
Soup. That was such a joke. Give Whitney a case full of vitamin C and some Tamiflu any day. Who did this woman think she was, barging in here with her home remedies and old wives’ tales?
“Um...thanks.” Matt didn’t move to take it.
“I just remember how you used to get. You know, when your tummy hurt.”
Oh, geez. What was next, a boo-boo bear and a thermometer up the ass? Unable to take another second of waiting in the wings, Whitney gave up the prete
nse of eating. She came up behind Matt, flanking him as she eyed the infamous cheat. “Come in, come in. We were just having lunch. You’re welcome to join us.”
As she suspected, Laura was one of those wispy, ethereal women who avoided the sun and shopped in the children’s department. She was short, coming only up to about Matt’s shoulder, which meant she came up to Whitney’s shoulder, as well, since she matched his height when she wore heels. Laura had thin blond hair and no breasts to speak of, and, for some unfathomable reason, had chosen to wear a floaty top over jeggings. Jeggings. Honestly.
“Aren’t you just lovely,” Whitney cooed. She nudged Matt out of the way with her hip. He stood there, watching the pair of them interact.
It was such a...Matt thing to do, to quietly watch, to let the women speak for themselves. Not the approach Whitney would have taken, that was for sure. There was a rule—one she adhered to both in her life and in the world of plastic surgery. One must always be happy and gorgeous in the face of a broken relationship, regardless of how one felt. Even if it took a boob job and ten rounds of laser tattoo removal to get there.
They should put that on a plaque and slap it up in her office.
“I’ve heard so much about you, but none of it has done you justice.” She extended a hand. “I’m Whitney.”
Laura took her hand limply, and there was a clamminess to it that made Whitney feel a thousand times better. Wet hands were not attractive, no matter how tiny and pert one’s ass appeared in jeggings.
Laura looked around uncertainly. “I’m sorry—am I interrupting something?”
Matt spoke up. “I should probably make the formal introductions. Whitney, this is Laura, my ex-wife. And Laura, this is Whitney, my—”
The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) Page 11
