Scarred Beautiful (14 page)

Jesus. Her bright eyes widen a fraction as the word ‘sunshine’ leaves my mouth. The way she’s looking at me, that brilliant twinkle alight in the green of her eyes, it’s like I just gave her the world. The fucked up part? I suddenly want to give it to her. And that scares the shit out of me.

She curls into herself, her eyes dropping to the sand and I gently touch her shoulder, wanting to bring her back to me.

“Fran,” I say quietly, “look at me.”

When she lifts her face, all traces of that little spark are gone, replaced by someone I don’t recognize…someone sad and maybe even a little lost. Tears swim in her eyes and it makes me want to wipe them all away, to hold her and chase away the demons that are threatening to surface.

“I didn’t realize there was any light left,” she murmurs hoarsely, and I can’t bear the devastation I see in the dimmed green flame of her eyes. The rawness in her tone brings a burning ache to my chest.

Without hesitating, I bundle her in my arms and surprisingly she responds by circling hers around my waist, allowing me to comfort her. “It’s gonna be okay, Fran,” I whisper, rubbing calming circles around her back. “It’s gonna be okay.” The small whimpering sounds she’s making are breaking my fucking heart. I want to be able to fix this for her but I know from experience that’s not possible. All I can do is be here if she needs me.

After a few minutes she lifts her head away from my shoulder, sniffling, rubbing her eyes and her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry for losing it.” She straightens her shoulders and heaves out a sigh.

I tip her chin, grasping it between my thumb and forefinger. “You don’t ever have to apologize for who you are, Fran, not with me. Besides,” I tease, grinning, “I got a hug out of the deal.”

The edges of her lips curl and she rolls her eyes as she pushes to her feet.

“I got you to smile. Mission accomplished. Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

She cups a hand to her ear, her eyes set in concentration. “Don’t you hear that?”

I still, listening for whatever noise I’m supposed to be hearing, but am on the receiving end of silence. “I don’t hear anything.”

She smiles and rubs her belly. “My stomach is growling. I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat.”

We climb back on the bike after putting our helmets on and I wait for Fran to settle herself, wrapping her arms around me, our bodies molding together perfectly. She holds on tight, her breasts crushed against my back, the heat from her body settling into mine, working its way through every part of me. I’m definitely taking the long way home.

I’m waiting for Matt to stop at any one of the restaurants we pass by as we weave in and out of various side streets, but he never does. I can’t figure out where we’re going and it seems like we’ve been on this bike for a while, not that I’m complaining. It’s actually a lot more enjoyable than I thought it would be.

He veers into his condo complex and my stomach disapproves because I’m starving. He presses the remote for the garage and once it opens, pulls the bike inside, and cuts the engine.

“What are we doing back here? I thought we were going to get something to eat,” I ask, chucking my helmet at him, frustration and hunger drawing my grumpy side out to rear its ugly head.

He situates the helmets back on the shelf and turns around to face me. “We
are
getting something to eat. I’m gonna cook.”

“You cook, too?” My hand flies to my chest. “Say it isn’t so,” I tease, and he smirks. Matt seems to have a number of surprises up his sleeve and I can’t wait to see what’s next.

“Yes, I cook, and I’m pretty good, if I do say so myself,” he replies, confident. He leads us through a door at the back of the garage that takes us into his condo. The room we enter is a finished basement complete with pool table, an oversized flat screen TV, an air hockey table, and even a pinball machine. There’s a bar on the far wall and two black leather couches in an L-shape facing the television. A metal shelf sits behind them containing hundreds of movies.

“Holy shit. That’s a lot of movies,” I blurt out, and Matt chuckles at my comment. Walking over to the shelf, I check out the selection and find there’s everything from action and comedy, to drama, and even romance. Interesting.

“I guess it’s pretty obvious this is my man cave and I watch a lot of movies,” he says, before pointing out three other doors leading to a laundry room, a tool room, and a spare bedroom. For a place he spends a lot of time in, it’s exceptionally clean and barely looks lived in at all.

I follow him up to the next level and my mouth drops open as soon as we hit the last step. It’s gorgeous. The walls are painted in a muted green, complemented by cream leather couches laid out with chocolate brown pillows, black accent tables, and a selection of abstract art covering the walls. When I look to the left, there’s a full kitchen with granite counters, top of the line stainless steel appliances, and a center island. I catch a glimpse of Matt who’s staring at me. “This place is amazing. And it completely holds up to your tight-ass reputation.”

He laughs and heads into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of wine from the fridge. “What, because there aren’t any clothes lying around or beer bottles on the floor?”

“Pretty much,” I state blandly, taking a closer look at some of the artwork.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he begins, removing two long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet in the center island. “I was actually kind of a slob growing up…dropping clothes wherever they landed, leaving candy wrappers around my room. My mom always got on my case about it.” He holds up the bottle of wine. “Is white wine okay?”

I nod in response before spotting some photos on a side table and making my way over to them. There are five different pictures and all except one include Matt.

“That’s my mom and dad, and Clara. Of course you recognize Brad.” He continues milling about the kitchen, placing an assortment of peppers and broccoli on the countertop.

“Wow. You and Clara looked so much alike, and your mom…she was pretty.” I hold up the picture and examine it more closely. “Where was this? It looks like Martha’s Vineyard.”

“Yeah, it was, actually. We took that trip after my mom was diagnosed with cancer.”

I put the picture back in its place and prance into the kitchen, planting myself on a silver stool at the center island, kicking my legs underneath me. “So your mom taught you to cook?”

“Let’s put it this way. I always spent time with my mom in the kitchen when I was younger and she encouraged us to be independent and to do things for ourselves. I remember one time, I’m not sure how old I was, but I told her I wanted an apple, and she said ‘get it yourself, sweetie,’ and when I asked her to wash it, she walked out of the kitchen, brought a stepstool in and pointed at it. So yeah, I cook and pretty soon you’ll find out just how good of a cook I am.”

I swirl the wine in the glass and take a sip, the sweet flavor rolling around my tongue before gliding down my throat.

“Would you like to know what’s on the menu?” he asks with an air of confidence, reaching over and pulling various spices from one of the cupboards.

“I’m all ears,” I answer, realizing I’ve already drained the entire glass on an empty stomach, which won’t bode well for my head.

“Okay, so I’m making sautéed eggplant with capellini, broccoli and peppers, you like?”

“Yes,” I reply, my belly agreeing with a slight rumble. “Can I help?”

“Nope, just make yourself comfortable. Do you want some cheese and crackers?”

He must’ve heard the earth-shattering grumble of my belly.

“I thought you’d never ask. Yes…I’m
staaaarrrving
.”

Matt opens the fridge, grabbing a hunk of cheese and handing me a box of crackers to set on a plate. I take the box, and as I do, his fingers skim mine, our eyes locking momentarily before we both go back to occupying our hands.

“So do you cook?” Matt asks over his shoulder as he fills a large pot with water. He places it on the stove and adds a dash of salt.

“Well, let’s see. Does boiling water and scooping Cheerios into a bowl qualify?” I say with lighthearted sarcasm.

He cuts the eggplant into thin slices and tosses them into a sauté pan. “Your mom didn’t cook growing up?”

“My mom worked two jobs and wasn’t home a lot, so I usually ate at a neighbor’s house or had some sort of frozen food that could be heated in the microwave.” I press a slab of cheese onto a cracker and quickly devour it.

“What about your dad?”

“So, are you sure you don’t want me to help you do anything? I can slice some peppers. I’m decent at slicing,” I answer, as my stomach tightens, anxious to get away from the unpleasant subject of my father, not wanting to waste any more breath on him. He’s stolen enough of my ability to breathe over the years.

Matt’s hand stops mid-stir and he looks back at me with another question in his eyes, but when he sees my gaze darting back and forth and the amount of cheese I’m currently inhaling, he decides to end the inquisition. “Sure. The water is just about ready, could you add the pasta?” I nod in response and, with the utmost finesse, dump the capellini into the pot.

A half hour later, Matt and I are at the table in the large dining room adjacent to the kitchen. He takes a seat across from me and proceeds to serve the food, but stops short of sitting down. “I forgot something, hang on.”

He comes back a minute later with two candles encased in glass and sets them on the table.

“This looks really great, Matt. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve actually been eating a lot of takeout lately, so this is a welcome change,” he says, taking a forkful of pasta and grinning. “This is really good.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I retort, twirling the pasta on my fork and lifting it to my mouth, a combination of sweet and spicy hitting my tongue. “Wow, this
is
delicious. I’m impressed.” I take a bite of the eggplant, closing my eyes briefly and savoring the taste. “So…how many women have sat here before me eating sautéed eggplant?”

“None.”

I swallow another bite of pasta and raise the glass to my lips, eyeing Matt with a speculative glare. “None? Why is that?”

“Because I don’t typically bring women here,” he says after taking a sip of wine. “This is my private space and I like to keep it that way.”

I nibble on my bottom lip, my mind swimming with a variety of thoughts, none of which make any sense.

Matt puts his fork down, rubbing the light stubble on his chin, regarding me thoughtfully. “Listen,” he says, his eyes radiating warmth and crinkling with sincerity, “about today at the lagoon. I’ve been there and if you ever want to talk about what happened, you can trust me with it. I’ll keep it safe for you.”

The strange thing is, I do sense that I can trust him. But what can I tell him that won’t sound selfish? I miss Kyle, but it’s how he made me feel—that someone so broken inside could still be deserving of love.

I puff out a breath, wiping my mouth on a napkin and pushing my plate forward. “Remember when I was telling you that I lost someone special? Well, he just made me feel—” I swallow, forcing the words past the blockage in my throat as I fiddle with the tablecloth “—special in a way that no one else has before.”

Matt leans forward, resting his chin on his fist, studying me. “It’s hard to believe, Fran, that no one else has noticed how special you are. If anything, it’s kind of hard
not
to notice.”

My eyes fly up to his and for a split second, time stands still as we stare at one another, my chest expanding, my heart filling at his words. “Thank you,” I manage to squeak out, breaking our connection to drink more wine.

There’s a deafening silence that follows our moment, because I do feel like we had one, although I have no idea what it means. Matt stands to clear the table and I help him bring the dishes to the sink, grabbing a towel from a nearby rack.

“What are you doing?” he asks, finally crashing through the quiet.

“I’m going to help you wash and load the dishes.” I reach over him to turn on the water and he shuts it off.

“Sit down and relax. This is just going to take a sec,” he says, scrubbing food off of one of the plates into a nearby garbage can.

“I want to help.”

“Fran.” He turns around with the sink sprayer aimed at me and my mouth gapes open.

“You wouldn’t dare!” I shout, my pulse racing, my flight instinct kicking in.

“Did you just dare me, Fran? Because I think you did,” he taunts, resting his finger on the handle with a wicked gleam in his eye.

I freeze with my hands on my hips, green eyes blazing into his, until he lets me have it, spraying water all over my tank top. “I can’t believe you just did that!” I shriek, while he just stands there with a smug grin on his face. “Gah!” I raise my hands in the air. “That’s it!”

I stomp off down the first hallway I see, not knowing where the heck I’m going, while Matt’s laughter rings out behind me.

“Where are you going?” he asks, barely able to speak through his howling.

There are various rooms on each side of the hall and I keep opening doors until I find what I’m looking for—the bathroom. I march in there, determination fueling me, and dig around for something that can hold water. The bathroom is huge with both a shower and a Jacuzzi-tub, and there’s a picturesque window with a spectacular view of LA. There are a multitude of drawers near the double sink and when I pull one open, I notice Matt wasn’t kidding. Every single item in there is alphabetized, from the razors, to the soap, to the deodorant. Another cabinet stands next to it and I’m able to find a small bucket filled with cleaning supplies that I immediately dump out and rinse thoroughly. That’ll do. I fill it with water, armed and ready for battle, when I catch a glimpse of my t-shirt in the mirror, mortified that my nipples are also poised and ready. There’s a towel on the rack so I loop it around my neck, hoping to hide my obvious excitement.