Sunset In Central Park (4 page)

If she
had
been interested in men, he would have been a prime candidate.

But she wasn’t interested. Definitely not.

People told you to play to your strengths, didn’t they? And she was very, very bad at relationships.

Matt put the beer down and for a brief moment his gaze met hers. He gave her a look laden with intimacy and it made her heart pump a little faster and her breathing quicken.

Crap, her mind was playing tricks.

She had an overactive imagination courtesy of an underactive sex life.

She looked away. “I know a lot of people. I’ll make some calls. Roof terraces need special skills. It’s not just about planting pretty flowers. You need trees and shrubs that will provide year-round color.”

“Exactly. I need someone who understands the complexities of the project. Someone skilled and easy to work with. We’re a small team. There’s no room for egos or prima donnas.”

“Yeah, I get that.” It was stupid to be flustered when she’d known Matt pretty much forever. The fact that he’d
matured from lanky boy into insanely hot man shouldn’t affect her as much as it did.

He was her best friend’s older brother and he’d grown up on the same island as her, off the coast of Maine. He’d experienced the same frustrations associated with small-town living, although of course his experience had been nothing like hers. No one’s had been like hers.

After her father’s affair had been exposed and he’d left them for a woman half his age, her mother’s response had been to have affairs of her own. She’d told anyone who would listen that she’d married too young and planned to make up for lost time. In an attempt to rediscover her youth and confidence, she’d cut her hair short, lost twenty pounds and started borrowing Frankie’s clothes. There had been no man too young, too old or too married to escape her mother’s attentions.

Frankie had discovered that a reputation wasn’t something that had to be earned. You could inherit it.

No matter what she did, on Puffin Island she’d always be the daughter of “that woman.”

It was as if her identity had merged with that of her mother.

Some of the boys at school had assumed she was the shortcut to a life of sexual adventure. One in particular.

Frankie pushed the memory away, refusing to allow it space in her head. “Do you want something to eat? I don’t have Eva’s skills, but I have eggs and fresh herbs. Omelet?”

“That would be great. And while you do that, tell me about your bad day. Paige said it was a bridal shower.” Matt picked up his beer. “I’m guessing that’s not your favorite thing.”

“You’re right about that.” She didn’t bother denying it. What was the point when Matt already knew her better than most?

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know—usual thing. Groom backed out, bride cried, yada yada—” She smacked the eggs on the edge of the bowl, keeping her tone light, pretending it was of no consequence, whereas, in fact, she felt as if she’d spent the afternoon in a cocktail shaker. Her emotions were both shaken and stirred. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, memories engulfed her. Her mother setting fire to her wedding album and cutting through her dress with kitchen scissors. The agonizing family gathering for her grandmother’s eightieth birthday where her father had brought his new girlfriend and spent the entire afternoon with his hand up her skirt. “Paige rescued the whole thing, of course. She could smooth a storm in the ocean. The food was good, the flowers were spectacular and the bride-to-be’s parents still paid the bill so it had a happy ending. Or as close to a happy ending as life ever gets.” She pulled a fork out of the drawer and beat the eggs the way Eva had taught her, until they were light and fluffy.

“You must have hated every minute.”

“Every second. And the whole of August seems to be nothing but bridal showers. If it weren’t for the fact we’ve only just started the company, I’d take an extended vacation.” She snipped a selection of herbs from the pots on the windowsill. As well as the parsley and basil, there were chives and tarragon all growing in a tangled, scented profusion of green that made her small kitchen feel like a garden. She chopped them and added them to the eggs. “It started me thinking about stuff I haven’t thought about in ages. Why the hell does that happen? Drives me insane.”

His gaze was warm and sympathetic.

“Memories do that to you. They pop up when you least expect them. Inconvenient.”

“Annoying.” She added a knob of butter to the skillet, waited for it to sizzle and then poured in the eggs. “I’m not good at weddings. I shouldn’t be doing them. I’m a killjoy.”

“I didn’t realize weddings were something you could be good or bad at. Surely all you do is buy a gift, show up and smile.”

“The first two parts of that I can handle. It’s the last one that gives me a problem.” She tilted the pan, spreading the mixture evenly.

“The smiling?”

“Yeah, you’re expected to be a cross between a cheerleader and a groupie. The mood should be happy and excited and I just want to warn them to run while they still can. I’m hoping that one day Urban Genie will be successful enough to turn them down and focus on corporate events. I think I’m allergic to weddings in the same way some people are allergic to bee stings.” While the eggs were cooking, she prepared a simple green salad, threw together a dressing of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and put the bowl on the table.

“So the only way to get you to say ‘I do’ would be to give you a shot of adrenaline?” There was humor in his voice and she smiled too as she eased around the edges of the omelet and folded it in half. The surface was golden brown and perfect.

“I’d need more than adrenaline. I’m as likely to say those words as I am to walk naked through Times Square.” She picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. “Look at us. It’s Saturday night and you’re spending it in my kitchen with a deranged cat. And me. You need to get a life, Matt.”

He put his beer down. “I like my life.”

“You’re a man in your prime. You should be on a hot date with four Swedish blondes.”

“That sounds like hard work. It also sounds like something Eva would say, not you.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I try and sound normal.” She took another sip of wine. “When you’re on an alien planet it’s important to try and blend in.”

“You’re not on an alien planet, Frankie. And you don’t have to be anyone you’re not. Certainly not with me.”

“That’s because you already know all my secrets, including the fact that the T-shirt I’m wearing is five years old.” She slid a perfect omelet onto a plate, added a chunk of crusty bread and handed it to him. “Ignore me. I’m in a weird mood tonight. This is what the word
bridal
does to me. All that talk of fairy-tale romance unsettles me.” And being with Matt unsettled her, too. Being this close to him made excitement shimmer across her skin and desire burn low in her body. She recognized sexual attraction. She just didn’t know what to do with the feeling.

Her phone rang and she checked the caller ID and ignored it.

Perfect timing. If ever she needed to be snapped out of a sexual fantasy it was now.

Matt glanced at her. “Don’t you want to get that?”

“No.”

Curiosity gave way to understanding. “Your mother?”

“Yes. She’s trying to bond with me, but that involves telling me about her latest twentysomething boyfriend, and tonight I’m not in the mood. It’s Saturday night. No one invades my space.”

“I’m invading your space.”

Her heart gave a little kick. “You own the space.”

“So we’re back to owner’s privileges.” Matt gave her a long look and then picked up his fork and started to eat. “Does your mother know you lost your job and set up Urban Genie?”

“No.”

“You’re worried she’d fuss over you? Paige will tell you our mom always says you never stop worrying about your kids.”

Frankie felt a pang. “My mother wouldn’t fuss. She’s not really interested in what I do. As you know, we’re not close.”

“Do you wish you were?”

“No.” She disposed of the eggshells. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been years since we had a proper conversation about anything. I’m not sure we ever did. Most of our verbal exchanges were on the lines of ‘clean your teeth’ and ‘don’t be late for school.’ I don’t remember ever really talking.” Maybe that was why she wasn’t good at it. Or maybe it was just her nature to be private. “Let’s talk about something else.”

He glanced across the room. “Most people keep pots and pans in their kitchens. You have shelves of books.”

“I can’t fit them all in the living room. And anyway, I love books. Some people like looking at paintings. I like looking at books. What are you reading at the moment?” She relaxed. Books were something they often talked about. It was a comfortable, safe subject.

“Haven’t read anything for a month. Business has exploded. The moment my body hits the bed I’m unconscious.” He took another mouthful of food and glanced at the bookshelf again. “What’s the brown one on the end? I can’t see the title.” His tone was casual and she followed the direction of his gaze.

“It’s Stephen King.
The Stand.
Why? Do you want to borrow it?”

“No, I have that one, but thanks.” He gave her a thoughtful look and then returned his attention to his food.

Frankie had the feeling she was missing something.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is great. This omelet is fantastic. I didn’t realize you were such a great cook.”

“Food always tastes better when you’re not the one who cooked it.”

“You’re not eating?”

“I ate some cheese earlier while I started a new book. Reading food.”

He stuck his fork into the salad. “Reading food?”

“Food you can eat while you’re reading. Food that doesn’t require any attention. Can be eaten one-handed while I turn the pages with the other. You don’t know about reading food?”

“It’s a gap in my education.” There was a tiny smile on his lips. “So what else qualifies as reading food?”

She sat down and puffed her hair out of her eyes. “Popcorn, obviously. Chocolate, providing you break it into chunks before you settle down. Chips. Grilled cheese sandwiches if you cut them into bite-size pieces.”

He reached across the table and picked up the book she’d been reading. “The latest Lucas Blade? I thought this wasn’t out for another month.”

“Early copy. Turns out Eva’s favorite client is his grandmother, and I get to be the one who benefits from that friendship.”

“Well, now I understand why you need to eat while you read. I’ll borrow it when you’re done with it. I love his work. So that’s what you were doing when I knocked? You were sitting here reading?”

Frankie nodded. “I’m halfway through chapter three. Gripping.”

He put the book back on the table carefully. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, although I haven’t guessed the twist yet if that’s what you want to know.”

“It isn’t.” He’d finished his food and put his fork down. There was a pause. Her heart started to thud a little harder.

He looked serious, but surely if something was wrong he would have said so right away.

“What do you want to ask me?”

He pushed his plate away and lifted his gaze to hers. “How long have you worn glasses you don’t need?”

Oh, God.

Had he really just said what she’d thought he’d said?

What was she going to say? She looked at him stupidly. “Excuse me?”

“When I knocked on the door you were reading, but I saw your glasses on the stand in the entryway so you can’t be long-sighted. Of course you could be short-sighted, but you read the title of that book perfectly just now. Which leads me to believe you’re neither.” His tone was neutral. “You don’t need them, do you?”

Flustered, she lifted her hand to her face.

Her glasses. She’d forgotten to wear her glasses.

She remembered taking them off when she’d walked through the door. She hadn’t put them back on because she hadn’t been expecting company.

“I need them.” What should she do? She could squint and trip over a chair, but it was a bit late for that. “It’s complicated.” Lame, Frankie.
Lame.

“I’m sure it is.” Matt’s tone was gentle. “But the reason you need them has nothing to do with your vision, does it?”

He knew.

Horror washed through her. It was like arriving at work and discovering you’d forgotten to dress. “If you’ve finished, you should probably go.” She snatched the plate from him, her face burning. “Claws is scratching my sofa. And I need to get back to my book.”

The book she could read perfectly well without glasses.

Matt didn’t budge. “We’re not going to talk about this?”

“Nothing to talk about. Good night, Matt.” She was so desperate for him to leave she stumbled over the kitchen chair on her way to the door. The irony almost made her laugh. If she’d done that sooner, he might never have guessed. “Have a great evening.”

He stood up slowly and followed her.

“Frankie—” The gentleness of his tone somehow intensified the humiliation.

“Good night.” She pushed him through the door and Claws shot out with him, clearly unimpressed by the level of hospitality.

Frankie slammed the door, narrowly missing his hand.

Then she leaned against it and closed her eyes.

Crap, crap and
crap.

Her cover was totally and utterly blown.

Matt let himself into his apartment and dropped his keys on the table.

He’d known Frankie since she was six years old and for the past ten years, since she’d moved to New York, she’d been a constant feature in his life. He didn’t just know her, he
knew
her. He knew she burned easily and always wore sunscreen. He knew she hated tomato, romance movies, the subway. He knew she had a black belt in karate. And it wasn’t just those basic facts that he knew. He knew deeper things. Important things. Like the fact that her relationship with her mother was difficult and that her parents’ divorce had affected her deeply.

He knew all those things, but until tonight he hadn’t known she didn’t need the glasses she always wore.

He ran a hand over his face.
How could he have missed that?