The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (5 page)

He wasn’t fazed. In that same thoughtful vein, he added, “That wasn’t being nice. Kindness is something that comes from within. It’s spontaneous, unconscious. You were extracting something from those women—getting them to do what you wanted.”

“That is so not true. I was getting them to do what
you
wanted. I saw that pained look. You were a trapped man.”

“I think I might still be.” He grinned, flashing that damn dimple and looking more appealing than her cake—and that was saying a lot. “What were you doing at the school?”

“Trapping you,” Whitney admitted. She arched her brow suggestively, but he kept chewing, kept watching, making her realize she had virtually no discernible effect on him.

“So you’re really a doctor?”

“A plastic surgeon. You know that old dental office just off Main Street? It’s mine—well, mine in conjunction with Kendra and another friend of ours. We’re opening a medical spa. Botox, boobs, brows—the whole package.”

“You mean...you live here? In Pleasant Park?”

There was a reluctant note in his voice that made her feel every inch the naughty seductress she was attempting to be. “Yes. I live here. Why? Afraid I’m going to ruin your reputation?”

He took a long sip of coffee, giving nothing away.

“Can I get you anything for that? Maybe a stool for getting down off your high horse?”

Matt offered a slight grin over the rim of his cup—just enough of a quirk of the lips to do strange things to her equilibrium. He was cute
and
self-deprecating, which was turning out to be a bizarre and effective aphrodisiac.

“I’m sorry. That was rude. I just assumed you and your friend were visiting.”

“Slumming it in the boonies?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. “I’m sure you guys will love it here. It’s a very friendly place.”

Whitney placed a hand on his. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

He looked at her hand warily, and Whitney’s pulse picked up. She’d never met a man so attracted to and repulsed by her at the same time.

“So.” She leaned over the table. “Tell me about you.”

“There’s not much to say. I live in Pleasant Park. I teach kindergarten.”

“You have a brother who, unlike you, enjoys the bar scene.” She ticked off her fingers. “You’re divorced. You’re abnormally polite. You think women are scary.”

“Not scary.” His eyes met hers. For all his bashfulness, his stare was very direct.

“What, then? Why are you looking at me as though I might eat you?”

“I move a little slower than most guys, that’s all,” he said carefully. “I don’t see what the big hurry is.”

She licked her lips. “Don’t you?”

Matt pushed back from the table with a polite nod. “I’ve got to get back to school—I didn’t get a chance to set up for tomorrow. Thanks for coffee and everything.”

She watched him for a suspended moment before rising to her feet. “Lots of crayons to organize and paper shapes to cut out?”

“Something like that,” he said, but added nothing more. He’d resorted to being cool and polite—almost exactly the way he’d been with those overeager women at the school. It was as good a sign as any that she was being rejected. Again.

As she reached around to the back of her chair, Matt stepped forward, once again grabbing her coat and helping her into it. The brush of his fingers against her neck stalled them both in their tracks, and Whitney knew a sudden urge to arch into his hand. But he pulled away before she completed the thought, stepping so far back someone could have wedged a grocery cart between them.

Whitney let out a low whistle. “Your ex-wife really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

Matt jerked his head in the direction of the door. “It’s complicated.”

“Is she off limits, the ex-wife?” Whitney asked, taking pity on him and allowing him to lead her out. As expected, Matt opened the café door for her, and even made a move as if to follow her to her car—protecting her against the savages of Pleasant Park in the daytime. “Are you still at that stage where you’d rather stab your eyes out with a fork than talk about her? I remember that stage well. I used to have a very fond daydream of a fork and a totally different organ to puncture.”

“It’s fine.” Matt shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “In fact, if you want the whole story, all you have to do is ask anyone walking down the street. It’s kind of hard to keep a personal life personal around here.”

“I’d rather you tell me.”

He paused before shuffling forward again. “The short version? She cheated.”

Oh.
Oh
.

Whitney stopped him. It was just a quick hand to his arm, but enough to show she was listening. “That sucks, Matt. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Actually, I did. I wasn’t able to give her the emotional support she needed, so she looked for it somewhere else. It happens.” As soon as the words moved past his lips, he stopped and laughed. “I don’t know what it is about you. I really can’t keep my mouth shut, can I?”

There was nothing even remotely funny about a cheating wife—infidelity was the one thing Whitney refused to play off as a joke—but she still laughed. Matt looked so sheepish, his hands in his pockets, hair tousled, breath coming out in short puffs in the cold air. Oversharing definitely became him. And she wanted to hear more about this bitch of an ex-wife—preferably over dinner or wine or partial nudity.

“You don’t spend a whole lot of time with members of the opposite sex, do you?” Whitney asked warmly, tucking her arm in his.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Let’s just say it’s been a long time since anyone has been able to catch me so far off guard.” And off her game. “But you? You surprise me. You’ve been surprising me for almost a full forty-eight hours now.”

“Is that a good thing?” Matt’s look of discomfort grew until it was all she could do not to kiss him and squeeze him until the adorable exploded all over them both.

“It’s good.” Emboldened by the deepening of his dimple, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek. Warm and scratchy—just the way a man ought to be. “You have no idea how much.”

Matt was never more grateful for a telephone call than he was in that moment, what with Whitney and her lips and his ever-weakening resolve toward her. The only dark spot was that Lincoln had somehow gotten to his phone and managed to change the ringtone for Laura’s number to Rhianna’s “Unfaithful.” Very subtle.

With a quick look of apology to Whitney, who was struggling not to laugh, he pulled his cell out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“Hey, Matt. It’s me.”

Me
. A word that meant so much and yet so little. “I know. What’s up?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath over the phone and realized he’d spoken much more harshly than he intended. He was usually pretty good at this part—the inevitable conversations and lingering issues of two lives torn apart—but he felt oddly hesitant to talk right now. It probably had something to do with standing next to a woman who didn’t carry years’ worth of his history on her shoulders, who actually laughed at his jokes for a change.

“Was there a problem with the check?” he continued, more moderate this time. Laura didn’t demand much in the way of alimony—and how could she, given his profession?—but they’d settled it between them that he’d cover the house payment on their little two-bedroom cottage for the first year. Enough time for her to get back on her feet, and enough time for him to pay down on the guilt he felt at the way things had ended.

His sister Hilly and Lincoln considered it the height of outrage that he gave her anything at all, considering the circumstances of their breakup, but it wasn’t for them to judge. Hilly had been happily married to the same man for a decade and Lincoln...
well
. Matt looked at Whitney and smiled. Lincoln was orange.

“Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong,” Laura rushed to assure him, her tone breathy and light. “I was just wondering if you planned on stopping by this week.”

He ran a quick mental check over the to-do list he kept tacked above his desk at school and came up empty. “Was there something I forgot? Is the water heater acting up again?”

“It’s been fine ever since you replaced the coils. It’s just that you usually check in on Sundays to see how things are getting along with the house. You missed yesterday.”

“I did?”
Oh
,
yeah
. He had. A beer, sangria, two shots of tequila and the Whitney whirlwind had conspired to make his Sunday morning something of a blur. He distinctly remembered a headache and a lingering sense of regret that had more to do with turning Whitney down than the unprecedented amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

“It’s not like you to break habit, that’s all,” Laura said. He could hear the smile in her voice. That was one of the things that had first drawn him to her. She’d never been the kind of woman who did things to excess, but when she was pleased, her normally placid exterior broke a little, letting him in. Of course, her tendency to underplay emotion had also made it that much more difficult to tell when she began to be unhappy.

Or when that unhappiness led straight to another man’s arms.

“You’re dependable old Matt,” she added.

The certainty with which Laura spoke sent a jolt of awareness through him. Was he that easy to label? He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen into such an ironclad routine of checking in on her. Taking care of the ordinary household things that had always been his domain had started as a way to retain a connection to his old life. A few months later, it had become a courtesy.

Lately, it had become a chore.

Is
that
her
? Whitney mouthed, catching sight of his frown.

Matt nodded once, regretting his honesty the moment Whitney lit up, unwarranted glee casting the deceptively gentle features of her face into a kind of radiance. “Give me the phone,” she hissed, reaching for it.

He remembered the way she’d so neatly handled the women at the school and shook his head. Laura would find nothing charming in Whitney’s depilatory habits—no matter how much she might deserve to hear them.

Whitney, obviously not one to give up easily, dived toward him with her arm outstretched. “I’m serious. I’ve got one or two things to say to her.”

“Um, I’m sorry, but—” He stepped aside just as Whitney got a hand on his phone. He didn’t let go, but he also wasn’t willing to hit Whitney—a restriction she apparently didn’t share. With a quick, playful jab to his stomach, he was forced to give up the fight. To do anything else would be to confess just how ticklish he was, and nothing seemed more catastrophic than admitting
that
particular weakness to
this
particular woman.

Something about his sudden shift backward threw Whitney off balance and the phone clattered to the ground, the screen shattering in the final way that belonged solely to inordinately expensive electronics.

“Well, shit.” Whitney’s words said it all.

He looked at the piece for a moment before giving in to laughter—long, hearty laughter like he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. “I think you broke it.”

Whitney laughed with him. “That wasn’t my goal, I promise. I just wanted to say hello, introduce myself to the woman. I’ll buy you a new phone.”

“Don’t bother. It was about five years out of date as it was.” Matt cast a sidelong look at her. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hung up on Laura before.”

“Is that her name? How ordinary.” She paused for a moment. “You aren’t going to let the whole hanging-up-on-her thing eat away at your noble soul, are you?”

“No.” He shook his head resolutely. “She called me dependable. And old.”

Whitney gave a mock shudder. “That unfeeling bitch.”

Matt didn’t correct her. While he wouldn’t choose quite so strong a term to describe Laura, he felt strangely unsettled at her certainty in his reliability. When had he become such a pushover? When had he decided that dependability was the only quality worth having?

“Are you just going to leave the broken pieces there?” Whitney asked, making no move to scoop them up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever littered before either.”

Whitney’s eyes flashed. “I like where you’re going with this. Tell me, Matt Fuller, what else haven’t you ever done?”

“I’ve never met a woman like you,” he said honestly. He doubted most people had ever enjoyed an experience like this.

“Well, what do you intend to do now that you’ve met me?” she asked, not making any overt moves toward him. She stood almost motionless, as if waiting for his response before determining how to proceed.

He knew how he wanted to proceed—and it had nothing to do with being dependable. Or reliable. Or safe. He didn’t want to be the guy who checked in on his cheating ex-wife every week because he couldn’t let go of the feeling that he’d somehow wronged her by not putting up more of a fight.

He also didn’t want to fight. At least, not for Laura.

“Matt?” Whitney prodded. “Are you okay?”

He swallowed and met Whitney’s eyes. The dark, turbulent passion he saw there gave him enough courage to say the words they both needed to hear.

“I’m more than okay.” A feeling of warmth spread through him. There would be no more focusing on all the things he didn’t want. Right now, with this woman, he was going to focus on all the things he
did
want. Starting with her. “In fact, I think I’d very much like to rebound.”

Chapter Four

Matt wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

The possibilities seemed endless. He might start by running them through Whitney’s long curls, which always seemed to be one strong wind away from being tangled up in knots. From there, he could cup the back of her neck, holding her firm as he brought her mouth to his. Wrap one hand around her waist, which was deliciously tiny in comparison to the generous flare of her hips. Pull her so close that if she wanted to keep laughing—and who was he kidding, she was always laughing—she’d have to draw the breath from between his own two lips to do it.

He bit back a groan and shoved his hands behind his back instead. All in good time. He might be at her condo for what pretty much amounted to a sex visit, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t at least talk first.

Whitney’s home was situated in one of those townhouse blocks that was all granite and hardwood and had a three-foot patch of yard out back. She claimed to have only recently moved in, but the space greeted visitors with a strong, lived-in feeling. No cookie-cutter condo this, what with a hairbrush and curling iron in the fruit bowl and a dazzling array of wine and margarita glasses littering every horizontal surface. The wall opposite the front door had been painted a bright red, and above her television hung a painting of a very enthusiastic nude.

He liked it here—or he would, as long as he could figure out what to do with his freaking hands.

“So let me get this straight,” Whitney said as she sat across from Matt on an overstuffed leather couch. “Your dad was a cop, your grandfather was a cop, your uncles are cops and your brother is a cop?”

“Yep,” he said, playing along. “Technically, my great-grandfather was on the force too, but only in a voluntary capacity. After he retired from military service.”

“So you’re the first male in your family to break tradition in, what, a hundred years? And your chosen profession is...kindergarten?”

He spread his hands in a gesture of futility, glad to finally have something to do with them. “I’ve always been a rebel.”

“I can clearly see that,” she said wryly. “Is this some kind of inborn passion for reforming the world’s youth or something?”

“You could call it that.” Matt leaned back in his armchair—also done up in dark, rich leather—and allowed himself to relax. For eight months now, he’d avoided situations like this, situations in which he might be expected to flirt and be charming, make eye contact and say all the right things. Yet here he was, doing those things—
successfully
—and he wasn’t even trying.

“It’s always the quiet ones.” Whitney’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Seriously, though. What made you want to teach small children?”

There wasn’t any malice in her question, but Matt was strangely reluctant to go into details—mostly because it wasn’t a huge deal. When junior year of college had rolled around and he’d needed to formally decide on a major, early childhood education had seemed like a good fit. He liked kids more than he liked most adults, and there was something so undemanding and, well, playful, about that age group. Five—and six-year-olds accepted the world and the people who inhabited it at face value. And all they asked in return was circle time and a few snacks.

“Kids are fun,” he hedged. “Why did you become a plastic surgeon?”

“The money.”

Matt was betrayed into a laugh. “I should have known you’d refuse to be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” Whitney flipped her hair, the tangles tumbling over one shoulder so that a single curl licked at her breast. He could have sworn she did it just to torment him. “I’m opening a clinic where women with six-figure incomes can come to get a body wrap, a waxing and a butt lift all in one day. You think I’m spurred by motives of altruism?”

“Come on.” He couldn’t believe anyone became a doctor for the money. There were a lot easier ways to make a fortune—many of which didn’t require a decade of education first. “No deep-seated urge to bring people joy? Or to make the world a better place, one scar removal at a time?”

Whitney’s eyes fell curiously flat. “Nope. Not in the slightest.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” Matt said, refusing to let the subject drop. This was the first time he’d seen her be anything but one hundred percent carefree—and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that this glimmer of something real intrigued him more than a hundred casual sexual innuendoes.

“I know within five minutes what a person’s biggest weakness is. Does that count?”

“That sounds very doctor-like, actually. You’re like a medical superhero,” he joked.

But the look Whitney gave him was not one of a woman joking along with him. It was more like she was talking down to a very obtuse, very young student. “Not medical weaknesses, Matt. Their personal ones. I get a lot more out of my patients when I know where their insecurities lie.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Is it? The reason your brother Lincoln is orange and dresses like he’s from the Jersey Shore is because he’s jealous of you. You’re taller, better looking and have more strength of character. It eats away at him inside—he’d be a good candidate for bodywork. Something like calf implants or even laser hair removal. Those women at the school today? The first one, Nadine, has already had work done on her breasts, and it was very well done—it probably didn’t come cheap, and in my experience, work like that rarely comes alone. The other one, the one in the yoga gear? Her body shape is the result of hardcore exercise, but that wasn’t her original nose. A hundred bucks says both of them got surgery before the divorce but after it was clear the marriage was failing.”

Matt blinked. The things she was saying—they were cruel words, harsh words. But she was being neither cruel nor harsh. Whitney was matter-of-fact and decisive...and proud.

“You do that to everyone? Find their flaws and profit from them?”

She met his gaze directly. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, Matt, it’s that I rarely tell anyone what they don’t already know.” She waited a moment before adding, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’d change about you?”

“No. I would never do anything like plastic surgery.”

Her smile was slow and lazy and wide, mesmerizing him. “I know you wouldn’t. And you don’t need any work done.”

“Because I’m perfect?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Nice try.” She laughed. “Because imperfection suits you.”

Matt got up and stood in front of Whitney’s giant HDTV—a relic that many a gentleman caller found himself drawn to the moment he stepped through the door. She was pretty sure most of them used the time to measure their own technology against hers. Penis envy. She’d expected better from Matt.

“It was a gift from my parents,” Whitney explained. “When I completed my residency.”

He turned, a puzzled look sweeping across his brow. “Really? Your parents gave you that?”

“I think it was a commentary on my lack of a love life,” Whitney admitted. Actually, her mom’s exact words had been, “It was either a television or a cat, dear. Something needs to keep you company at night.” And her parents knew how she felt about cats.

Matt took a huge step back. “Okay. That’s officially one of the weirdest things I’ve ever heard.”

“That I have parents who love and care about me?” It wasn’t
that
strange—even in this day and age. Even at
her
day and age.

“Well...I meant having parents who buy you erotic paintings. But I guess that makes sense, now that I think about it.”

Whitney burst into laughter. Did Matt honestly think her vices ran that deep? “Oh, God. You mean my Gwyneth Hogan.”

“Is that the, uh, model’s name?”

“The artist,” she corrected him. It was almost too easy. She let out a gurgle as she added, “And I can safely assure you my parents had no hand in the purchase of that painting, though my mother does find Hogan’s work compelling.”

Matt colored, his face suffusing with a charming pink hue as his dimples deepened. “You were talking about the TV, weren’t you?”

“Just how depraved do you think I am?” she teased.

He didn’t answer—at least not verbally. He didn’t have to. The words that came out of this man’s mouth and what she read in his expression were two completely different things. Maybe it was the mild-mannered, buttoned-up schoolteacher thing he had going on, but he reacted to every sway of her hips, every sexual promise that rolled off her tongue, like a man witnessing his last meal being cooked before his eyes.

So when his mouth fell open a fraction and his body became unnaturally still, he might as well have whipped out his erection and started stroking it right there. He wanted her—depravity and all.

In fact, if she was right about Matt—and she rather suspected she was—he
especially
wanted the depravity.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be impressed by the size of your toys?” he asked, trying to cover his mistake with an attempt at being coy.

Two could play that game. “That depends. Is it working?”

“A little bit. If you’ve got a really nice set of golf clubs hiding in your closet, I think I’m going to have to leave.”

Golf. Ugh. That had to be the least sexy sport on the face of the planet. “Don’t even mention that word to me. I don’t approve of any activity that requires a four-hour time commitment. Well, most activities. There is one that I enjoy for much longer than that.”

“It’s Frisbee, isn’t it?” he joked.

“No, Matt. It most certainly is not.”

There he was again, mentally stroking his erection, his throat working up and down as he took in her full meaning. How could he make her feel so naughty with just one look?

“So.” When he finally spoke, his voice came out a hoarse strain. “How does this work?”

She knew what he meant, but
dammit
. She was going to make him say it. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and pretended to look thoughtful. “And by
this
, you mean...?”

“The rebound.” He took a breath so slow and so long he seemed to be preparing to submerge for hours. God, she hoped that was what he had planned. “Seeing as you volunteered yourself for the role, is it polite for me to wait for you to start bounding, or do I just jump in?”

She kept her face grave, but it was a struggle. “You’re the one who said you weren’t bad at this. I’m waiting for my proof.”

“Oh.” He smiled. It was one of those crooked smiles they always talked about in books, the kind that started at one low corner of his mouth and spread upward, lighting his face and eyes. “Well. In that case...”

She waited, curious to see what he would do. There was no doubt in her mind that Matt could kiss—the one they shared in the diner had been more than enough evidence for her that he was possessed of a deft tongue and knew what to do with it. And in terms of sexual acrobatics, she wasn’t the most demanding of lovers. As long as he showed up at full attention, she could work with what she got.

A thrill ran up her spine. She’d show him just how well she could work with it. This man had no idea what he was in for.

Apparently, neither did she.

Matt crossed the room before she could blink, and all she could think in the first few whirlwind seconds of his mouth capturing hers was that she’d been duped. This man, so curiously shy, had no intention of taking things slow. He had no intention of remaining buttoned up. With the kind of deep, insistent kiss that went straight to her toes, Matt proved that full attention was just the start of what he had to offer.

“How am I doing so far?” he asked, pulling away when it became clear both of them were going to need to eventually breathe. “I have the feeling I’m going to like this rebounding thing.”

“You tricked me.” She licked her lips slowly, her body throbbing with desire as his eyes followed every flick. “I thought I was going to get to teach you a lesson or two, Mr. Fuller.”

“Am I supposed to call you by your last name too?” he asked, curling one hand against her hair. His other hand was busy behind her back. Somewhere along the way, he’d slipped it under her shirt and was trailing a slow, careful pattern along the length of her spine. “I’m not sure I know it.”

She let out a low laugh. “Last names aren’t required. And if you move your hand just a few inches lower, you can call me anything you want.”

He pulled her roughly to him, and even though they both wore jeans, there was no mistaking the desire that swelled between them. A low purr escaped her throat. If there was any sensation better than that of a man growing hard against her, she had yet to discover it.

And bless his heart, he did move his hand lower, cupping the generous curves of her ass with a kind of fierce possession that made her whimper with longing. But she couldn’t whimper long, because he kissed her again, rendering everything but the hot, insistent demands of his mouth a blur.

Even though there was no question of what would eventually happen—the two of them, naked, his incredible tongue in all her dark, secret places—Matt took his time. She could feel just how much he wanted her, knew that the deep, shuddering breath he pulled when she grazed her hand over the hard line of his erection was just the start of his desire, but still he kissed. Everywhere. Jaw, neck, the slight dip in her throat, but mostly her lips.

When Whitney was pretty sure she couldn’t take the slow, easy pace of his seduction anymore, she pulled away and nodded toward the bedroom. “Are you ready to show me what else you can do?”

He examined her carefully, his expression difficult to read. Without touching any part of her, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, so light and soft it might have been a figment of her imagination. She leaned in, straining to increase the intensity of the kiss, but he held back.

“What?” she asked, growing irritated—though with herself or him, she wasn’t quite sure. “I’ve already let you into my home, and I’m ready to lead you straight to my bed. What else are you trying to get from me?”

His eyes searched hers, leaving her feeling strangely lost in her own skin. “What else are you willing to give?”