Those Cassabaw Days (15 page)

Matt studied her. “Yeah? So what’s your gig?”

She thought a moment. “Mine’s more vintage day dresses, flip-flops, funnel cakes, hot-air balloons and antiques.” She grinned. “Sand between my toes. A much more simple, spontaneous life.”

Their eyes remained locked, and he gave a slight nod. “Is that why you like the old stuff so much?”

“Maybe. Like I said before, my mom inspired me initially. But there’s something about the twenties and thirties that appeals to me. Not just the clothing, or even the music. More the feel, I suppose. Simple. Appreciative. Carefree.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” He scraped his jaw with his thumb. “So your boyfriend just broke it off? That was that?”

“Yep. That was that.” She laughed softly. She didn’t bother mentioning that he’d called with second thoughts of regret. “See the problem with me is, Matt, that when I decide to love someone, I’m in it for the long haul with no intentions of backing out if things get bad. I guess I misjudged Trent. When he broke up with me, it really hurt my heart to know in my gut that I’d loved him more than he’d loved me. It wasn’t too long after my grandfather had passed away and I’d felt, I don’t know. Abandoned again. Alone. I became very unsettled with my job, my surroundings.” She gave a wan smile. “With life.”

“And then you felt Cassabaw was the answer?” he added in a low, raspy voice.

“I’d hoped,” she said softly. “I...hope.”

“Would you go back to him?”

Emily held his gaze; it was questioning, uncertain, curious. It made her breath catch, how weighty it was. “No.”

Matt was silent then, only giving a slight nod in response.

“Okay, all done,” she finally said, breaking the quiet air between them. “At least they’re clean, anyway.” She pointed a cotton ball at him. “Don’t pick your scabs, though, Matthew Malone. Don’t do it.”

A smile—rare but not quite as rare as they had been—pulled his lips up in the corners. Not only was it attractive, but it also reminded her of the old days. Of young Matt. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll...refrain.”

Emily leaned against the counter. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you ever been in love, silly?” she asked. She watched him, saw his eyes darken as he pondered.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “I’m not a virgin. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Ha! You ask me deep and thought-provoking profound and personal questions, which I give detailed and prolific answers to. And all I get is ‘I’m not a virgin’?” She snorted. “Not fair, Mattinski.” She scowled at him. “You’ve never been with someone who makes you feel like you’re on the highest point of a Ferris wheel? Like you’ve just swallowed an entire tablespoon of sugar?”

Matt smothered a smile. “God, you’re such a girl. No, none of those things.”

“Hmm,” she responded. “Interesting.”

His eyes pinned her. “Not a whole lot of time for Ferris wheels and sugar when you’re deployed.”

She couldn’t look away. “Well, what about now?”

Matt sighed, rubbed his hand over his head. “Guess I’ve just been too preoccupied with what the hell I’m going to do with myself now,” he confessed. “I might stay. I might leave. Depends on the offer.” His eyes were back on her now, profound and emerald and intense.

Emily’s heart plummeted once again, but she gave him a bright smile. “Well. I really hope you find what your heart searches for, Matt Malone.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah. You and me both.” He rose and inclined his head to the front door. “I’m gonna go now.”

“Okay,” Emily said, and followed him to the porch. “Night.”

“Night, Em,” he returned, and disappeared into the darkness. “Nice shirt.”

Emily stared into the shadows and smiled.

He’d called her
Em
. And he’d noticed her
Encino Man
T-shirt. And he’d said more than three words to her—despite those words being that he might up and leave Cassabaw at a minute’s notice. That thought saddened her.

Matt. He was much more complicated than she’d ever thought he’d grow up to be. Still—despite his wariness. Despite the short amount of time she’d been back home. Despite his rough-around-the-edges attitude, she found herself thinking about him. A lot.

Fear pushed at the back of her throat.
He might leave
. One second, here. The next, gone. She willed those thoughts away.

This was Mattinski, after all. First and foremost, her friend.

He’d acknowledged her quirky side. And he’d used his childhood name for her. Definitely a first in a long, long time, and it sounded...right. Yes, it definitely sounded right.

With more confusion and hope and elation than she’d had in a very long while, Emily trotted off to bed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE REST OF
the weekend slipped by quickly, and the next week, the lumber and appliances were delivered.

At the café, the appliances Emily had ordered were pushed to the center of the dining area while Matt worked on repairs. Mr. Wimpy and his band of warriors were always there in the early morning, giving guidance and opinions and a few laughs.

On the first day Matt had already pulled all of the old appliances out and set them in the parking lot behind the café, leaving a relatively bare interior for Emily to start working on. Matt had removed all the leaky faucets in the back, as well as pulled up all the boggy wood and replaced it with the new lumber. As the week passed he’d begun checking the old wiring and, to her relief, it wasn’t quite so old and was in perfect working order.

Once the appliances were out of the way, Matt threw down paint tarps and Emily began with the walls. Dressed in a pair of old raggedy cutoff jeans and a blue tank, she taped off the corners and edges with blue painter’s tape then started priming the walls.

She’d planned on painting them a cheerful sea green and wanted to find places for the colorful vintage prints and insulators she’d found at the antiques store. As she rolled on the primer, she could hear Matt hammering in the back. With a smile, she slipped in the earbud and selected one of her favorite vintage playlists from her iPod.

First, Ray Miller and his Orchestra, singing “Ain’t You Baby.” Emily hummed the quick-paced catchy tune, but soon she began singing quietly with the words. By the next track, Marion Harris, “Singing the Blues,” Emily didn’t hold back. She happily sang right along with the music, and it made the work go by faster, and so she rolled. Primed. Sang. Rolled. Repeated.

* * *

M
ATT
STOPPED THE
hammer midswing as he heard Emily’s off-key singing coming from the front. Lowering his tool, he listened for a moment, and then couldn’t help himself. He set the hammer down, rose and eased to the archway leading into the serving area and open kitchen.

With one forearm he leaned against the arch’s frame and watched as Emily sang, not just off-key but louder than she probably suspected. With each roll of the primer she swung her hips, and each time the chorus came around, she’d stop, tilt her head back, close her eye and sing into the end of the roller as if it was a mic. When she belted out “Valencia!” he almost lost it. It was awkward. Nerdy. Awful. It was...so Em.

And cute as hell.

Then Emily, while in midsing, caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Instead of stopping, or pretending she hadn’t been singing horribly, she simply met his gaze, grinned and wagged her eyebrows, making the dimple pit deep into her cheek, and sang even louder. Swung her hips a little, and continued on with her priming.

Matt could do nothing but shake his head, smile and return to his work. His mind wandered to the night Emily had insisted on cleaning up his busted knuckles. It’d affected him more than he’d let on. Enough that he’d avoided her for as long as he could—which was until the supplies had arrived. And that bothered him. She bothered him.

While he was awake. While he slept. She constantly invaded his thoughts. Emily and her crazy stories and ancient music and old-time clothes. He couldn’t get her off his mind.

Emily still possessed the unique ability to lure him in. Her laugh was like a stab of star-shine. Like a sliver of skylight high above the ceiling in one of the underground tunnels in Iraq.

But what he now feared the most was that this newfound friendship, blended with their old memories, could possibly be ruined. Ruined by attraction. By some screwed-up fling of convenience.

Ruined by him. Leaving Cassabaw and Emily behind.

Not that Emily had indicated she wanted a fling of any sort. She’d just been dumped—and it may not be one-hundred-percent over. She said it was, but Matt could hear doubt in the somber pitch of her voice. She might take that Trent guy back. Where would that leave Matt and Em?

In a weird, awkward place, that’s where. Friendship ruined.

Just because they lived next door to each other, just because they shared an important part of adolescence and just because they seemed to still...click—despite Matt rebuking it from every angle—didn’t mean they had to fall into some kind of romantic affair.

Even if she was interested in him, was it the him
now
, or the old him from her memory?

Did he truly want to risk losing Emily as a friend? Risk Trent showing up unexpectedly and reclaiming what once was his? Now that she was back in Matt’s life did he sincerely want to lose it all?

No. He absolutely did not want to lose her. Not again. In any form.

Friendly banter. An occasional flirt. But nothing more. Not if he wanted a lifetime of Emily.

Can you stand it, Malone? Can you keep your hands off her?

“Hey, whatcha lookin’ so sour for?”

Matt glanced up from his place on the floor and into Emily’s excruciatingly large hazel eyes, and noticed the paint smudge on her nose. He shrugged. “Didn’t know it was sour. Are you finished?”

Her eyes bugged out at him. “Seriously? With the entire front of the café? Of course not, silly.” She rubbed her flat stomach. “I’m just starved is all. Wanna get a hot dog from the pier?”

Matt sat up and rested his forearms on his knees. “You just ate a breakfast burrito the size of a pine log like an hour ago.”

Her perfectly shaped brows lifted in surprise. He thought they were the color of cinnamon sugar. “So what. That was actually two hours ago. Now I’m hungry for a mouth-watering delicious foot-long chili dog. Swamped with cheese. You in or not in?”

Her strange way of wording things intrigued him. Always had. He rose. “In.”

She beamed. As though her face lit up with joy over getting a hot dog. “Great! Let’s hurry before the crowd beats us to it.”

The vendor was parked at the base of the pier and off to the side, a long cart on wheels with a bright red-and-white-striped umbrella overhead, with a couple of propane tanks below to keep things heated up. Emily hurried ahead of him, her backside swaying as fast as her legs moved her body. Legs as long as a stork, he used to say. They still were, only...mature. Not gangly. Not gawky.
Sexy
.

Matt frowned, coughed and slid his shades on over his eyes. As if they would somehow magically hide those long legs sticking out of hacked-off destroyed jeans and a sleeveless tank that showed her slender but well-formed arms, hugged her narrow waist and clung to her flat stomach. Her small feet dug into the sand as they stepped off the boardwalk and cut across to the vendor.

She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Ooh. Hot dogs.” She wiggled her brows.

Matt couldn’t even hide the smile, so ridiculous was her expression.

Turning to the vendor, she gave him an even wider smile than she’d given Matt. “Afternoon, good hot-dog vendor, sir. Can I please have a foot-long chili-cheese dog? Extra chili. And triple extra cheese. And onions. Relish. Spicy mustard. And make it all gush over the sides, if you please.”

“Hendrik, this is Emily Quinn. She has a tapeworm,” Matt joked.

Emily shrugged. “It’s true. Nice to meet you, Hendrik. I like your name. Where are you from?”

Hendrik the vendor’s deep brown eyes widened, but his mouth stretched and curled as he fell under the spell of Emily. “Estonia. It is nice to meet you,” he said in his broken accent. He picked up a pair of tongs and pointed them at Emily before retrieving her monster order. “All this is going into just that?” He shook his head as he placed a foot-long wiener into a bun, then set it into a red-and-white-checkered cardboard hot-dog holder. “This I got to see.” He slathered it with chili and cheese sauce, dumped in a load of onions and relish, followed by a stream of hot mustard, and handed it to Emily. “Enjoy!”

“Estonia? That’s fabulous! Have you ever watched
Encino Man
? You know, Linkovich Chomofsky?” Emily reached for her money, but Matt stilled her hand with his. He handed Hendrik a ten-dollar bill. “Same for me,” Matt said. “Keep the change.”

“Ah, thank you!
Encino Man
, of course. Yes. Nineties caveman comedy,” Hendrik said as he loaded up Matt’s hot dog. “No more wheezin’ the ju-uice!”

Emily burst out laughing and her lips quirked. “Hendrik, that’s my favorite quote from one of my most favorite movies.” She glanced up at Matt and batted her eyelashes with exaggeration. “And...I think this is our first date. You’re buying me lunch, you see. That’s a date.”

Hendrik frowned. “You buy her hot dog for first date?” he asked, scolding Matt, then skimped on the chili and cheese sauce.

“No, it’s not a date,” Matt corrected. He shook his head and glared at Emily behind his shades, then gave a sarcastic laugh. “It’s just a hot dog.”

“It’s definitely a date,” Emily said with assurance. “And it’s a great first date if you ask me. I adore hot dogs.”

Hendrik shoved the hot dog at Matt and shrugged. “Low-maintenance woman. Enjoy.”

“Bye, Hendrik! Nice to meet you and your wonderful wiener stand!” she called as they walked away, heading straight for the steps leading up to the pier. “Come on, Mattinski,” she said around her first bite. “Let’s walk to the end and back.”

When Matt looked back Hendrik was waving his tongs at Emily, a goofy grin on his face. Matt simply shook his head and followed her.