When Joss Met Matt (17 page)

“Nice,” he said, riding his fingertips along the edge of my bra. It was black, with textured embroidery that made it impossible to wear under anything form-fitting. Under a sweater though, it was a girly dream come true. The fact that I paired it with the matching lace panties should have been all the information my subconscious needed to tell me how this day was going to end long before I called Matt.

“We could go …” I glanced at the door where Dewey sat, watching the proceedings with feline boredom.

“Later.” He brushed my hair away from my shoulder and kissed the hollow made by my collarbone. I shivered again. “Like this?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.” He stilled, and I rushed to explain. “You do it better.”

His soft laugh tickled my throat. “Okay, good.”

Bit by bit, Matt erased all the false hope that I'd had the night before. His hands smoothed across my skin, taking away the counterfeit affection T.J. had given me. His lips, tongue, and teeth were persistent reminders that I didn't have to settle; that there was more. Best of all, he gave me free rein to return the attention.

We were still on the floor of my little office when he lifted the back of my bra, looking for the closure.

“It's a little stiff,” I breathed against his cheek, “but, don't—let's go to the bedroom.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

I got to my feet, leaving most of my clothing on the floor. Matt was right behind me and scooped me up as soon as we crossed the threshold to my bedroom.

“Oh!” I startled, but he had me firmly as he put one knee on the bed.

“Are we doing okay so far?” he whispered.

“Yeah, we're doing just fine.” I smiled.

We found our way under the covers and out of our last bits of clothing and then it was nothing but the delicious feeling of skin on skin and wet kisses and his much more satisfying body under my hands. He smelled like the cold air of November, and the same laundry detergent I'd smelled the first time we met. His mouth tasted like Crest with an undercurrent of coffee, his skin like … Matt, just Matt.

He eased my knees apart with one of his own then flattened his palms against my inner thighs, pressing upward. I recalled the motion from our other times together. It was something only he did and it made my pulse go wild. I arched off the bed when he reached the end of his path and he gave me a lazy smile. Reaching out with both hands, I beckoned him down to kiss me. He complied, but tortured me by bracing his weight to prevent any contact except for our lips. So, I slipped my hands between us and scratched my nails lightly over his abs. Already tensed for the position, he couldn't help laughing, breath rushing out against my cheek. He caved, dropping into the waiting cradle of my raised knees and pushing his fingers into my hair.

We rocked our hips together in a familiar rhythm, and I let my hands go on exploratory missions across his back. He had unfairly smooth skin back there and I loved the feel of it on my fingertips. He tipped my head to kiss my throat, which urged a moan from my lips. He laughed again, softly against my skin.

“Is that a good sound?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Can we …?”

“Yeah, hang on.” He slipped one arm beneath me. I hooked my ankles behind his hips and he moved us farther up the bed. He made me feel as light as a feather. After a moment, he turned his attention back to me. I shivered as we slid together and clamped my hands against his lower back.

“Just a—”

“I know.” While he waited for me to acclimate, he painted my shoulder with openmouthed kisses. The rough scrape of his five o'clock shadow against my collarbone made me gasp, but it almost felt good.

I eased the pressure on his back and said, “Okay.”

And then we began to move.

For a few delirious moments, I wondered why I ever bothered with anyone but him. I liked the sight, the feel, the taste, and the sound of him in bed. I liked how we knew just enough about each other as lovers to be comfortable and move in sync, but not so much that I wasn't strung tight with anticipation every time he tried something new. I liked that I could predict that even though he would hop out of bed just moments after we were done, I knew he'd come back right away and kiss me and ask if I was all right.

And, I reminded myself, it was for all of those reasons that I wanted him around when my relationships went bad. He was my port in a storm, and I couldn't imagine losing that. I also knew that he hadn't really let anyone into his heart since Meghan, and I didn't ever want to be a placeholder. As the Sorbet Girl, I was singular, and that was just fine with me.

His promise was good. By the time we lay in a contented heap, waiting for our heart rates to return from the stratosphere, T.J. was nothing but an unfortunate bump in the road.

“I—” Matt started to speak, but stopped to swallow hard and let out a forceful breath. “Did we fix it all?”

“Yes.” I turned my face into his cheek and gave him a gentle bite. He squeezed my ribs, making me jump, and laughed.

“I'll be right back.” He slunk out of bed without letting in too much cold air and I burrowed deeper into the capsule of body heat we'd created. I listened to the sounds of running water and let my eyes drift shut.

“Come here for your stupid spooning,” he said with exaggerated distaste when he returned to bed.

“Shut up,” I said, but slipped happily into the space he made for me.

“So, I know you're all kinky now, but … don't hit me in the family jewels, okay?”

I laughed. “Fuck you, Matt.”

“I'm not touchin' that one.”

I elbowed him halfheartedly, but I wasn't mad. I was amused as hell, actually, and that was part of the magic of Matt. He knew I'd be ready to find the T.J. thing funny after we'd so successfully overwritten the memory.

We drifted in a drowsy haze for a while, sharing space and letting our breathing settle into synchronization. “Thanks for being here,” I said.

“Yeah, of course.”

The weight of his arm felt good across my waist. He always put off heat like a generator, which felt amazing as my body cooled. “He was kind of … soft,” I confessed suddenly.

Matt snickered. “I thought that's why he wanted you to hit him.”

“No, I mean, like, pudgy.”

“Oh.” He paused, trying to determine my point. “Okay.”

“He just seemed so nice.”

“I thought you didn't like nice,” he said immediately.

“Of course I like nice.”

“But not
too
nice,” he reminded me. “You told me I was too nice a million times.”

“Well, maybe I've changed my mind about nice guys. Maybe I just want someone intelligent, funny, and yeah, nice. Someone who likes me, isn't a pervert, and happens to be fantastic in bed.”

“Just happens,” he echoed, laughing. “It's good that you have realistic requirements.”

“I'm sure there are plenty of guys like that. I just have to find one.” Suddenly, I was too warm and I had to toss the comforter away from my shoulders. The cool air helped a little, but my nerves continued to send signals of discomfort. Like an all-over itchiness. I wriggled a little and tried to shake off the feeling.

Matt slid one hand down my arm and threaded our fingers together. “Well, I can tell you one thing—all guys are a little bit perverted.”

“I can handle a little bit. But, I never want to need props, reinforcements, or a protein shake for sex.”

He laughed, chest vibrating against me. The itchy feeling receded. Weird.

“Okay, what about the famous lingerie collection? That's a prop,” he said.

I considered, pursing my lips. “Fine. I don't want to need a safe word.”

He laughed again, harder this time. “New rule: no safe words.”

“That's too broad, counselor. Nothing
requiring
a safe word.”

“Deal.” His body shifted against mine. “Of course, there's always the possibility that this will be the last time, you know.”

“I know.” It was always a possibility. The weird, itchy feeling came back. “God, what is wrong with me? I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin.”

“You look okay,” he said, but the room was dim.

“Maybe I'm allergic to something. Maybe I should take a shower.”

“Yeah, go 'head.” He peeled his body away from mine to let me up.

I got out of bed, simultaneously feeling better and worse when the cool air hit me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I don't know. I'm just—I feel jittery.” I grabbed clean pajamas from the dresser and headed for the bathroom. When I had the water running, I heard a tap on the door.

“Joss?”

I opened the door. “Yeah?”

“Seriously, are you okay?” He looked genuinely concerned.

The electricity jangling through me settled a bit as I looked at him. I didn't want to worry him. “I'm okay, really. I probably just need to cool off or something.”

“See? Spooning is bad for you.”

I picked up a hand towel and swatted him in the face, right on his grinning mouth. “Oh, shush.”

“You want any help in there? I could scrub you down with the toilet brush.” Matt smirked.

“Gee, our first shower together and already you're offering the toilet brush?” I put on false doe eyes. “You're such a romantic.”

“I have never once claimed to be a romantic,” he reminded me.

“No kidding.” I stepped away from the gap in the door and got into the steaming shower. Already the feelings were going away, but I figured I might as well give myself a rinse. I couldn't imagine what had caused the weird sensations, but a shower wouldn't hurt.

“Was that a no on the toilet brush?” Matt called over the sound of the water.

I laughed, quiet enough that he couldn't hear me. “That was a no.”

“Suit yourself.”

I heard the door latch shut, then a few minutes later open again. “Where do you keep your clean sheets?” he asked.

“What?” I opened one end of the curtain to look at him.

“Clean sheets? Where are they?”

“Why?”

“I'm going to change the sheets, just in case that was the problem.”

“Really?” I blinked, trying to process the kindness. “Uh, in the trunk at the foot of the bed.”

“Is that what those things are for?” he asked. “I've always wondered.”

“That's what it's for in my house.”

He nodded. “Okay, I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Matty.” I made a kissy face at him. “You're the best.”

He very deliberately looked through the curtain at my wet body. “I'm sure you can make it up to me.”

Which sucked all the romance right out of his gesture. That was Matt.

I turned my back to the spray as he left, letting the water beat away the last of my unease. Next up on my agenda: finding a guy who would know when to keep his mouth shut and let me pretend he wasn't a lecher at heart.

Chapter Twenty

Now

“I still don't see how T.J. is relevant to anything.”

Matt tilted his head from side to side. “He is and he isn't. I just … sort of realized something around that time.”

“What?”

“That we aren't as … unaffected by all of this as we should be.”

I tightened my arms around myself. “I don't think I understand.”

He sighed. “This isn't as clean as it should be.”

“What isn't?”

“This”—he moved his hand in the space between us—“us. It's too blurry. Sometimes we're more than friends, and in between, I don't know what the hell we are anymore.”

I tried to make a dismissive sound, but there was a lump in my throat. “We're friends, Matty. You know that.”

“The point is, it's not so easy to separate stuff anymore.” He shook his head. “Not that it ever really was.”

Despite the chill in the air, my spine broke out in sweat. Did he know? Had he seen it on my face?
Cover, cover, cover!
“We can do it. We just have to concentrate.”

“No, we can't. And besides, that's my point. It shouldn't be so hard to behave.”

“It's not.” I looked away from him. “We do a great job of being friends.”

“Yeah, tell that to Christine and Josh.”

I scowled at him. “She was a crazy person.”

“And what about him?”

I was convinced he could hear my thoughts and my hammering heart. “He was—he was …” What? A casualty? An innocent bystander?
A really good, decent guy who I ditched for
you,
Matt. For you.

One Year Earlier … Third Year Out of College

It is a fact that a single girl cannot get a date during the holidays. Men are all convinced that women are trying to get a date for New Year's Eve, someone to spend Christmas with, and possibly even introduce to their families. Mostly, they're right, which makes it almost impossible for a single girl without those motives to get a simple dinner date from early November until January 2.

So I was decidedly single in December when Matt and I met for brunch. It was just the two of us that Sunday morning, and the venue was one of our favorites. A bar in the hipster part of town—or as close to hipster as Milwaukee gets anyway—it was a cobbled together collection of storefronts with all the original brickwork exposed. It always wore the stale smell of old cigarettes and spilled beer, but the food was good and their Bloody Mary was the best in town for Sunday brunch.

We'd already ordered our drinks when Matt ran off to the bathroom. The waitress returned and set the mounded glasses on the table. The garnish outweighed the drinks by a long shot, but that was the fun of it.

“There you go …” she drawled as she eased away from the glasses. Triumphant, she straightened and looked at me. “And I'll come back for your orders when your boyfriend gets back.”

I didn't bother to correct her. “No, that's okay, I know what he wants.”

“Oh!” She pulled her pad out, and I ordered Matt's usual cholesterol fest, and my only-slightly-better-for-you favorite.

Matt arrived as I was finishing.

“I ordered for you,” I said.

“How did you know what I wanted?” he challenged.

“Because you have the same thing every time we come here.”

He grinned. “I should change my order just to annoy you.”

“Then you wouldn't get to eat your precious breakfast burrito.”

“Good point.” Matt tweezed the shrimp from the edge of his glass. “You are a woman of infinite wisdom, Alvin.”

The waitress laughed. “Is there anything else I can get for you guys?”

“Did she tell you I want the potatoes on the side?” he asked.

“Of course, I did.
And
the Cajun sour cream.”

“She did.” The waitress smiled. “She knows you by heart.”

“She'd like to think so,” he said, making a face at me.

“No thinking involved—I know so.”

The waitress laughed again as she started to walk away. “You guys are adorable together.”

I only had her back to glare at, but I gave it my all until she rounded a corner. When I turned back to Matt, he was munching one of the mozzarella whips from his drink. “I'm going to find you a girlfriend,” I declared.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “No, thank you.”

“But I've been a student of the Mystery of Matt Lehrer for six years. I've watched you pick the wrong women time and time again. Surely, I can do better.”

“This has Bad Plan written all over it.”

“No, it'll be fun!” I was really warming to the idea. “I'm sure I can find you the perfect woman.”

“What do you know about the perfect woman?”

I leaned back from the table, putting on airs of being offended. “Besides the fact that I am one?”

“Yeah, right. Besides that.” He fished an olive out of his drink and popped it in.

“Come on, Matty. Don't you want to have someone special in your life?”

“I have lots of special someones in my life,” he said. “A mom, a dad, my brother … oh, and Dewey. Don't forget Dewey.” He grinned.

“You're being a punk.”

“Why do you care so much?” he asked.

“I don't.” I went after my own olive with a miniature plastic sword. “I just want to help you.”

He stretched his mouth into an “I hate to ask this but …” grimace. “Can you not?”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Joss, if I wanted a girlfriend, I would have a girlfriend.”

“So what
do
you want?”

He shrugged. “I'll know it when I see it.”

“That's very helpful.”

“I'm not trying to be helpful.” He raised his glass to his lips, but not before I saw his smile.

I shoved his chair with my feet, succeeding in sending my chair backward and failing to move his at all. “I'm trying to get you laid here, Matthew.”

He choked on his drink. Hard. His hand came up as he coughed, preventing the spray of tomato juice from hitting me in the face, but giving him a nice even splatter pattern across his shirt and the tabletop.

I tried to apologize and offer napkins, but I was giggling. We both knew I was responsible.

“Do you wait until I've got something in my mouth before you say things like that?”

I giggled, tried to sober myself, but broke down again. “I'll pay for dry cleaning.”

He plucked at one of his buttonholes. “I don't do dry cleaning.”

“I'll wash it, then.”

He considered that for a moment, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off before wadding it up and throwing it across the table at me. I caught it, but not before a wet patch of sleeve slapped my chin.

“Eww.”

“Serves you right.” Inspecting his revealed T-shirt, he found some damp spots and a few stains at the top where his buttons had been undone. “Great.”

“If you throw that one at me, I think they will probably throw
us
out.”

“Helping me like that, I'm sure you'll find me my future bride in no time.”

I flinched at the unexpected reference to marriage. “I—I didn't say I was going to marry you off.”

He smiled slowly. “Well, whatever your evil plan is.”

I shook my head, regrouping. “Does that mean you're going to let me?”

“If you promise to stop ruining my shirts, then sure, go ahead and try.”

I clapped my hands and wiggled in my seat. “Yay!”

“You're still washing my shirt.”

For the first time since I was eighteen, I decided to spend New Year's Eve in Milwaukee. Nellie's boyfriend had a friend in a band and we could all get VIP wristbands to the show. Nellie secured an extra one for me, hoping I would have a date to bring along. I didn't, because no one in their right mind goes on a first date on New Year's Eve. So after some serious cajoling, I got Matt to take the place of my date. He was supposed to be at a party hosted by some law school friends. Supposedly much classier than my offerings, but as I rationally pointed out to him, Matt was not exactly classy himself. Further, who wanted to spend New Year's Eve with a bunch of lawyers, which was a point he couldn't really argue with. He did, however, reserve the right to leave if things sucked. In turn, I reserved the right to follow him right out the door if things were really bad.

Arriving was surprisingly fun. Cruising past the line of non-VIPs to flash our wristbands, we felt like celebrities. On a very small, Midwestern, local-band scale. We divided forces to accomplish all the required tasks: Nellie and Jason were to elbow their way through the crowd to hold a place for us at one of the tables near the stage. Matt and I were to procure refreshments for the group.

It was a long wait at the bar, and people passing by kept jostling me into Matt. I don't know if it's a function of being the size of a twelve-year-old boy or just a certain
je ne sai quoi
about me, but people always seem to squeeze past me in crowded situations. In the rough approximation that was the next line over, I spotted another smallish girl being tossed on the human tide and made a commiserating face at her.

“I don't know why I bother!” she shouted to me.

“No kidding,” I shouted back.

Matt turned to see why I was yelling. I stood on my toes to get closer to his ear and said, “A fellow chipmunk in danger of being trampled.”

He looked in the direction of my head nod and smiled at the girl. “She's cute.”

“If you like small woodland creatures, sure.” I grinned.

“Which I do.” He elbowed me lightly.

“You're not supposed to admit that in public.”

He laughed and we edged a little closer to the harried bartenders. Our line picked up speed over the next several customers and soon we found ourselves bellied up to the bar. Waiting for our drinks took another interminable period, during which I continued to be the number one person to squeeze by. Then, with two cups each in hand, we started on the treacherous path back to Nellie and Jason.

I squeezed past my fellow small girl and shouted, “Good luck!”

“Thanks!”

I'd only lost about a quarter of a beer total by the time we made it to the small area defended by our friends. I handed one cup to Nellie and steadied myself on her shoulder to scoot onto a stool. The music hadn't started yet, so the seats were stable. The minute the standing crowds started gyrating to the beat, the tables would most likely be the outermost ring of the dance floor. I took the moment of stillness to slurp a few ounces from the top of my beer.

A few minutes later, I noticed the girl from the line making her unsteady way down the aisle toward us. She mounted a bar stool between some large guys just a few feet away from me. I indicated her to Matt, who leaned forward to poke her in the back. She turned, startled, and caught sight of me.

“You survived!” I said.

“You, too!”

“And now we won't be able to see a thing!” I said, pointing as a guy came to stand directly in front of me. He appeared to be with her group, and had to be six foot two.

She laughed. “I know! I'm like a cocktail shrimp among lobsters!”

I glanced to my right and left. “It's more like a shrimp among crawfish over here!”

“Hey!” Matt elbowed me again. He never failed to be sensitive about his five-foot-ten-inch height.

The line girl laughed as the crowd went wild for the arrival of the band, and then her attention was diverted to the stage. The stools began their persistent vibration at the mercy of the nearby amps and I decided to fight hoarseness by not talking for a while.

During the lull between songs, Matt leaned close and said, “She really is cute.”

“Oo-ooh!” I sang. “Matty's got a cru-ush!”

He just rolled his eyes.

I waited until he decided to brave the men's room, then poked the girl in the back again. She turned, looking surprised by the third contact.

“My friend thinks you're cute!” I said.

“Him?” She pointed at the empty spot beside me.

“Yeah.”

“I thought that was your boyfriend!”

“No! Just a friend!”

“Oh!”

“Sorry, just thought I'd tell you!”

“Oh … okay!”

I turned my attention back to the stage and caught Nellie giving me a sour look.

“What?”

“Are you seriously trying to get Matt a date with that girl?”

“So?” I asked, confused.

“You are mentally ill,” she said, shaking her head.

It was my turn for an eye roll.

When Matt returned from the bathroom, the line girl turned around and smiled at him. “I'm Christine!” she shouted.

He grinned. “Matt!”

“Nice to meet you!” She wobbled on her stool and turned forward to regain her balance.

“See? I told you I could get you a girl,” I said in his ear.

“Yeah, nice screening process.”

“I still did it. I am an awesome wingman.”

“We'll see.”

He bought her a beer, and she repaid him with her phone number at the end of the concert. And that was how Matt met Crazy Christine.

I'd heard the grocery store was a good place to meet guys, but I usually considered it an acceptable place to go when I was looking my worst. So, I was in my scrubs, just stopping in for a few essentials on my way home from work when I met Josh. I was covered in dog hair, with my hair held in a twist by a pencil and my glasses on. I'd forgotten I was wearing them when I got out of the car—I only used them for driving these days, and restricted them to that use since they made me look like a nerd. I cannot understand how some people look sophisticated and urbane in glasses. I have always looked like the girl who doesn't get a date to prom.

Josh was behind me in line at the deli. I didn't even notice him, distracted as I was by my serious deliberations between oven-roasted and smoked turkey breast. Dewey loved turkey with a passion bordering on zealotry. I intended to make my own sandwiches, but I knew he'd beg for a scrap or two the moment I walked through the door and I was wondering which flavor he'd prefer.