A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  “And since then,” he continued, “you’ve made yourself pretty scarce. I just wondered . . . you’re not scared to go in to work, are you?”

  Too right I was. But not the way he meant. I reached for my coffee and took a sip. “No, not at all.”

  “Really? You’re sure? I thought maybe you were struggling to be in the building.”

  I was, but again, not for the reason he thought.

  “Thanks, Matt. That’s really thoughtful of you. But I’m fine.” I dredged up a smile. “Truly. I just need quiet when I’m marking.”

  Another long glance and he seemed to accept my explanation. “All good, then.”

  “Right.” Suddenly business-like, he finished his coffee, strode out to the kitchen, binned the cup, strode back in, and flexed his shoulders like a boxer ready to fight. “What’s the plan?”

  “Bum on seat, pen in hand. That should do it.”

  He shook his head. “We need far more strategy than that. Here’s the plan.” He ticked it off on his fingers. “We mark for an hour, break for fifteen minutes, mark another hour, break for dinner, mark another hour, then we stop for the evening. Sound good?”

  No, it sounded like I was missing something. I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s with the ‘we’?”

  He shrugged. “You’re not the only one with marking to do. And if you think you’re getting interrupted here, you should try it at T&T.” He reached behind the couch and pulled out a bulging holdall. “So I stole your idea. As of now I’m marking from home, too.”

  I felt a sudden urge to laugh. “Er . . . I think you’re in the wrong house.”

  “Oops. Oh well, I’ll just work here. That okay?” He indicated the dining table.

  No, absolutely not. “Sure.”

  This was nuts. Only I could wind up home alone with my hot, must-be-avoided boss.

  “Jim’s just headed out,” said Matt, “so I won’t be in anyone’s way.”

  “You know Jim?” It all got weirder by the second.

  “No. I met him when he opened the door.” Matt thunked his holdall on the table, stretched for the ceiling, cracked a few knuckles, sat. “Anyway. Time for work.”

  He glanced across at me. “Go on. Shoo. See you in an hour.”

  Was he for real? This time I couldn’t hold the laughter in. “Sure. Come on in. Take over my house. Run my life. Want me to peel you a grape while I’m at it?”

  “Two. You’ll thank me when your marking’s done. And by the way, this is a race. First to twenty essays chooses takeaways.”

  He sat down, picked one up, threw me a shark’s grin. “I’m gonna whip your arse.”

  * * *

  “Read, dammit,” I muttered, but the words blurred.

  I slapped my pen down, rubbed my eyes, grabbed at my hair. Seriously, handwriting? In this day and age? All I could hope was that Matt had a few handwritten essays, too. Word by word, I flogged my way through the first paragraph’s appalling scrawl, then paused to check the time yet again. Had I really only been marking forty-five minutes?

  Still, that wasn’t bad. Another fifteen and I could go downstairs for a chat. Or not. Up to Matt. I wasn’t bothered either way.

  . . . Who had he been engaged to, anyway? Had he broken it off, or she? Him, probably. Stupid woman, sleeping with someone else. She had Matt. What more could she want? If I was engaged to a guy like Matt I wouldn’t be looking at anyone else. Or letting anyone else look at him.

  Huh? I re-read the paragraph, wrote a comment.

  . . . The lift. Claustrophobia . . . I shuddered at the memory. Thank goodness Matt had been there with me. He really was an amazingly caring guy. A real modern-day hero . . .

  Damn him! Now I’d read the same paragraph four times.

  . . . That kiss . . .

  I reached the bottom of the page and realised I hadn’t absorbed a single word. Ridiculous! I tossed my pen aside and wandered over to the window. Pressed my forehead against the cool pane.

  Knowing Matt was downstairs, having him treat my home—and me—with such familiarity . . . It just wasn’t working. I needed distance, and sanity. But he was invading my dreams, my thoughts, my work; everything.

  Enough already. With gritted my teeth I retrieved my pen and started again.

  At this rate I’d be marking until Christmas.

  * * *

  He leaned against my doorjamb, his thumbs hooked in his jeans and a smile playing around his lips. “One hour down, two to go. How’d you go?”

  I sighed, put down my pen, and leaned back in my chair, massaging my neck. “Eight. You?”

  “Ten.”

  He walked towards me and my heart lodged in my throat. Matt in my bedroom. I shoved my hair off my face with hands that weren’t quite steady, and smiled up at him. He was right here, so close. Lift-close. Too freaking god-damn close.

  “You’re winning.” I hoped my heart, too fast and too loud, didn’t drown out my words.

  He stood behind me and, with a hand on each of my shoulders, leaned in, apparently reading my latest essay. My breath hitched.

  “We’re both winning,” he murmured.

  And, really, there was only one way I could take that comment.

  I had decided our lift kiss was simply Matt trying to distract me, that he’d kissed me out of duty rather than desire. Maybe I’d been wrong. Which meant I now needed to rethink how I felt about Matt, work, life.

  I swallowed, tried to breathe, failed.

  Backup plan: back off.

  I spun around in my chair, forcing him to take a backward step. “Let’s go outside. We’ve only got thirteen minutes left and I don’t want to spend it in here.”

  “Shame. I quite like it in here.”

  I met his gaze, saw the intent in his eyes, and high-tailed it to the door.

  “Fresh air,” I said. “That’s what we need.”

  Or cold showers.

  * * *

  I didn’t need to turn; my pulse told me who was there, yet again.

  “Coffee? Juice? Cider?” Matt asked.

  I glanced across at him. “No, thanks.”

  “Cream donut? Chocolate? Apple?”

  I smiled, shook my head. “No. Go away. The hour’s not up for another”—I checked my watch—“thirty-three minutes.”

  He left with a chuckle and a wave, and I congratulated myself on not giving in to any of his delicious temptations.

  * * *

  Matt again. “I’m on fifteen. How about you?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Not telling. And don’t think I don’t know your game, Buster. You’re trying to psyche me out with all these updates. It won’t work, you know.”

  “Pity.” He walked over to me, hovered, picked up an essay. “Hey, you’d better double-check this one. I think the grade’s wrong.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “That won’t work, either.”

  Jules, curled up on the desk beside my papers, opened one eye and looked at Matt.

  Matt reached out and scratched Jules behind the ears. “So you’re the secret weapon, eh? What’s your name?”

  “Jules,” I said.

  Jules rose, stretched, and moved closer to Matt, smooching under his hand like the traitorous beast he was.

  I shook my head in disgust. “Jules has loose morals and very bad taste in people.”

  Matt grinned. “Unlike you.”

  “Exactl—”

  He crooked a hand around my neck, bent close, and brought his lips down on mine in a breath-stealing, tongue-probing, fiery French kiss. A kiss that lasted just long enough to render me swollen-lipped and aching with need.

  My body might be treacherous and weak, but that didn’t mean I was about to let him win his marking contest.

  I drew in a shaky breath. “Reckon you must be worried if you’re resorting to measures this desperate.”

  He laughed, chucked my chin, and headed for the door. “You’re a hard nut to crack, Becky J.”

  * * *

  �
�Ha!” I wrote the grade with a flourish, threw down my pen, and flung open my door. “Twenty! I win!”

  I danced downstairs and into the lounge. “Ta-dah! Twenty! Thank you, thank you . . . Where are you?”

  “I demand a recount,” said Matt from behind me.

  I turned.

  “Me too,” said Jim.

  My jaw dropped.

  There they sat, maltezers in hand, drinks within reach, and guilty grins on their faces.

  “I’m still marking in my head,” said Matt, looking like he’d been caught stealing sweets at the corner shop.

  “He’s just being sociable,” said Jim between chews.

  “And you left me slogging away upstairs.” Hands on hips, I glared at them. “Bastards, the pair of you.”

  “But you won,” said Matt, “so you’ll forgive us.”

  “Me, maybe,” said Jim. “You? No chance. She’ll make you pay. For. Ever.”

  “Have a cider.” Matt passed me a bottle. “You won so it’s your choice of takeaways. I’ll even pay. Forgive me now?”

  I drank some cider, thought about it, and decided, no, I didn’t forgive him. I really did feel put out. Which was pathetic, of course, since I had nothing to feel put out about. So what if Matt had taken a break?

  “Damn,” said Matt, his eyes on me. “You’re right. She’s got murder on her mind.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, but it came out sharper than I’d intended.

  Jim cackled. “It’s the Punch and Judy show.”

  I gave him the evils. “I’ll bloody Punch and Judy you.”

  “Sorry, Becs.” Matt adopted a lost-puppy look. “It was Jim’s maltezer trick that did it. Have you seen it? It’s great.” The puppy’s eyes gleamed. “Watch this.”

  He tossed a maltezer in the air, caught it in his mouth.

  Excellent. He could do it, too. I was the only plank on the planet who couldn’t catch a maltezer.

  “Yes, yes.” I sighed. “I’ve seen it. Many times.”

  “You have to admit, though, it’s brilliant. Hey, Jimbo, next stop YouTube. You’ll go viral, for sure.”

  Jim burped.

  “Well said, old man.” They clinked bottles.

  How was it that a good solid burp seemed to help men bond?

  I sniffed. “Whatever.”

  Matt looked my way and patted the couch beside him. “Come here.”

  I compressed my lips. “No.”

  “Fine. I’ll come to you.”

  He hauled himself upright and came to stand in front of me.

  I sipped at my cider and sulked.

  He touched my nose. “Are you really angry with me?”

  His eyes searched mine.

  I had been angry only moments earlier but now, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why. Languid heat spread through my body.

  “No,” I said.

  His lips turned up at the corners. He moved in close, so close his body heat invaded mine.

  “Damn,” he murmured. “I was hoping we’d have to make up.”

  My heart tried to beat its way out of my throat. I couldn’t break away from his gaze.

  Jim flicked on the TV. “Get a room.”

  Which was exactly the reminder I needed. With gargantuan effort, I stepped back and away.

  “Dinner,” I said. “Takeaways. Now. Some of us need food. And I choose Indian. It’s going to be vindaloos all round, thanks. No more Mr Nice Guy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Matt had been cunning. He’d suggested the outing as if it were an afterthought, casually tossed back at me as he left. Tired, my guard down, I’d agreed without stopping to think.

  Now, though, I’d had plenty of time to think, plenty of time to come up with a reason for cancelling.

  So why hadn’t I cancelled?

  “I must be mad,” I said, with yet another glance at the clock.

  “Probably,” agreed Liz.

  I picked at a fingernail. “I should’ve said no.”

  Which would’ve stung, because I really did want to see Matt’s outdoor ed. centre. But, with the whole situation becoming increasingly complex, ‘no’ was the obvious response. The thinking woman’s response.

  “But you said yes,” said Liz.

  Indeed. So, in the absence of any thinking . . .

  “You should shove me in a tower and call me Rapunzel.” I opened a bag of maltezers, jammed some in my mouth.

  “Wouldn’t work. Your hair’s too frizzy.”

  “Good. I don’t want to be rescued.” I proffered the sweeties.

  She took a couple and winked. “Sure you do. And he’ll be here in ten.”

  My stomach plummeted. I swallowed. “Oh God. Don’t remind me. This is worse than my first date. Quick, distract me or I’ll throw up.”

  “Stay single. It’s cleaner. Less vomit.” She leaned against my window, looking out over Brodrick Road.

  I arched a sceptical brow. “You being a shining example of vomit-free singledom?”

  “Yes.” Haughtily. Then, “How’s your sister coping with singledom?”

  I thought of Dani’s pre-movie meltdown. “Not so well. She went a bit nuts two nights ago.”

  “Your sister’s always been nuts.”

  “True. But this was serious peanut slab material.” I described our chat, my mention of Charlie, her reaction. “One minute she was fine. The next, psychotic.”

  Liz grinned. “Why so surprised?”

  “Well.” I sat on my bed, leaned back, lollipopped a maltezer towards my mouth. Missed by a country mile. “There was nothing to be psychotic about. She barely knows Charlie.”

  “Maybe she missed this month’s bonus.”

  “Doubt it.” I passed Liz the maltezers.

  She took a couple, handed the bag back, shrugged. “Dani’s OTT about everything.”

  But not usually over nothing.

  “Maybe they had a fling,” I said.

  Liz broke her sentry duty long enough to shoot me a raised brow. “Works for me.”

  “But they didn’t even know each other in school.”

  She shrugged. “They could’ve hooked up later.”

  I thought about it. “No,” I decided. “She would’ve told me.”

  “PMT?”

  “If that was only PMT, she’ll need locking up come menopause.”

  Liz laughed. “Or sooner.”

  Indeed. I flicked up another maltezer. Failed. Fished it out of my bra.

  “What are you trying to do, Becs?”

  I exhaled, frustrated. “Jim can catch maltezers in his mouth. So can Matt. I’m going to learn how if it kills me.”

  “At this rate it might. Here. Give me one.”

  She shook a few into her hand. Lobbed one up. Caught it in her mouth, oh my God, just like that. Lobbed another. Chewed on that, too.

  I stared.

  “It’s not that hard.”

  I glared.

  “See?” Up went another one, and cleanly down into her mouth.

  She grinned.

  I snatched the maltezer packet back. “I hate you all.”

  The Saturday morning stillness was shattered by a deep-throttled roar.

  Liz looked out the window and turned back to me, eyes gleaming. “Time to play.”

  My heart hammered.

  She swiped the maltezers. “Guess you won’t be needing these.”

  I swallowed. Felt as if my throat were jam-packed with the sickening little balls. Moved to the window and, half-hidden by the curtain, checked for myself.

  A motorbike pulled up outside. The engine cut. Matt dismounted and removed his helmet in one fluid movement. Jules materialised beside him and Matt spent a few moments stroking him. Then, as if feeling my gaze, he looked up at me and smiled. My pulse leapt. I fought the urge to leap out of sight and smiled back.

  Then turned to Liz and groaned. “This is so not a good idea.”

  “Go on.” Liz dismissed me with a flap of the hand. “It’s too late to
back out now. I’ll hide up here until you’ve left.”

  Matt approached the front door. Dry-mouthed, I took one last look in the mirror, decided it was too late for plastic surgery, and headed downstairs.

  The doorbell rang, and Jim’s voice carried from the living room. “Check him out. Oo-ooh-wee!”

  I cringed. “Jim . . .”

  Ignoring the urge to run, I pasted a smile on my face and opened the door. My already-short breath disappeared altogether. Hot damn. Leather-clad biker Matt was way, way better than jean-clad boss Matt. This version was even better than bare-skinned swimmer Matt.

  “Hey you,” he said.

  “Hey you,” I repeated, with amoeba-like repartee.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, all black-panthered power. “Ready?”

  I nodded.

  “You have a scarf?”

  I hooked a thumb through the woollen folds. “Yes.”

  “Good. You’ll need it.”

  Through the wall, Jim’s falsetto rang out. “Is that a box of condoms in your pocket or are you jus—”

  I shoved Matt down the steps ahead of me, and slammed the door behind us.

  He looked at me, chuckled. “Steady on, Tiger. There’s no rush.”

  “Sorry.”

  I wasn’t, not one bit. If he’d heard Jim’s condom comment I’d just die.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and fast-walked to his motorbike. If Jim came out to chat, so help me, I’d stab him with my house-key.

  Matt handed me a helmet. My fingers fumbled. The helmet slipped. I lurched, juggled, regained control. Slow down, Becs.

  “Have you ridden before?” he asked.

  Was it that obvious? I shook my head, suddenly nervous. Heaven only knew what I’d been thinking, agreeing to this.

  “Here. I’ll help you.” He showed me how to secure the helmet, positioning my scarf for best protection against the wind, then put on his own helmet.

  His eyes creased at me through his visor. “Don’t worry, Becky, you’ll love it. Just hang on tight and lean into the corners with me.”

  He started the engine, then patted the seat behind him. “Jump on.”

  With a quick glance up at my window—and an even quicker glance away when I saw Liz’s smirk—I sat behind him, careful not to touch him and feeling like I had too many hands.