“Becs, I am so, so sorry.” He tucked a wayward curl behind my ear, and a pulse fluttered in my throat. “My life is . . . things are . . . complicated.”
I bet. But that’s what happened when you were making like Casanova and juggling women.
He rubbed at his neck. “Would you have dinner with me?”
I stared at him. What kind of an arrogant . . . ? “No, Matt, I would not.”
“Please. This is important to me.” He looked me in the eye. “I upset you that weekend, and I want to put things right.”
“Then say sorry and we’ll leave it at that.”
He rested his hands on my shoulders. “Dinner. Please. Just this once. Don’t worry,” he added, his eyes creasing at the corners, “I promise I’m not a stalker.”
I quirked an eyebrow. He may not be a stalker, but he was my boss. And I doubted very much he was issuing this invitation to the whole of T&T.
“Matt, I don’t think dinner’s a good idea.”
“You didn’t think marking together was a good idea, either.” Then, seeing my slit-eyed look, “What? You didn’t. But you got plenty of work done, and you had a good time doing it.” He grinned. “Go on. Admit it.”
I allowed him the beginnings of a smile. “Okay, I admit it. It was fun.” And it had just made his big freeze so much more painful.
“This will be fun, too,” said Matt. “I promise.”
I leaned past him and stole back my coffee. Drank a mouthful. Regarded him in silence.
“Say yes,” he said. “Quick. Before you change your mind.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
He winked. “You just did. I saw it in your eyes. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
And before I could call him a smug little know-it-all and several other less ladylike names, he was gone.
* * *
The cab pulled into the modest driveway and Matt paid our driver, ignoring the notes I offered. He held the door open for me as if I were some kind of celebrity, then took my elbow, escorting me with easy intimacy along the dimly-lit path. His fingers burned my skin but I didn’t flinch from his touch: no way was I going to let him know how much he affected me.
I glanced around. No signage that I could see. It all felt very . . . suburban.
“What restaurant is this?” I asked. “I don’t know it.”
“Frobisher’s.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Leatherhead’s finest.”
Frobisher’s? As in, his surname? Good grief, his family were restauranteurs? How exciting!
. . . And embarrassing. He’d brought me to an exclusive restaurant, and I’d shown up in this old outfit. I nervously adjusted my clothes. Yes, the sheer green top and black satin pants looked smart, but I was seriously underdressed. I should’ve gone glitzy.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, as if he’d just read my mind.
“Thanks.” I gave him a not-believing-you smile. Then slammed my mind closed just in case he really was a mindreader.
He held the door open for me and ushered me in. It didn’t look very restaurant-y. No front desk. No maître-d’. And—I shot Matt a quizzical look—was that a TV I could hear through the wall?
He dropped his keys on the console table and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair. “Can I take your coat?”
It landed on top of his jacket.
The penny finally dropped. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. This isn’t a restaurant, is it?”
“No, just my place. Sorry. We can pretend if you like. I’ll wait on you hand and foot, and call you Ma’am.” His lips twitched. “You can even pay me for it. I promise my rates are reasonable.”
I did my best not to blush. Failed. Then felt a fool for reading too much into a perfectly innocent joke.
Matt’s eyebrow rose. He chuckled.
Okay, maybe not so innocent.
He showed me into a large, open plan living room. To our left, a large, rustic dining table had been set for two. Flowers. Candles. Wine glasses, three per setting. Impressive. And as for the kitchen . . . I almost drooled as I took in the gleaming surfaces and ultra-modern equipment.
Ooh! Espresso machine alert.
“Mmm, coffee,” I said.
“Oh yeah. The best. You’ll never want to leave.”
Which was fairly cocky of him. But before I had time to frame a suitably cutting response, a wordless shout came from our right. I looked across and saw a basketball game on the massive TV monopolising the far wall. As I watched, the three-pointer that had drawn the shout replayed, the shout replaying with it. In the dim lighting I couldn’t make out the shouter.
“Evening,” called Matt. Then, to me, “Come and meet my brother.”
His brother glanced our way, then paused the basketball before turning to greet us. A small jolt went through me as I registered he was in a wheelchair.
“Becky,” said Matt, “I’d like you to meet my brother, Stefan.”
Stefan cleared his throat. His mouth twisted and worked. “Hi,” he finally said. His left arm jerked awkwardly.
My heart splintered. I recognised Stefan’s condition: cerebral palsy. I also recognised the reptilian intensity with which he now regarded me. He was waiting for my reaction. Waiting to see my repugnance.
A childhood friend had suffered the same disorder. To me she was just Kimmy, a loyal mate with loads of spunk and a wicked sense of humour, but most people struggled to see past the physical to the beautiful girl trapped inside. In Kimmy’s words, she was the monster everyone avoided.
I gave Stefan an open, friendly smile, one that reassured him I didn’t see a monster.
“Hi, Stefan. Nice to meet you.”
Unsure if he was up to shaking hands, I didn’t proffer my own.
He swallowed convulsively. Tried to get the words out. I waited for him.
“Stef,” he said. “Call me Stef.”
“Okay. Thanks, Stef.”
I stilled. Backtracked. Replayed. Matt’s brother. Stefan. Stef.
Stef, not Steph?
I almost laughed with relief. That day at the Kinetix Centre, when Stef had left a message and Matt had been so quick to drop everything, me included, it had been for his brother. His wheelchair-bound brother. Nothing to do with another woman at all.
And me? I’d decided it had been Matt revealing the beast he truly was.
Well, I’d got that right—but I’d interpreted it all wrong.
Oh God, so horribly wrong. How could I have been so stupid? Shame, a burning ball of bile, welled in my belly, smothering my relief, leaving me pink-cheeked and discomfited.
Matt met my eyes with an enquiring look. I shook my head: not now.
Stef said nothing but he also missed nothing. With surprising speed he swivelled his wheelchair, flicking his gaze between Matt and me. His expression sharpened. He focused on me and stared me down, bitterness in his eyes.
I wanted to reassure Stef. My embarrassment had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. I was the monster. But how could I even begin to explain? Matt was standing right there, and our whole Kinetix misunderstanding still lay like an open chasm between us.
I drew in breath to speak, trusting I’d find the right words. I didn’t. In the end I released my breath without saying a thing. Felt like a clown who’d lost his wig.
Thankfully, Matt came to the rescue and filled the silence.
“Stef’s my housemate,” he said, resting a hand on Stef’s shoulder. “He’s the brains in the family and I’m the brawn.”
I laughed; all tension release, no humour. “You’re the brains, eh, Stef?”
As soon as it was out I wished it unsaid. It sounded brittle.
Stef slid me a look of loathing. I shrivelled inside.
Matt intercepted Stef’s look and visibly bridled. He stepped back and glared at Stef with such tight-jawed, potent fury it was a wonder Stef didn’t turn to ash on the spot.
Their eyes locked and sparred.
Stef yielded
first.
When he finally looked at me once more, it was carefully minus the animosity. He shook his head. “Matt’s the brains as well as brawn.”
He pulled out a handkerchief with his right hand and wiped the saliva from his lips. “Good at cleaning, too,” he added.
This time my laughter was genuine. “Excellent. So he’s your slave? I could do with one of them myself.”
Stef shrugged. “Have him. I’ll find a better slave. He’s too bossy.”
“It’s hard to find a good slave,” I said.
“He’s lippy, too.” Stef’s lips twitched up in a smile, his earlier resentment dissipating.
I arched an eyebrow. “I bet he is.”
“Different kind of lippy,” Matt murmured in my ear, passing behind me on his way to the kitchen.
Before the blush had even found its way to my face, he was speaking again. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be out here pouring drinks and slaving over a hot stove for both of you.”
“Three courses, I hope.” I fought cheeky with cheeky.
“Four, if Stef hasn’t eaten the after-dinner mints.”
I raised an eyebrow at Stef. He snuck his right hand down the side of his wheelchair and brought out a box of mints. My eyes widened. He quietly snuck it back again and covered it with his handkerchief, all the while maintaining a poker face as skilled as his brother’s.
I snorted with laughter. “You must give Matt a run for his money.”
“Hey, Stef,” Matt called. “If you’ve finished watching the basketball I’ll turn on the music.”
Stef muttered to himself, but grudgingly flicked off the TV.
“Don’t turn it off on my account,” I said, but Matt hadn’t wasted any time: mellow music already permeated the room.
Stef moved his head a little, in the manner of a shrug. “I’ll watch it later.”
He checked his watch then excused himself and went over to Matt. Matt hunkered down to Stef’s level and they began talking in low voices.
I was suddenly struck by their resemblance. I hadn’t noticed it earlier but now, watching them in profile, I could see it in their eyes, their jaws, the tilt of their heads. Even given the huge disparity in their physical conditions, there was no mistaking they were brothers.
Matt came around the breakfast bar, stowed a water bottle under Stef’s left arm, made a comment that had them both looking my way. Stef nodded and gave Matt a friendly punch on the arm. I smiled. Brothers first, but friends as well.
Stef returned to my side. “I’ve got to go. My helper will be here soon.”
“Oh. Right.” I had no idea what kind of help he meant but I didn’t want to offend him by asking. We’d already had a rocky start.
“I thought Matt was cooking for all three of us,” I said.
“He is.” Stef paused, coloured a little. “Eating isn’t easy for me. Matt usually helps.” His jaw sawed as he grappled with the words. “My helper’s coming over so Matt can have time with you.”
The enormity of Stef’s reality—Matt’s, too—hit me with freight-train force.
“Stef, I—God, I’m . . . sorry.”
“For what?” His mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed.
Unexpected emotion thrummed in my throat. “You didn’t have to banish yourself like that. I don’t want to upset your routine.”
He grabbed his handkerchief and swiped at his mouth.
“My routine is a life sentence.” His voice was harsh. “It shouldn’t be a life sentence for Matt as well.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t feel—”
Stef about-turned and abruptly left the room.
I watched the door swing to.
“. . . like it’s a life sentence,” I finished.
Unshed tears burned my eyes. I swallowed painfully. What had I been thinking? I shouldn’t have made a big deal about it. It was what it was.
Matt reached my side and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, but didn’t dare look at him.
“He’s having a bad day,” Matt said.
I nodded again. Clamped a hand over my mouth, hard, trying to keep myself in check. I couldn’t have spoken, even if I’d wanted to.
“You’re not okay.” His fingers came around my nape, tangled in my hair.
I turned into his chest and Matt held me close, his chin resting on my head, one hand gently stroking my hair. For a few moments I stayed there, motionless, taking refuge while I pulled myself together. Then I stayed there a few moments more, savouring his nearness.
What was it about these Frobisher boys? One way or another, they were drilling right through to my emotional core.
When I finally straightened and moved back a little, he said, “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset Stef. I should’ve thought before I spoke.”
Matt gave me a brief squeeze then held me at arm’s length so he could look me in the eye. “Stef over-reacted. He’s lived with this a long time, Becs. He knows you were being supportive. He’s just grumpy today.”
“He’s got every right to be grumpy. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it.”
He smiled, took my hand and led me to the table. “Come on, let’s eat. I’ve prepared a top notch meal for you and I want you to enjoy it. Besides, I’m not sure my date should be spending the evening crying over my brother.”
Chapter Nineteen
The entrée, an exquisite scallop concoction, sent my taste buds into raptures. Those scallops . . . that citrus chilli sauce . . . surely Matt couldn’t have prepared that himself? Yet there he was, back in the kitchen and cooking the main, not a catering box in sight.
Fascinated, I sat and watched from the safety of the breakfast bar. He worked the space with a dancer’s skill, never missing a culinary beat as he reached for a pan, filled it with water, fired up the gas hob, tossed the salt grinder from hand to hand with barman bravado, winked at me, flourished the salt over the water, then turned his attention to the oven.
I tried to imagine Matt doing the same in my kitchen and choked back a laugh. No room for artistry in there. He’d have to wedge himself in. Compared to this designer model, the pokey little cupboard Jim and I called a kitchen was truly pitiful.
Matt took a tray of freshly-baked ciabatta rolls from the oven. My mouth watered. They smelled divine. Could my own oven bake something like that?
Did my own oven even work?
He picked up the wine bottle. “Refill?”
“Please.” I pushed my empty glass across the island bench towards him.
He topped up both our wines then came around the bench, returning mine with a smile. I accepted the drink, along with the inevitable frritzz as our fingers touched, and took a sip.
Now I knew Matt’s reason for cutting short our Kinetix Centre trip, I was finding it very easy to relax and enjoy his company. Too easy.
I smiled at him over the top of my glass. “What other hidden talents do you have?”
He leaned against the wall, all casual cowboy in jeans and tee. Black jeans today; an indecently good fit. And best I didn’t think about that particular talent. I forced my eyes north.
Matt’s mouth curved. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see. Can’t give too much away in one date.”
That D-word again. My stomach flip-flopped. This was a date. With my boss. The thought looped in my mind like a scratched CD.
He thrust his free hand in his jeans pocket and the fabric tightened. My breath caught. My blood warmed.
I was such a goner.
Matt contemplated his wine, and I contemplated him. I contemplated him so hard that when he looked up I started.
“Have you signed up for Conference Week?” he asked.
“Nuh-uh.”
“You know registrations close on Friday, right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
I blew out my cheeks, forced myself to focus on his words instead of his body. “I’m not re
ally bothered, Matt. I’ve never gone before. Sales targets always came first.”
“You don’t have sales targets now.”
“True. Are all our lecturers going?”
“You bet,” he said. Conference Week coincided with a lecture-free week—a deliberate ploy so T&T’s lecturers could attend. “You shouldn’t miss it, Becs. As far as conferences go, it’s a must. Fantastic professional development.”
My lips twitched. “Professional debauchery’s what I heard.”
“Guess you shouldn’t miss that, then.”
“I’d better not commit until I’ve checked all my looming deadlines,” I said, straight-faced.
He laughed. “Touché. I mean it, Becs. Forget the deadlines. Just come.”
Matt swirled the wine in his glass, studied it, sampled it, then looked at me. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Our eyes locked. The air crackled with tension.
He opened his mouth to say more but I had a sudden attack of teenage nerves and leapt in ahead of him.
“Your water’s boiling.” I indicated the pan.
He gave a grunt of acknowledgement and hauled himself off the wall. Then stepped close, very close. So close I could see the fabric of his tee vibrating in time to his heart.
With a gentle hand he tilted my face and looked into my eyes. My mouth dried. His thumb caressed my cheek, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“I’m not going to beg, but . . . come to conference.”
He held my gaze a moment longer, then went out to the kitchen and busied himself at the stove.
Full of nervous tension, now, I stood and wandered the room. I paused here and there to touch a plant, straighten a cushion, run a finger along the back of a couch. I stopped to admire an oil painting. Its vivid colours dominated the living room wall. I cocked my head this way and that, trying to make sense of it. “Okay, I give up. What is it?”
He glanced up. “No idea. A squashed head? Split watermelon?” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a paint splodge.”
I laughed. “Nice analysis, Mr Frobisher.”
“Stef bought it. Art’s not really my thing.”
Which, actually, was reassuring. I’d finally found something he wasn’t an expert in. It made him seem more real.
A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 15