The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

“You could get Mom some ice cream,” Grayson suggested. “She always smiles when she eats ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?” Matt asked, surprised. Most women he knew avoided ice cream like the plague, lest it go straight to their thighs. Rebecca said she never touched the stuff, and barely touched the cup he had bought her at Amy’s that afternoon.

  “Mom really likes it. She eats it every day. Sometimes twice. And she has tons of buckets of it. But you have to ask first.”

  “Wait—back up,” Matt said, confused. “Your mom has tons of buckets of ice cream?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” Grayson said, jumping up from his seat and running for the back door. Curious, Matt got up and followed him into the kitchen, where one of those big, industrial-size refrigerators dominated one wall. Using two hands, Grayson yanked open the freezer side of it.

  Matt blinked.

  Inside on half of that industrial fridge was container after container of ice cream. Gallons, half gallons, pints, ice cream bars, and ice cream cups. There was chocolate, vanilla, rocky road, butter pecan, banana . . . lots of flavors with funky names, like Making Whoopie Pie and Blue Lagoonba—every conceivable flavor a man could imagine . . . but nothing else. There was not a single frozen dinner, no meat, no vegetables, no ice even. Just ice cream. “Wait,” Matt said, releasing his breath and finding his voice. “Where’s the meat?”

  “That one,” Grayson said, pointing to a small chest freezer next to the dishwasher.

  Astounded, Matt turned and looked at the freezer again. “I think you might have a good idea here, sport,” he said, scratching his head as he gaped at the freezer, and wondered how in the hell someone as near perfect as Rebecca Lear could hide so much ice cream. In her house and in her body.

  Which was one of the reasons he was looking at her so intently when she came walking out on the porch, wearing a blue-green slip of a dress that hugged her body. On her feet were matching sandals; her hair was brushed back into a soft, silky tail that fell down her back. She wore just a touch of turquoise jewelry, enough to bring out the pale blue of her eyes. Rebecca looked, as always, absolutely amazing.

  Apparently, ice cream was all she was eating, judging by the way she picked at the monster burger he bought her at Sam’s Corner Hamburger Hut (which was, as one might have guessed, right across the street from Sam’s Corner Grocery and Sam’s Corner Video). Matt and Rebecca sat across from each other, listening and laughing at Grayson’s amazingly long and convoluted story of a Yu-Gi-Oh! card that he and Taylor had stolen back and forth, which apparently ended with a badly torn card and two kids in the preschool administrator’s office.

  At the end of Grayson’s earnestly told tale, Rebecca looked sheepishly at Matt. “He’s having some anger management issues,” she confided in him.

  “Anger management?” Matt snorted. “He’s getting picked on and he’s taking care of it, aren’t you, Gray?”

  “I’m going to pound his face in!” Grayson declared, to which Matt gave him a thumbs-up. “And then I’m going to get on the top of the school and jump on him, and then I’m going to kick him and put dog poop in his face, and—”

  “Grayson,” Rebecca said calmly. “Remember what we talked about—dog poop does not belong in anyone’s face.”

  Okay, so maybe the kid needed to turn it down a notch, but the bottom line was, he was a boy, and boys figured out their problems with their fists. Grayson would grow out of it; all boys did. But anger management? Sounded like more mumbo-jumbo crap, and if there was one thing Matt wished for Rebecca, it was that she would get that stuff out of her lovely head.

  They returned to Rebecca’s lake house just as the sun was beginning to set, and Rebecca obliged Matt’s request for a pail, a flashlight, and a barbeque fork (although she objected to the fork, but not as loudly as she objected to Matt’s attempt to explain its purpose), and away they went, two guys out to do a little frog giggin’.

  Rebecca stood on the back porch and watched them walking down the long stretch of lawn, the dogs trailing lazily behind, Grayson struggling with the pail he had insisted on carrying as he looked up at Matt with pure adoration.

  She hadn’t realized—at least not so clearly as in this moment—that a man like Matt was exactly what her son needed. She had thought he needed his father, but it was more than that—he needed a man he could look up to. That very basic and unfulfilled need was what made Grayson so angry with her when he came home from a visit with Bud. He wanted a dad and he wanted his dad to be like Matt. And he was too young to understand why he couldn’t have both a mom and a dad like he deserved. Rebecca could remember feeling that way, too. She’d been a little older, but the need for both parents had been as real to her as it was to Grayson now.

  In Matt, he’d found a male figure to make up for the absence of a rotten father. That Matt didn’t seem to mind, and in fact, seemed to like Grayson’s company, touched her heart so thoroughly that her eyes were suddenly burning with gratitude.

  Oh, man. Oh, man . . . she was in too deep, over her head. Grayson’s infatuation with Matt could not possibly be a good idea. She wasn’t part of Tom’s campaign anymore and she feared setting her son up for more disappointment.

  But would it be another disappointment? Was she making an assumption that she and Matt could not see each other, could not even be friends, really, after the things they had said to each other that night at the Four Seasons? If she believed they couldn’t, then what did she make of that kiss on the dock? What about the electricity that had flowed between them, had always flowed between them? And did the man who had a reputation of having been with every woman around town spark that electricity in everyone, or was it hers alone? Was it possible she had fallen under his charming spell once again and was giving in too quick? Was she being played for a fool? Or was it possible that for once, she could trust her instincts? Was it even possible that she could, for perhaps the first time in her life, act on her instincts?

  This was such difficult territory, such ominous caverns and valleys and peaks in her mind and heart that she had never before explored. Most of her adult life she’d been with the same man. In the last few years, she’d been with that man almost hating him, certainly resenting him, wishing things were different. Her days had been filled with regret, not hope. Was this hope?

  She picked up a paperback and sat on the back porch, but her mind was racing; she was too full of doubtful questions and wishful thinking to read. Just a few days ago she had decided to eschew all the self-help stuff—the lifelines she had clung to in the last year. She had decided to go with her gut, whatever may come. And her gut had told her to stay as far away from Matt Parrish as she could get. Now she didn’t know what to think; she couldn’t seem to find her true north. All she knew was that this man, for whatever reason, lit a fire in her like no man had ever done before, and she really didn’t know how to turn away from that. Or even if she should. Or even if she could.

  Welcome to your life, Rebecca. Nothing is certain anymore.

  Twenty-Seven

  I know nothing about sex because I was always married . . .

  ZSA ZSA GABOR

  When Matt and Grayson returned an hour or so later, Rebecca was still sitting on the back porch, still holding the book from which she had not read a single word, still conflicted by her emotions. It therefore took her a moment to notice that Matt’s pants were rolled up to his knees, and that he was carrying his boots. His white shirt was splattered with mud, and Grayson and the dogs were soaking wet.

  “Find any frogs?” she asked dryly, while hoping to high heaven they would not actually show her any gigged frogs.

  “No,” Grayson moaned, clearly disappointed. “They wouldn’t come out.”

  “It didn’t help that old Bean here was doing his own version of frog hunting,” Matt said as he leaned up against the railing of the porch. “There’s something seriously wrong with that dog.” Rebecca laughed; Matt smiled. “So what have you been doing while we were watching Bean ea
t frogs?”

  “Reading.”

  Matt looked at her book. “Must be riveting.”

  Rebecca glanced down, noticed that her book was upside down, and quickly put it aside. “Well!” she said brightly, gaining her feet and running her damp palms down the side of her hips. “I know a little boy who needs a bath!”

  “I know a bigger boy who could use one, too,” Matt suggested. “I have a clean shirt in the car if you would let me borrow a shower.”

  As ridiculously juvenile as it was, the thought of him naked in her house sent a very warm and unexpected shiver up Rebecca’s spine. “Absolutely!” she said. “Yes, sir. A shower. We’ve got plenty of those, huh, Gray?”

  “We only have two, Mom,” Grayson said. “The one next to my room and the one in your room.”

  Rebecca laughed—something like a horse’s whinny—and grabbed Grayson’s shoulders. “That’s right. Just two. Okay, come on, I’ll show you where,” she said, and pushed her son into the house with Matt following.

  They walked down the long hallway to her room, but when they crossed the threshold of her inner sanctum, Grayson squirmed out of her grip and ran to the bath. “Nice,” Matt said, looking around at the pale blue walls, the rustic quilt that covered her bed, and the whitewashed furniture. “A person could really hide out here for a few days.”

  Rebecca shot him a look; he smiled pleasantly. Rebecca walked (or staggered, she wasn’t really sure) into the master bath.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking at the extra-large shower, which Rebecca remembered a moment too late, had been built specifically for two people. “I appreciate it.”

  “Towels are there. Shampoo, soap, that sort of thing in the shower.”

  “Great.”

  She tapped Grayson on the shoulder. “Come on, kiddo, we need to get that mud off you.” She walked out of the bath, thought she could feel Matt’s eyes on her, and as Grayson went darting past her, she casually glanced over her shoulder. He was looking at her, all right, that deep intense gaze boring right through her. “Umm anything you need?” she asked.

  A curious smile came over Matt’s face. “I think all that I need is right here.”

  She really had to stop reading something into every little statement he made. But even just standing there her skin was doing that prickly thing. She ushered Grayson out of her room and across the house to his bath.

  While she helped him bathe and get the big clump of mud out of his hair, she barely heard his chatter, something to do with the habits of frogs. Her mind was filled with the image of Matt standing in her bathroom, looking at her in a way that made her feel so tingly.

  When Grayson finished his bath, she helped him dress in his favorite pajamas, saw him to bed, and was prepared to read to him, but Grayson wasn’t interested.

  “You don’t want a story?” she asked, surprised.

  “No, because I went frog hunting and now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn for what?”

  “I dunno,” he said, settling back against the pillow. “Maybe ice cream, because you really like ice cream.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I do like ice cream.” she said, and kissed Grayson good night, left him to dream about frogs while Tater dozed on the floor next to his bed.

  As she walked down the hall to the great room, she could hear Matt in the kitchen. He had dressed in a fresh polo shirt, had wiped the mud off his jeans pretty well, and was padding barefoot around the old oak floors of her kitchen. Frank, Bean, and Tot were with him, all lounging, their heads between their paws, their snouts pointed at empty dog bowls.

  Matt looked up and smiled as Rebecca walked in. “Your dogs are hungry.”

  “They’re con artists,” Rebecca said, sliding onto a bar stool. “They’ve all been fed.” Frank thumped his tail against the floor in acknowledgement of the truth.

  “Is that right?” he asked, frowning down at the dogs. “They scammed me out of a couple of biscuits, then.” He looked up at Rebecca as he reached into a bag of grapes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I sort of invaded your pantry.” He paused, held up a bottle of wine for her to see.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, and in fact, thought it was kind of nice, particularly seeing as how he had some French cheeses arranged on a platter, and was now putting grapes around the cheese. “I had no idea you were a gourmet.”

  “A gourmet I’m not,” he said with a laugh. “This is something my mom does. I have no culinary skills, but I copy well. Except,” he said, frowning down at the platter, “there’s something she always puts with it . . .”

  “Just a wild guess, but maybe crackers?”

  “Yes!” he said, snapping his fingers. “So you’re the gourmet.”

  “As it happens, I have dabbled in the culinary arts. Enough to at least know that crackers go with cheese,” she said. “I’ll get them for you.”

  “Great. Will you bring them outside?” he asked as he stuffed the wine bottle under his arm and picked up the platter.

  Rebecca fetched the crackers and followed him out onto the porch. He’d lit three citronella candles that she kept out back to keep the mosquitoes at bay. There were two wineglasses and a corkscrew, too. Matt put down the platter, took the crackers from her hand, and emptied some onto the platter. He stood back, looked critically at his efforts, and finally shrugged. “I don’t know why, but it always looks a lot better when she does it,” he confessed, and picked up the corkscrew and wine bottle.

  “Do you see her often?” Rebecca asked.

  “Too often,” Matt said with a roll of his eyes. “My folks live in Dripping Springs, and my brothers and sister and I troop out for dinner every Sunday night if our schedules allow. My folks get a little testy if we don’t make it. So what about you? See your parents much?”

  Well, let’s see . . . Dad’s an ass and Mom avoids him like the plague, so no, we don’t get together much, she thought, but said, “Not too often. Dad lives in New York most of the time, and Mom lives in California.”

  “Ah. Opposite ends of the country. I’ve been handled a couple of divorces like that,” he said, as he pulled the cork. “Frankly, I was thinking you and I were going to end up like that,” he said as he poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “Opposite ends of the universe, I mean.”

  Rebecca sat in one of the padded wicker chairs. “You did?”

  “Well, yeah,” Matt responded matter-of-factly. “We’ve been going around and around, wouldn’t you say?”

  Rebecca’s heart did a funny little skip. “Going around and around what?” she asked, forcing herself to take a sip of wine as Matt fell lightly into the seat next to her.

  That made him laugh, as if they shared some little intimate joke, and he leaned over, put his hand on her forearm. Involuntarily, her body flinched; how embarrassing that even the smallest of his gestures could send a shock of light through her.

  “You’re stiff as a board, Rebecca,” he said softly. “Are you afraid?”

  Afraid? Ha! Like I have something to be afraid of! Lord, no! I am just . . . just what if he says he loves you again? “Would you like some cheese?” she asked abruptly, leaning forward so that her arm escaped his scorching touch, and busied herself by putting some cheese on a cracker. “Gouda!” she exclaimed, feeling strangely nervous, and deathly afraid of any silence. “I love Gouda, don’t you? Once, when I was in France, I found this little cheese shop, and I ordered two pounds of it. But my French isn’t very good—actually, I don’t know French at all, just a few words and phrases, but anyway, the shopkeeper said he didn’t have that much and he’d deliver the cheese, which, if you think about it, is kind of a funny thing to say, but anyway, when they brought the cheese around, it was more like two wagonloads.” She thrust the cracker at him. “It was Gouda.”

  Matt’s steady gaze did not waver as he respectfully put the cracker down. “Rebecca—”

  “It’s good you had a clean shirt,” she blathered as her mind raced wildly.

  Matt looked
down at his clothing. “I always keep an extra shirt in the car. You never know, right?”

  “No. You always know,” she said.

  Matt glanced up. “What?”

  Her heart began to sink, because she realized, as her gaze dropped to his shoulders, that his extra shirt was exactly the problem. “I always know,” she said, still staring at his shirt. “I always know where I am going to be, without question. And the fact that you don’t always know where you are going to be or who you are going to be with is just a little . . . a little . . .”

  “Disconcerting?”

  “Disconcerting.”

  “But why would that be disconcerting for you?” he asked.

  “Because,” she said, and put her glass down, “because I always know. At least I think I do, but honestly? When it comes to you, I don’t know anything.”

  “I do,” he said calmly.

  “Great. I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl again, and wondering how I could have met the one man who really lights a fire in me, and he is the type to carry extra shirts in his car, and I am the type to never need an extra shirt.”

  “Really?” he asked, looking pleased. “I light your fire?”

  Rebecca moaned and sank back against the wicker chair. “I’ve really, truly, lost my mind.”

  Matt laughed and playfully squeezed her knee. “It’s okay, Rebecca—I don’t think an extra shirt in the car is a statement about the way I live. And like you, I’ve lost my mind, because you really light my fire, too.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked uncertainly. “This isn’t one of those conquest things?”

  He smiled a little. “If this was one of those conquest things, as you put it, I wouldn’t be doing this much talking.”

  That went shooting straight to the pit of her groin, and Rebecca smiled. She straightened up in her chair. “How do you know it’s not an infatuation?”

  Matt sighed wearily. “You’re really a lot of work, girl, you know that? This is real, Rebecca. Believe me. Look, I know you probably have a hard time trusting because you must get a lot of fawning over you all the time, simply because you’re so drop-dead gorgeous—”