by Sionna Fox
“What did I say, young lady?” She pulled back and gripped my shoulders, glaring at me with one eyebrow cocked, but I could see the corner of her mouth twitching as she held in her laugh.
“Oh, fuck off, Izzy. I hate feeling like a mooch, you hate that I feel that way. Let’s call it even.” I shrugged her hands off my shoulders and turned back to my dinner.
“Deal.”
The following week, I finally got a contract job doing basic data entry. It was barely more than a stopgap to my bleeding savings and made no promises of employment beyond a six-month window to complete the project, but it was something, and Izzy wanted to celebrate before I started on Monday.
“We should invite Matt.”
“Izzy.”
“What? Molly says he doesn’t get out much, practically lives in his lab.”
“He certainly seemed to have friends when we saw him out that time at the bar.”
“Oh, come on. We’ve barely been out, and I know you think he’s hot, but he’s a nerd too. What happened to new town, new Mouse?”
I grimaced. I had been failing at Project Don’t Be a Shut-in. “Fine. Invite him. For one beer, Izzy.”
“One beer.”
Friday night, we were camped at a table in a semi-crowded bar waiting for Matt, who was running late, my stomach doing backflips while I willed my brain to empty of the mental images of him naked that I’d been entertaining for the better part of six weeks. I’d barely met him, knew nothing about him. But the way he’d looked at me that night, like he was studying me, like he could systematically pull me apart then put me back together again, did something to my insides. I wanted him to take me apart. Maybe he could put me back together into something new.
He strode in on his long legs, wearing fitted, dark jeans and a somewhat worse-for-the-wear, olive-green waxed canvas jacket. The thick strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulders emphasized the breadth of him. His hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it—or like someone else had been tugging on it. I nearly choked as my deeply unhelpful psyche reminded me of all the times I’d dreamed of being the one doing the tugging. With his face between my legs.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Stop it. Stop it right the fuck now. I’ll spend my first paycheck on a vibrator if this will just stop.
Why, yes, I was making desperate bargains with my vagina. Because that makes sense. I didn’t have time to hide under the table or make for an exit before he spotted us and started over, but I thought about it. Hard.
As he got closer, I wondered how long I had to stay before I excused myself to go climb out the bathroom window. Our eyes met. My brain screeched to a total halt. He gave me a satisfied, predatory smirk, holding my gaze like a challenge, and he wanted to win this time. The gears of my brain whirred back to life, and I looked away first as he got to the table. Izzy stood to give him a hug.
“Good to see you.”
“I’m glad we could tear you away from work,” Izzy teased.
He let go, set down his bag, and shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a plain black T-shirt stretched over his lean, muscled frame.
“I’ll go get a drink. Do you need another round?”
“I think we’re good. You good, Mouse?”
“Mm-hmm,” I squeaked. I wished she wouldn’t call me Mouse in front of new people, especially not in front of guys like Matthew. In my head, he was Matthew. He didn’t seem like a Matt. Matt was Molly’s nerdy older brother, Matthew was more fitting for the man who’d walked up to our table.
I could see Izzy plotting as he headed back to the table with his beer in hand. “Don’t leave me alone with him, Izzy. Seriously. Please?”
“I’m going to use the restroom.” The words were out of her mouth before he’d even fully sat down. I smacked her thigh as she passed me.
He clearly knew what Izzy was up to and had the grace to shake his head into his beer.
“Jolene, nice to see you again.” We were back to that predatory look. He knew he could chew me up, spit me out, and I wouldn’t make a peep in protest. Hell, I’d probably even offer myself up as a sacrifice, given the chance.
“Matthew.” I kept my voice as even as possible.
“Matthew. I like it.” He smiled at me, and my stomach fluttered wildly at the notion I had pleased him. “I’ve never met a Jolene before.”
“My mom is a Dolly Parton fan.” I shrugged and rubbed a water ring on the table. “Kind of weird to be named after a home-wrecker. And my middle name is Mae. Nana had a conniption when she found out I was named after not one, but two ‘women of low morals.’” Awesome. I was babbling.
Matthew laughed anyway and rescued me by changing the subject. “You know Izzy from college?”
“Uh-huh. We were roommates.” I kept my eyes down, picking at the label on my beer bottle. I didn’t trust myself to look him in the eye and speak at the same time.
“She said. You’ve stayed close, obviously. I know Izzy’s getting her master’s, but what brought you to Boston?”
There was no answer to his question that didn’t involve a long, detailed history of my family, the fact that I’d never left my hometown before, my fear of becoming a crazy cat lady, and hey, why not throw in the part where I had panic attacks about little things like leaving the house and meeting new people, but I had to say something. “She asked me to come.”
“You packed up and moved because she wanted you to?” I expected him to scoff like I was nothing more than Izzy’s willing pet, but he sounded intrigued.
“I don’t know.” I really, really didn’t. “I’m not usually impulsive. I think she caught me at the right moment.”
He raised one dark eyebrow. “Oh?”
I blushed furiously. “I needed a change.”
I shifted in my seat. The conversation felt less like polite small talk and more like an interview every time he opened his mouth. Thankfully, Izzy returned from the bathroom and saved me from Matthew’s scrutiny. I could feel his gaze on me as I sipped my beer and stripped the label while he and Izzy caught up on the last ten-odd years. I kept my eyes on his hands, long-fingered and elegant, and the way they moved as he gave us the briefest description of his post-doctoral work at the hospital. He laughed when Izzy informed him that his sister was convinced he never left the lab and was grateful we were taking him out.
“Please, tell her you’ve saved me from a lonely Friday night with the cell cultures.” He glanced at his watch. “But as it happens, I should get going.” He stood and slid into his jacket before leaning over to kiss Izzy on the cheek. “It was great to see you, Izzy.”
“You’re not going back to work?” Izzy asked incredulously, even though she was as likely to be working on a Friday night as Matthew apparently was.
He quirked his perfect mouth but didn’t otherwise acknowledge Izzy’s question. “Lovely to see you again, Jolene.”
I mumbled some sort of response as he headed for the door.
Chapter Two
I passed the weekend by focusing as much energy as possible into starting work on Monday. Errands and tearing through my closet for an outfit that said: “Why yes, I am a stable, reliable adult. No, I’m not going to quit this mind-numbing job—for which, even I, captain of the low self-esteem team can admit that I am grossly overqualified—the second something else comes along.” Because when I wasn’t focused on what was ahead, my brain started replaying every stupid thing I’d said to Matthew on Friday night. Every awkward pause before being able to respond, every choked word, the way I could feel him watching me pick the label off my beer reeled through my head whenever my attention slipped. My stomach tightened every time I remembered the curious way he’d looked at me when I’d given my wholly inadequate explanation for following Izzy to Boston.
After my basset hound of a new boss led me to my cubicle Monday morning, I sat at my desk, trying without much success to keep my eyes from glazing over. The work was as tedious as I’d expected, and finding a way to process the information faster would on
ly lead to the project being completed sooner. If I didn’t force myself to move through it at the sedate pace the company had set, I’d be out of a job all over again in mere weeks.
My phone chirped, startlingly loud amid the muffled clatter of keyboards, as I was forcing myself to use the mouse to click between fields instead of using keys to pad my time. Izzy would only be texting me at this hour if something was wrong. I turned my phone over. An unknown number. My breakfast lurched back up my throat.
Oh, fuck you, Izzy. Fuck you so hard.
The message was simple:
I’d like to have dinner with you on Wednesday. I’ll pick you up. —Matthew
Cocky fucking bastard. A small part of me wanted to say no, if only to prove a point, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn the man down. Even if I wouldn’t be able to speak the whole time, would shovel food in my face to cover the silence, and he would never, ever want to see me again.
Then I figured if I wasn’t going to turn him down flat, I could at least make him wait for a while. Not that he would be waiting for a response. He clearly assumed I wouldn’t say no. Why did I think that was kind of hot? Probably for the same reason I was having feverish dreams of him tossing me around his bed. And if I agreed to have dinner with him, I might find out what it was about him that had me tied up in knots wanting to know what his long fingers would feel like wrapped around my wrists, taking me apart, studying me with his curious intensity. But first, I was going to kill Izzy.
Jolene: What the fuck, Isolde?
I had to sit on my hands to keep from sending her a score of messages before she got out of class. By the time she responded, I had stepped down from angry to gut-churningly anxious.
Izzy: Um...
Jolene: Why did you give him my number?
Izzy: Because when was the last time you went on a date?
Jolene: I hate you.
Izzy: You’ll forgive me if you get laid.
Jolene: Fuck off.
Izzy: I’ll be home late. You love me.
She had a point, but I needed practice doing the dating thing before I attempted it with someone I might actually want to see naked. Definitely wanted to see naked. I hadn’t dated a lot in college—my dad worked maintenance there, and the possibility of running into him fixing a toilet or a blown fuse while doing the walk of shame made it kind of awkward—and my one sort of real relationship had imploded when I started to panic about graduation. I hadn’t had much practice in the six years since. A few awkward first dates had fizzled before they went anywhere, and I’d stopped caring to try. I needed training wheels and a helmet before being pushed out onto the road to fend for myself.
I finally answered his text to say yes, I was free on Wednesday. He confirmed my address and informed me that however I dressed for the office would likely be more than suitable for where he was taking me.
I didn’t hear from Matthew again until Wednesday afternoon. His message let me know what time he would arrive but gave no other information or hints about where we were going or what his plans were. Which left me pacing at the window as a car pulled up in front of our building.
I saw him at the wheel and bolted down the stairs, less concerned about seeming overly eager than I was with not having him in our apartment and making awkward small talk while I showed him around our living room. His face registered surprise at me coming out the front door as he got out of the car, but he quickly hid it and came around to the passenger side.
He opened the door and handed me in. “Jolene.”
I struggled to find my voice in return. The sound of my name on his lips and the feel of his hand in mine sent a thrill down my spine that made me wobble in my heels. “Matthew.”
He shut the door, and I took the few moments as he passed in front of the hood to drink him in. He was wearing narrow charcoal trousers and a slightly rumpled white dress shirt under the same canvas jacket he’d worn to the bar. His hair was tousled as ever, and there was a shadow along his jaw. Sense memories from my dreams insinuated themselves into my head—the scrape of stubble, the feel of his hands gripping my hips, tangled in my hair, parting my thighs—and I blushed furiously as he settled into the driver’s seat next to me.
He looked me over as he buckled his seat belt. I was wearing a tan pencil skirt and my favorite green V-neck sweater with cognac-colored heels. I had been somewhat overdressed for the office, but not knowing what to expect from the evening, I had erred on the side of caution. It didn’t hurt that the skirt and sweater clung suggestively to my hips and breasts, without making me feel like my body was on display.
I’d piled my mouse-brown hair on top of my head in its customary disheveled bun, and I wore enough blush and mascara to look peaches-and-cream pale rather than consummate indoor-kid pasty. I thought I looked all right. If I had seen the look on Matthew’s face in reference to anyone other than myself, I might have been concerned we were never going to make it to dinner. Given that it was me, I started to wonder if there was something stuck to my face.
He turned his attention away and started the car, pulling from the curb and into the flow of traffic. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him drive.
The silence was like a lead weight on my chest. I couldn’t think of what to say, I didn’t know what he wanted from me, and I was paralyzed with fear of saying the wrong thing or of blurting out whatever stray thought entered my head. I kept my mouth clamped firmly shut.
He parked on a residential block. Oh god, he’s not taking me to his place, is he? He must have seen the panic on my face because he turned to me and explained, “Parking can be a nightmare around here. It’s easier to walk a few extra blocks, if that’s okay?”
“Oh. Okay.” My relief was obvious in my voice.
“Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you and holding you hostage in my apartment.” He smiled at me, then added in an undertone, “Unless you want to play that game.”
It took considerable willpower to keep my eyebrows from shooting up to my hairline. It didn’t sound like he was joking. Do I even want him to be joking?
Future nefarious intentions aside, Matthew acted the gentleman. He opened my door and offered his hand to help me out of the car, he shortened his lengthy stride while we walked so I could keep up, and when we stopped at the door of a cozy-looking restaurant, he brushed the small of my back as he guided me through the door. That tiny, seemingly benign touch sent a shiver rippling down my spine.
“Cold?” he asked, all innocence.
“Hmm? No. Fine.”
We sat, and I tried not to gawp at the prices on the menu. If we were here, either he could afford it, or he was trying to impress me, and neither of those things were my problem. That’s what I told myself while I scanned the menu for the least expensive items and hoped I might get a couple days’ worth of leftovers.
The waiter filled our waters and I gulped mine almost as soon as he set down the glass. Matthew half smiled and I blushed. He had to know the effect he was having on me. It would have been a perfect setup for a spiral into a panic attack if he hadn’t started talking about the wine list.
“Is there anything you particularly like?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t think they have wine here you can buy at Price Cutter in a gallon jug.”
He made a face, the suggestion of gallon-jug wine apparently too much to let pass without a grimace. “So you’ll have to trust me.” The words were light, but the tone of his voice said he was talking about something more than a bottle of wine.
“I guess.”
“You guess? Or you will?” He definitely wasn’t talking about wine. I had no idea what I was agreeing to or not with my answer, but I had a feeling the night could end very differently depending on what I said next.
“I trust you.” I was pretty sure I meant it. Something about him made me feel like I could, even as he made my heart go all pitter-patter and my palms sweat.
A wide, genuine grin lit up his beautiful face. “Good girl.”
<
br /> I melted at those words, and his obvious pleasure allowed me to relax slightly. We talked more comfortably, aided at least in part by the arrival of the waiter and the subsequent glasses of the very nice wine Matthew ordered.
“Not that I know the difference between this,” I held up my glass, “and the gallon-jug stuff, but I’m glad I trusted you.”
Matthew seemed particularly pleased at my declaration. “I’m glad you think so.” His warm smile shifted into a look of absolute seriousness. “But please never drink wine from a gallon jug ever again. Don’t even joke about it.”
“Snob.” I giggled.
“Fine, I’m a snob. But I’m not wrong.”
Our food arrived and we chatted while we ate. The plates were fashionably small and the food was delicious. No leftovers were going to make it home with me, but at least I wasn’t stuffing my face to cover the awkward silences.
“You and Molly grew up in New York, right?” Food and wine had relaxed me enough to pick up some of the conversational weight.
“Right. In the suburbs, not the city, though. My father is a manager at a hedge fund, my mother was on the PTA when we were kids, now she’s on the boards of a couple of local charities.” He shrugged.
“Did you have a white picket fence and a Labrador too?”
He laughed. “Exactly. And we all have the same initials,” he mumbled.
I almost did a spit take with a mouth full of red wine. “I’m sorry, what?”
“My parents have the same initials. My mother couldn’t get over the coincidence, so we have Mike, Margaret, Matt, and Molly Ward. The dog was Max.”
“Oh my god.” I couldn’t help cackling. “That makes me feel so much better about my family. Thank you.” I reached over and patted his hand before I could overthink it.
“You’re welcome, I think. They might as well be good for something. What about your family?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. Mostly there are too many of them and they all live in the same town. My mom is the eldest of six girls. They’re all married, they all have kids, now some of the kids have kids. I swear to god, they can communicate as a hive.”