by Mary Campisi
***
“Couldn't wait to see me again, huh?” Matt's lips twitched into a half smile.
“Hey,” Jeff said, “you're leaving for sunny California in a few hours. Who knows when you'll grace this side of the continent again? Probably not until you're promoting your next bestseller.” He laughed. “Besides, I have an affinity for airport food…something about the cardboard taste. Mmmmm.”
“Especially the hot dogs. Cardboard mixed with rubber.”
“Right.” Jeff untwisted the cap on his bottled water and took a drink. “So how's it feel to have that ugly mug plastered all over Pittsburgh?”
Matt shrugged, trying to block out the airline attendant's voice. Flight 452 to Dallas-Fort Worth is now boarding… “People probably get tired of looking at me. I know I sure as hell do.”
Jeff laughed. “Not the female population. We've been sitting here less than five minutes and you've gotten the eye from just about every woman who's passed by.”
“Is there something on my shirt?” Matt brushed his hands over his polo. “My face?” He rubbed his chin.
“It's your face all right, you dummy. And I guess all the rest of you. Hell if I know, I'm a guy. But my assistant still can't believe she actually talked to you on the phone this morning.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “I'll be hearing about it for the next five months.”
“I bet your office will be thrilled.”
“Aside from me, yeah, they will be.”
“I'm sure they won't all be doing handstands.” He could think of one person who wouldn’t want to hear his name or see his face.
There was a long pause. “Well…”
“Right. Well.” So what if she didn't want to hear about him? He didn't want to hear about her either. In less than two hours he'd be in the air again, away from Pittsburgh. Safe.
“How was the game yesterday?” Jeff asked.
“Boring.” He thought of the woman, huddled up, hiding from something, her pain, maybe.
“She was there, you know.”
Matt jerked his head up, said nothing. He knew who she was.
Jeff drummed his fingers on the Formica table. “Said she saw you.”
“What?” Sara saw him? Yesterday? Impossible.
“Said she saw you,” Jeff repeated, his voice calm.
“I didn't see her.”
Jeff shrugged. “Said you even talked to her.”
“Bullshit. The woman's a liar.” Blood pounded in his temples. “Is this why you wanted to see me before I left? To tell me about her?”
“Look, Matt, I don't know what happened between the two of you, but even an idiot can see you're both miserable. Hell, you've both been walking around half dead since she came back here and I think it's time you talked things out.”
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“She's a wonderful woman.”
“Great. Glad to hear it.”
“She'd make a wonderful wife.”
“I hear she's already had that role.”
“That was low. Her ex-husband was a real bastard. Cheated on her and left her when she lost their baby.”
“So I heard.”
“You two are perfect for each other. Can't you think about settling down?”
Matt clenched his jaw, said nothing.
“Make a commitment, think about loving just one woman?”
“She didn't want me.” Cold truth.
“I don't believe it.”
Matt shrugged. “Doesn't matter. It's over and she and I both know what caused it.”
“Can't you even talk to her?”
“Listen to me, dammit. There's nothing to talk about. Do you understand?”
“No. I really don't.”
Anger pushed out his next words. “And I don't know why she'd tell you we talked,” he said, his voice rising with each word. “I didn't talk to anybody except some poor, pathetic woman ...” It hit him then ... the hunched figure in his seat... the tears . . . the refusal to speak… The woman in his seat had been Sara.
***
Sara dipped the washcloth in the pan of ice water, wrung it out and placed it on her forehead. Her head was still throbbing. It had started at the ball game yesterday, a dull ache that worked itself into a full-blown pounding this morning, right after she told Jeff about her encounter with Matt.
She still couldn't believe he'd been at the stadium, sitting right beside her, talking to her… like a stranger. She'd always wondered if he'd recognize her if they ever saw each other, maybe identify her somehow. But he hadn't. He'd said a few words but in the end, he'd only pitied her. She drifted off thinking of him and how he pitied her.
Minutes or hours later, a shrill ring tore through her sleep, yanking her awake. “Agghhhh.” She rolled to her side and pushed the hair from her face. Her headache was better, reduced to a faint pulsing in her temples. The ringing started again. Doorbell. Someone was at the door. If she closed her eyes again, maybe they'd just go away. It stopped, but a few seconds later, the pounding started.
“Okay, okay,” Sara called from the sofa. “I'm coming.” She pushed into a sitting position, stood, and straightened her sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Just a minute.” If it was some person selling magazines, she was going to scream.
She opened the door, preparing her ‘no thank you’ line, but the words lodged squarely in the middle of her throat, blocking speech and thought, trapping everything but the vision of Matthew Brandon standing on her doorstep.
“Sara.”
She stared. It really was him, looking cool and beautiful in his faded jeans and black turtleneck, like he'd just walked off the cover of GQ. His silver gaze narrowed, no doubt taking in her baggy blue sweats and gray sweatshirt. And fuzzy red slippers. Ugh. She shrank back a little, tried to pat her hair down. What a mess. She didn't want him to see her like this, like some pathetic urchin, worn and tattered.
“Did I wake you?”
“I…” She wrapped her arms around her middle. Even a cold, remote Matt Brandon was dangerous to her defenses. “I had a headache so I laid down…”
“I guess I should have called first.” His words were stiff and forced.
“Would you like to come in?” Say no, say you've got a prior engagement. Say anything.
He nodded. “Sure.”
Sara’s heart pounded hard and fast as he stepped past her and entered the living room. He stood there, next to the Peace Lilly, drinking in the tiny room—the overstuffed sofa and faded rocker, the ceramic pots stuffed with lavender, the windowsill filled with African violets, the canvas splattered with ten different shades of blue. “A little smaller than what you're used to,” she said, trying to find something safe to say, anything to break the awkward silence.
His gaze swung back to the windowsill and the six African violets perched on the edge. Two purple, two white, two pink. “It's you.” Had his voice softened, just a little? “Totally you.”
“It's home.”
“Right. Home.” He cleared his throat, jammed his hands in his pockets. “So, how are things?”
“Fine. I'm keeping busy.” Since she'd returned from California, she'd signed up for classes in yoga, Feng Shui, Asian cooking. Anything to keep her mind off Matt Brandon. She'd even joined a book club discussion group that met once every two weeks, but she'd dropped out when they selected Matt's book for discussion.
“I'm pretty busy too,” he said. “Book tours, speaking engagements, plotting my next book.” His gaze settled on her.
“Great. You must be very excited.” Damn you, Matthew Brandon, why did you come?
“Over the Edge could be as big as Dead Moon Rising. I've got some in the car, let me grab one for you and sign it.”
Sara raised a hand to stop him. “That's okay,” she said. “I've already got one.” Her voice faded out as she remembered the scene at his book signing. At least he didn't recognize her, thank God.
“Oh? Where is it? I'll sign that one.”
You already did. “H
mm. I don't know where I put it.” She scratched her head, shot a sideways glance at the rocker. Half of Over the Edge lay exposed, right in the middle of the seat, the other half was covered with the yellow-and-blue afghan.
Matt followed her gaze. “And…there it is,” he said, walking over and snatching it from its spot.
“Hmm. How about that.” She twisted her fingers behind her back, watching as he flipped the pages open. Any second now and he'd know.
He looked up, confused. “Sara?”
“Yes?” Play dumb, until the last possible second, play dumb.
“‘Thank you for coming, laryngitis and all.’ The woman with laryngitis, the one who ran away, that was you?” She nodded. “You didn't really have laryngitis at all, did you?” His silver gaze was on her.
“No.”
“Why did you pretend? And why did you run away?”
“I guess I just didn't want to face you. Not then, not there.” Not here, either. “I know it was a stupid thing to do, but it was easier than putting either of us in an awkward situation.” She tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. “Can you imagine us meeting for the first time since…since California?” She shook her head, feeling suddenly light-headed. “It would not have been a good scene. And imagine the gossip. I saved us both a lot of grief by just pretending.”
“Is that what you do when you want to avoid something, Sara? Pretend?”
She ignored his question. Her reasons for doing things were none of his business.
Matt moved toward her, stopped a few feet away. “Aren't you going to answer me?”
“No.” She looked away. “Can I offer you something to drink? Lemonade? Tea? Coffee?”
“You can offer me an answer for starters.”
Her right temple started to throb. “Well, then, I'm really glad you stopped by, especially with your busy schedule…” And now it's time for you to leave.
“I didn't know that was you at the game yesterday.”
Her gaze swung back to his. “Jeff told you, didn't he? That's what this is all about, isn't it?”
“He said you were upset.” He touched her shoulder. She flinched. “Why would you be upset?”
Maybe because you broke my heart. “I don't know. I didn't expect to see you again.”
“Oh, I get it. Your morals finally caught up with you, huh?” The left side of his jaw twitched. “You couldn't face me. That's it, isn't it?”
“My morals? My morals?” Both temples were pounding now. “That's a joke, right? Well, excuse me if I don't laugh.”
“You're the one who left me,” he said, bitterness coating every word out of his mouth.
“Semantics, that's all it is. You would have dumped me as soon as you regained your vision.”
“Oh really?” He took a step closer. “And how do you know that?”
“I know. Can't we just stop this? What difference does it make now?”
“Is that why you ran home and hopped into bed with another guy?”
“What?”
“I know.” His lips flattened. “I called you about a week after you left. Seven thirty in the morning. Pittsburgh time. Some guy answered, said you were in the shower.”
“Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands. “It was you.”
“Yeah. Oh my God. So don't play the wounded victim. You left me. You broke the trust.” His voice cracked. “You. Not me.”
She lifted her head, peeked through a tangle of hair. “I haven't been with any man,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Sara—”
“It was Greg.”
“For Christ's sake, I don't want to know the bastard's name.”
“Greg,” she repeated. “My brother.”
“What?” Matt pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared at her. “What did you say?”
“My brother was staying with me. He's the one who answered the phone.”
“Jesus.” He ran both hands over his face. “You mean all this time ... I thought...”
“I was never with another man.”
“So why did you leave?”
“I had to,” she said. “After our last night together, I knew if I didn't go then, I never would. I'd stay as long as you'd have me, desperate and hoping, until there was nothing left and I was sucked dry.” She hesitated a second, then pushed past months of grief and anguish. “Please understand, Matt. I had to go.”
The brackets around his mouth deepened. “Why couldn't you have waited until morning and talked to me about it? Do you know the first thing I thought about when I woke up? I was going to apologize for acting like such a jerk. And then I was going to tell you I loved you, even though I was probably the last one to figure it out.”
Tears stung her eyes. What had she done?
“There's more,” he said. “After I spilled my heart out to you, told you all these wonderful things, I was going to ask you to be my wife.” There was pain in his eyes. “But you were gone.”
Sara buried her face in her hands.
“Look at me, Sara.”
Her head inched up.
He reached out, touched her cheek. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured, trailing his fingers down her face. “So damned beautiful.”
“No.” She let out a sharp laugh, backing away from his touch. “I'm just me. Ordinary. Always ordinary.” She sniffed. “Nothing like what you're used to. You would have tired of me. You know that.”
“You are beautiful. But you were beautiful even when I couldn't see you. Do you know why?” He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “Because you care about people and you make them want to care about themselves, want to do better, be better. Live by a code of honor and decency. I'd never tire of that.” He pulled her to him. “You made me want to be better, Sara,” he whispered in her ear. “And I will always love you for that. Did you hear that, Dr. Hamilton?” he asked, letting out a long sigh. “I just told you in a roundabout way that I loved you.” He planted a small kiss near her ear, sending shivers through her. “Now, I'm telling you in a very direct way that I'm making a commitment to you.” He pulled her closer. “And I want one from you.”
“I love you.”
“Then be my wife,” he said, cupping her chin with his fingers. “Love me. Forever.”
She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Forever,” she whispered, “I will love you, Matthew Brandon, forever.”
Much, much later, Sara lay snuggled in Matt's arms, listening to his slow steady breathing. Her fingers rested on his shoulder, skin to skin. He was here. In her bed. In her life. It was so much better than a dream.
“Hello, beautiful.” His voice was soft and warm.
Beautiful. When he called her that, when he touched her or looked at her with those silver eyes, she felt beautiful. “Hi,” she murmured, turning her head to look at his face. His eyes were closed but he was smiling.
“You wore me out. I'm dead,” he said, sliding his hand down to her hip.
“You're just out of shape.” She rolled over, her breasts rubbing against his chest. “Nothing a little practice won't cure.”
He laughed. “You know, Jack Steele had this same problem.”
Sara smoothed his rumpled hair. “I read all about it. In detail,” she added.
“So you know the cure,” he said.
Her gaze flew to his. He was watching her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Six times a day? Really, Matt,” she tsk-tsked him.
“Okay. I'll settle for three,” he said, pulling her on top of him.
She laughed. “I guess I should be thankful to Jack. After all, if it weren't for him, you wouldn't be here.”
“Good old Jack,” Matt said, smiling at her as his hands worked down her back, toward her butt.
“What's going to happen to him now? He's in love. He's getting married. His MO's blown to pieces.” Sara planted little kisses on his chest, her fingers circling his nipples.
“Don't you worry about Jack,” he said, stroking her legs. “He's
still investigating. But now he's got a partner.”
“Ah, a partner,” she murmured. “That could be interesting.” His body jumped in response. “Very interesting.” She trailed her tongue down the flat planes of his stomach.
“He'll have more sex,” he groaned. Her tongue darted inside his navel. “Better sex,” he rasped.
She lifted her head and offered him a smile that told him she was just getting started. “Well, you're going to need a research assistant,” she said, her voice husky, low. “I think I'd be the perfect candidate.”
His gaze burned her. “Yes,” he said. “You're the perfect candidate.” His lips turned down. “But did I mention this was a long-term assignment?”
“Oh?” she asked as her hair brushed his stomach.
He sucked in his breath. “It could take…a…lifetime,” he finished with a groan.
“I'm counting on it,” she murmured, moving lower. “I'm counting on forever.”
The End
If you would like to be notified when Mary releases a new book, sign up for her mailing list at http://www.marycampisi.com
The following is an excerpt from THE WAY THEY WERE:
He hasn’t spoken her name in fourteen years. She keeps a journal hidden in the back of her closet and permits herself to write about him once a year—on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love. They promised to love one another forever, but tragedy tore them apart. Now, destiny may just bring them back together.
At eighteen, Rourke Flannigan and Kate Redmond thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together—until a family tragedy tore them apart. Fourteen years have passed and they’ve both carved out separate lives hundreds of miles apart—hers as a wife and mother, his as a successful, driven businessman. But once a year, on the anniversary of her daughter’s birth, Kate pulls out a red velvet journal and writes a letter, which she’ll never send, to the man who still owns her heart. Once a year, on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love, Rourke permits himself to read the annual investigative report detailing an ordinary day in Kate’s life.