Hard Habit to Break

by Linda Cajio

  “Here’s your sugar,” she said as she walked back into the room.

  Smiling broadly, he took the filled bowl from her. “Thanks. You’re a life saver.”

  She smiled back, and he decided to do his damnedest to insure they’d be more than just neighbors.

  “How about steak on the grill?” he asked.

  She blinked. “Steak?”

  “Or chicken. Whatever you want.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He chuckled. “Dinner on Tuesday. Bring your empty stomach, and I’ll burn something on the grill.”

  “Ahh … dinner.” Her cheeks seemed more rosy, and she shifted her eyes away from him for an instant before adding, “That’s very kind, Mr. Callahan.…”

  “Matt.”

  “Matt. But you’ve probably got a lot of unpacking to do.”

  “And dinner with you will be a nice break.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips and gallantly kissed the back of it. “Have pity on an overworked man, Liz, and come to dinner.”

  “But …”

  “I promise not to say a word if you smoke.”

  “It isn’t that—”

  “Good. Three a day is quite an accomplishment after thirty.”

  He turned her hand over and planted another kiss on her sensitive palm. To his elation, he heard a tiny moan from deep in her throat. She did feel something too. But he also sensed she was holding back. He wondered if her divorce had left deep scars that he’d have to overcome.

  Suddenly and fiercely he wanted to remove those scars and insure she would never have an unhappy moment again. Then another equally strong urge shot through him. He’d love to punch her ex-husband in the mouth.

  His violent reaction took him by surprise, and he kissed her hand again, tasting the soft skin more fully this time. He raised his head and gazed into her wide gray eyes.

  “Dinner on Tuesday, Liz. I absolutely insist.”

  She hesitated, and Matt knew if he gave her a chance, she’d say no. He quickly walked over to the front door.

  “Thanks again for the sugar. I’ll see you at seven on Tuesday.”

  He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, not noticing the swaying curtains at three houses across the street. He grinned into the dark night and half-ran across the lawn to his large gingerbread-laced Victorian home.

  Maybe he’d cut that hole in the hedge tomorrow.

  Two

  “He’s gorgeous!”

  Seated behind her desk, Liz bent her head even lower toward her paperwork and moaned silently. Her own words had returned to haunt her. Her bank tellers had gossiped all morning about Matt, and they were still at it.

  “I wonder why he’s not married,” one said.

  “Maybe he’s divorced,” another replied.

  “Maybe he just wants a weekend place in the country. We’ve got lots of part-timers around here.”

  “Who cares? He’s the handsomest man to ever live in Hopewell. Part-timer or not.”

  Firmly ignoring the growing urge to scream, Liz prayed they’d stop soon. They had to stop talking about Matt sometime, she thought without much hope. And she couldn’t reprimand them for it. She’d always allowed the girls to chat together as long as they waited on the customers and did their paperwork right. To speak to them now about gossiping would only have them wondering what was wrong with her.

  It wouldn’t take them very long to find the answer. Liz sighed, knowing she was trapped. It was enough to make her want a cigarette.

  Her gaze remained unfocused on the deposit reports she was supposed to be coordinating for the bank’s central office in Swanton. She wished she had a whole pack of cigarettes in her hands. She’d light all twenty at once. Tonight she had to face Matt and tell him she wasn’t dining with him tomorrow evening.

  Groaning in self-disgust this time, Liz had a sure feeling she’d be reduced to oatmeal again. What was the matter with her anyway? Why couldn’t she seem to act like a mature adult around him? Okay, so he was good-looking, and charming, and sexy …

  In her mind’s eye she could see Matt as he stood behind the hedge. She could almost feel the dense swath of hair on his chest. It would be like silk under her hands. And the skin that glistened like oiled oak in the sunlight would be smooth and damp—

  “Hi, Liz.”

  Her wits scattered at the sound of an already too familiar voice speaking her name. She glanced up in shock to find the object of her erotic daydream standing before her.

  This time, at least, Matt was completely dressed. But his loose white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows emphasized a multitude of perfections. The broad shoulders seemed broader, the hard chest harder, and the trim waist even trimmer. The beige pleated trousers he wore were the latest male fashion.

  Not only was Matt Callahan charismatic and virile, he had style too.

  Telling herself she couldn’t possibly have conjured him off the pages of Esquire magazine and into the bank, Liz tried to compose herself into a semblance of normalcy. As she stood, her shaking legs told her normal was impossible. She decided to try for semi-idiocy.

  “Hello, Mr. Callahan,” she said, surprised at the strong formal tone of her voice. She’d been so sure she’d sound like a croaking frog again. To her left, she caught a glimpse of Georgina and Mavis leaning forward over the marble counter, obviously intent on hearing every word. “May I help you?”

  Matt shot her a puzzled look. “I thought we’d gotten to first names last night.”

  Liz instantly wished the bank’s roof would collapse on them. A hurricane blow through town. A bomb go off in City Hall across the street. Anything!

  The silence was deafening.

  So much for positive thinking, she decided after one hope-filled moment.

  “I’m sorry … Matt,” she replied hastily, thinking fast to disarm the bomb he’d innocently tossed her. “When you stopped by so briefly last night, I didn’t get a chance to welcome you to Hopewell. Welcome to Hopewell. Is there something the bank can do for you this morning?”

  Leaning his hand on her desk, Matt grinned. “It seems we forgot to talk about a lot of things last night.”

  Liz wondered wildly if the man was trying to sabotage her reputation. There wasn’t anything he could say to make the situation worse.

  “You didn’t mention you worked at the bank,” he went on. “Thanks again for your sweet contribution to my morning. I don’t know what I would have done without it,” he added with an even wider grin.

  Her stomach lurching, Liz cursed silently. She’d been optimistic in thinking the situation couldn’t be worse. Somehow Matt, in his innocence, had found a way to make her sound almost like the town hooker.

  Maybe she was reading more into his words than anyone else might. After all, she was nervous and on edge with him, she reasoned.

  Mentally crossing her fingers, she shifted her gaze over Matt’s shoulder. Georgina’s and Mavis’s eyes were popping, and if they leaned over the counter any farther, they’d slide right down to the floor.

  “Dammit!” Liz muttered, looking around for a mousehole to crawl into.

  “What?” Matt asked with a blank look.

  Suddenly she was furious with him, the nosy tellers, and a job that practically required her to walk on water. But she resisted the urge to vent her frustration. Her job was important to her, not only for income but also for her self-esteem. Granted walking on water wasn’t a listed job requirement, but she’d do it if she had to. And everybody in a small town took an interest in everybody else. That was only human nature.

  And that’s the way it is, she told herself. Walter Cronkite really knew how to turn a phrase.

  She gave a very saccharine smile, first to Matt and then to the tellers. “I don’t like black coffee either, so I was glad to lend you the sugar. Now I assume you’re not here to return what you borrowed and want to open an account with the bank.”

  Matt chuckled. “
Ah … a mind reader.”

  “Lucky guess. Please have a seat.” She glared at Georgina and Mavis, who suddenly began shuffling papers.

  Still chuckling, Matt sat down in one of the two chrome and vinyl chairs on the other side of her desk. “Actually I do want to transfer some of my money up here for a household account.”

  Sitting back down in her chair, Liz pulled a new-accounts application and money transfer form from a drawer and laid it on the desk. Picking up a pen, she gazed expectantly at Matt with what she hoped was a businesslike expression. Now that she wasn’t concerned with the tellers, her glands were beginning to work overtime again.

  “I’ll need to ask a few questions for our records and call your bank to confirm your account. The money should take no longer than twenty-four hours to be transferred here. But there won’t be any problem if you need to cash a check today.” Liz congratulated herself for not betraying her internal state with her voice.

  “I can wait,” Matt replied, his green eyes focused unwaveringly on her face. “Go ahead with the questions, Liz. I know I’m in good hands.”

  His words provoked an unwanted but very vivid picture in Liz’s mind. She instantly suppressed it and sternly told herself, Just get the interview over with, and get him out of here!

  He answered her questions easily until she asked about his occupation.

  “Retired,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

  Surprised, she stared at him. Retired? He couldn’t be in his mid-thirties yet. Then a thought occurred to her. Vermont was a haven for executive types who were tired of the cities and wanted a change of lifestyles. Most were would-be writers, or artists, or gentleman farmers. Maybe Matt was one of those.

  “I mean your occupation now.”

  “Watching you.”

  She blinked, not believing she’d heard him correctly. She wondered briefly if she would always have a hearing problem around him.

  “Do you have a source of income?” she asked.

  “If I’m lucky. By the way, I mowed your lawn this morning.”

  “You what!”

  “Well, I was mowing mine, and noticed yours needed a haircut too. Think of it as repayment for the cup of sugar you lent me.”

  “You mowed my lawn.” She closed her eyes, vowing to run over him with her car. Mowing her lawn sounded so damn intimate to her image-sensitive ears. Matt Callahan was driving her crazy.

  “Here, let me do that,” he said, and he gently pulled the papers and pen from her frozen hands.

  She opened her eyes and, with helpless fatalism, watched as he quickly filled out the rest of the two forms. He slid them back to her.

  Glancing down at the papers, she noted with a wry smile that Retired filled the occupation blank. Her eyes widened slightly when she read his current accounts were with a prestigious international New York bank. But her mouth dropped open, when she read the amount being transferred. Matt Callahan, who was rapidly becoming her personal nemesis, was about to become her largest private depositor.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  The figure had to be wrong. It was the only coherent thought running through her panic-stricken brain. She might have to watch her image among the townspeople, but the very last person a banker could offend was her largest depositor.

  Finally Liz managed to find her voice. “I think you made a mistake here.”

  She pointed to the figure in question, and Matt leaned forward across the desk until his head almost touched hers. His clean male scent filled her nostrils, and she suddenly felt light-headed.

  He returned to the chair. “Do you think I’ll need more?”

  “More?” She cleared her throat. “No, it’s fine. It’s just that …”

  Good Lord! She’d almost told him that his was the largest account. He might think the bank couldn’t handle it.

  “It’s fine,” she said more firmly. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

  He grinned. “You’ve got great hands, Liz.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  “I’ll let you get back to work now.” He stood up and thrust out a hand.

  She hastily rose to her feet. Although she was reluctant even to touch his hand, she knew she had to. She steeled herself as the warmth he generated now enveloped her fingers and shot like fire up her arm. Someone had great hands, and it wasn’t her.

  “Don’t forget dinner tomorrow night,” he said with a pirate’s grin.

  “I’ll bring the wine,” she replied in a dull voice.

  Might as well, she thought resignedly. She couldn’t afford to have him angry with her now; he might pull the account. And the size of it far outweighed any ensuing gossip to the bank’s central office.

  She might as well get a horse too. Riding naked across the common was looking better and better by the moment.

  “Is it true a farmer can get a government subsidy for a one-hundred-thousand-dollar tractor and never have to pay it back?” Matt asked, leaning his elbows on the kitchen table.

  Liz chuckled. “I’ll bet none of the local farmers told you that.”

  “Hank Krenshaw, the editor of the Hopewell Bugle, told me,” Matt replied. “Is it true?”

  “I see you’re getting around town.” Restlessly shifting under his stare, Liz finally nodded. “Yes, it’s true. On the surface, at least. But Hank probably didn’t bother to add that every local farmer is already in debt for not less than a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Matt’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “That much?”

  “That much. Your average farmer doesn’t know the meaning of ‘breaking even.’ But everyone loves to gossip about everyone else. That’s rural life, Matt.”

  Liz knew she wasn’t giving away any bank secrets by telling Matt the realities of farming. While Hopewell was a small town about fifteen miles from the city of Swanton near the Canadian border, its big dairy processing plant made it a gathering place for all the surrounding farms and hamlets. Naturally farm debt, milk production, the weather, and government subsidies were the main topics of local conversation. If people didn’t have anything else to talk about.

  She smiled, more to herself than to him. The dinner had gone very well, and she even admitted she’d enjoyed herself, although her stomach seemed to drop into a black hole every time Matt had looked at her. And he’d looked at her a lot.

  It was his eyes, she decided. Those green eyes darkened whenever they focused on her. In fact, they were darkening right now.

  Her smile faltering, she swallowed back a lump of what she hoped wasn’t fear. It had been a lovely evening, but it was time to go. Besides, if Matt kept staring at her much longer, she’d probably turn to melted butter.

  Pushing back her chair and rising to her feet, she straightened the jacket of her cream-colored suit, then plastered another smile on her face. “I’ve enjoyed myself, but I don’t want to keep you.”

  Vaguely she waved a hand toward the boxes still lining the wall in the big wood-beamed, brick country kitchen.

  Not moving, Matt grinned. “Sit down, Liz. You’re forgetting I’m retired now, and I can unpack anytime. Besides, it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.”

  She involuntarily glanced at the clock radio on the counter to confirm his words, then silently cursed her nervous reaction. She didn’t intend to allow the early hour to sway her from leaving.

  “I do have a few things to do at home before I go to bed … sleep.” She edged toward the living room. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner. The shish kebab was delicious.”

  Matt suddenly blocked her path. His hands touched her shoulders. “Liz, why so early? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, no,” she assured him breathlessly. “I really can’t stay long, Matt.”

  “But you can stay a little longer. I haven’t even shown you through the house yet.”

  “Okay, but only a little longer,” she said, hating herself for being so wishy-washy. One quick tour wouldn’t hurt, she thought. But that was it
! Matt had been a gracious and gentlemanly host, but she had to be seen leaving his house at an early hour. “I really do have to get home.”

  “Great.”

  He removed his hands from her shoulders and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow to lead her into the living room.

  Before dinner she had seen the downstairs briefly—and noted that Matt was still in the process of unpacking. It was evident that he liked modern paintings, as several cubist prints and strange shapes on canvas were already hanging on the paneled walls.

  Staring at a small screaming-yellow and lime-green blob on an enormous white canvas, Liz asked, “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “What’s it look like?” Matt asked in an amused voice.

  “Like a chihuahua got sick,” she murmured, tilting her head to see if it looked better from another perspective.

  Matt roared with laughter, and she grinned, liking the sound of that laugh. Finally he calmed enough to say, “It’s supposed to represent man’s fight for survival.”

  “I think man is losing.”

  Leaving Matt to his second burst of laughter, Liz wandered over to a small unframed painting. She lifted it off the wall to admire it.

  “This is a Picasso, isn’t it?” she asked, delicately touching the rough surface with a forefinger. “I didn’t know they could make a reproduction look and feel like the original.”

  Coming up behind her, Matt answered, “So far as I know, they can’t. That’s a real Picasso.”

  With suddenly shaking hands Liz carefully rehung the painting.

  “Are all of them originals?” she asked in a small voice as she turned to face him. An original Picasso! And she touched it. He really ought to put signs on them or something.

  He was grinning at her nervousness. “No. That’s the only one. Actually, it’s not as expensive as you’re probably thinking. Picasso was a very prolific painter, and you’d be surprised where and for how little you can find his stuff sometimes. I found this one in a tiny Portuguese tourist shop of all places.”

  She gave a little gasp of surprise. “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I thought it was just a copy. But a friend who knows art made me take it to an art gallery. The man who appraised it for me said that while I got a bargain, it wasn’t done during one of Picasso’s best periods. Frankly I wouldn’t have cared if it was only worth ten bucks. There’s something about a square donkey with four noses that appeals to me.”