Kendra burst through the door of Whitney’s townhouse, her arms full of canvas bags that sprouted bushy weeds from the top. Even though she had her own place across the street, Kendra was a social creature by nature. She liked dinner parties and girls’ nights out and sleepovers of the male variety. Since they would be working together all day long, Whitney insisted on separate residences—she loved Kendra, but there was only so much effusive socializing a person could take in one day.
Of course, that didn’t stop her friend from regularly stopping by, filling her fridge with bizarre, too-green food and stealing her favorite tights in payment.
“Say what they will about beautification permits, I love this town. Did you know that they open the farmer’s market year-round? I just bought twelve varieties of winter squash.”
Whitney wrinkled her nose. “There are that many types of squash? Please tell me you bought them all for decoration.”
Her friend laughed and dropped all the bags on the kitchen island, bulbous vegetables in every color of orange and yellow spilling out. “They’re certified organic and delicious. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried my butternut soup.”
“Kendra, you know I love you, but vegetables are what food eats.” She turned back to her magazine, Plastic Surgery Practice, and resumed her perusal of pictures of the latest fractional laser system. “And I dare you to find anything in this town that isn’t organic. I’m pretty sure all the clothes in that little shop on the corner of Main—you know, the one that had that incredible pair of vegan boots—are made of hemp. That stuff makes me break out in hives. It’s like we wandered into some strange episode of the Twilight Zone where everyone feeds off the earth.”
“You said you liked this place.”
“I know I did. I just don’t like bugs in my food.”
Forget the problems with the local business bureau, which seemed to take offense that they hadn’t been consulted about the new clinic opening up. Forget conservative borough morals, which seemed to be so deeply ingrained the people here somehow forgot they were all the result of good, old-fashioned fornication.
Those were blips, problems to be overcome with a little charm and a few well-placed donations. What Whitney hadn’t planned for was the lifestyle, eco-friendly and pulsating with quaint charm. Kendra and John might love the chance to mingle with the salt of the earth, but Whitney preferred noise and giant bloody steaks and even the occasional drive-by shooting. She wanted her pesticides back. Give her chemicals or give her death.
“You know, John and I have been talking. It’s important that we all become part of the community if we intend to be accepted.” Kendra waved a phallic-shaped gourd at her. “You should join a team or something.”
“I am getting to know the people,” Whitney shot back. Okay, so it was only one person, but she’d definitely done her part to make herself memorable. In fact, she was rather hoping to do it again. Matt Fuller definitely...rose to a challenge.
“I don’t mean sleeping with Teacher Hottie to while away the time. I’m all for having a little fun, but I think you should join the Ladies Golf Club. Those women are our target market—you have to try and be one of them.”
Whitney shuddered. “I would much rather build my image by cavorting with the local educator, if it’s all the same to you. You know golf and I have...issues.”
“I volunteered to work at the food co-op and John just signed on to chair the Alternative Health Initiative at the hospital. You can’t just sit around on your ass all day eating bonbons. You have to help us build a positive image, and we both think you should start by befriending some of the more powerful women here.”
“We both? So what—you and John make all the decisions now?”
“Since all your decisions thus far have been made with your libido?” Kendra paused, her impeccable brows drawing together. Flash and bang was her normal style, so when her smile dropped and some of the energy waned, Whitney knew it was time to listen. “Yes. John and I are calling this shot. Don’t let this flirtation get you derailed.”
Whitney nodded firmly. Kendra was right. Career and life decisions that revolved around a man—even one as nonthreatening as Matt—were not acceptable. Whitney had already done that once, and it had provided enough angst to fuel a thousand teenage melodramas.
“Okay, I’ll golf,” Whitney said lightly. Kendra was right, and she wasn’t in the mood to spend the next few hours falling into a pit of memories, especially one where Jared’s visage loomed large. Better to go along with it and move on. “But I am not wearing those stupid checkered pants. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.”
* * *
To any rational person, the fact that it was March meant the golf clubs ought to be put away for at least a few more months. Whitney was all for being dedicated to a sport—it was one small step from being dedicated to a career—but she was also very respectful of the change of seasons. Spring meant she got to wear her cute rubber ducky galoshes. Summer meant weekends at the beach. Fall was knee-high boot time. And winter? That was just another word for spiked coffee, warm fireplaces and long days spent in bed.
So as she approached the local golf store, located in one of the strip malls along the outskirts of town and wedged next to a fondue restaurant, she expected it to be a little deserted.
Desertion didn’t reciprocate her feelings. Apparently everyone within a twenty-mile radius was forgoing the more rational choice—melted cheese in a pot—and opting to buy new clubs for use at the borough’s indoor driving range, a huge, balloon-like building that always emanated an ominous pounding noise as countless balls thwacked their way through the air.
“I am hobnobbing with the locals,” Whitney announced to her reflection in the rearview mirror. Affirmations had always seemed like a tool for the weak, but she was beginning to see the purpose. Someone had to talk her into this stuff—and there was no one in the car but her. “I will be charming and inoffensive. And humble.”
Humble was one Kendra was constantly reminding her to work on.
She pulled a pair of woolen mittens over her hands and got out of the car, shivering as she locked the door. The country was decidedly colder than the city. All those warm bodies and car emissions had a tendency to warm a place up—yet another thing to miss.
You must suffer to be successful. And even with the cold and golf, her life now was a hell of a lot better than it had been a decade ago. Sure, it had been warm and balmy in Huehuetenango, the rugged northwestern region of Guatemala where she’d been stationed with Jared in their Make the World Smile days, but tropical rain wasn’t the key to life’s secrets. And selflessness didn’t always equal joy.
She’d been surrounded by some of the most incredible surgeons, anesthetists and nurses the world would ever know—a parade of young, talented, passionate people. Well, and her. She’d had the young part down pat, but as a second-year nursing student, talent was a negligible quality. And the passion was largely misdirected, as it turned out.
It was hard sometimes not to miss the girl who’d opened herself up to so much—good, bad, pain, love. All those things normal people seemed to thrive on.
She looked around her surroundings now, the exact opposite of the staggering village where howler monkeys (cute but nasty) far outnumbered the humans. Rows of golf paraphernalia—overpriced sticks of metal and the ubiquitous white puckered balls and shoes that were kind of cute, in that fifties retro way—lined the walls, with price tags that ought to make them all ashamed of themselves. People would willingly pay tens of thousands of dollars for a cart to take them over a few hundred yards of green, while kids all over the world walked miles every day just to get water.
Stop it. As she always did, Whitney silenced that niggling little voice, the conscience she could never quite seem to shake. She’d given up that life for a reason, and it wasn’t just that the man who opened her e
yes to it all turned out to be a cheating scumbag. The girl she used to be might have had stars in her eyes and plans to change the world, but the woman she was today had so much more. Confidence, a medical degree, great friends.
Those things counted too.
Smiling brightly, she pushed her way to the checkout counter and prepared to dazzle the teenage boy working there with her ineptitude. See, Kendra? I can be humble.
“Hello there,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’m new in town and I’ve decided to take up golf. I need a man to help me find everything it takes to get started. Would you like to be my man?”
The boy blinked a few times, his Adam’s apple—always so prominent at that age—working overtime.
“Wh-what do you need?” the boy asked, clearly terrified.
Whitney winked. “Oh, I need it all.”
“I thought you said you hated golf.” That soft voice sent a shiver down her spine, and Whitney could feel a shift in the air as Matt slid next to her at the counter. It seemed the golf store was the place to be on a Saturday afternoon, the height of hip borough activity.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said.
He leaned on one elbow and watched her, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I thought you said that the skinny poles and tiny balls were far too lacking for a woman of your vast experience.”
She’d said no such thing. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was making fun of her for a change. A few moments of delicious havoc being wreaked on her lady parts, and now he thought he had all the power. God, she loved this town.
“And what would you know about tiny balls?” she asked archly. Turning to the kid at the counter, she shrugged. “Looks like I found my man. Rain check?”
“Sure,” he managed, his voice an odd combination of baritone and high-pitched squeaking. He looked more relieved than anything else as she took Matt’s arm.
“I’m going native.” She pointed Matt in the direction of the golf outfits. Clothes first. The pesky clubs came later. “The people here golf, therefore I do too. I hear you’re good at teaching, Mr. Fuller. Want to be my private tutor?”
Matt pursed his lips, pretending to think it over even as his gaze lingered on all her roundest parts. Whitney was much too well-versed in the art of man to be deceived. There was no way he would turn her down. Not when the question he was clearly dying to ask—when do we get to have sex-but-not-sex again—hung, unasked but already decided upon, in the air.
“I’d teach you, but I think you’re overestimating my abilities,” he admitted. “I’m lucky if I get out a dozen times a year. The only reason I took it up in the first place is because Laura’s family golfs.”
That stopped her a little. Maybe they weren’t exactly spilling all their life secrets yet, but it was clear this man had serious closure issues.
“So...you’re not allowed to like a sport for its own merit? You only do things if your ex-wife left them for you in the divorce settlement?”
A warning flash in his eyes stopped her before she pursued the subject any further. Despite the brevity of their interludes, she was coming to know this man quite well—particularly that sticky point at which he wouldn’t be pushed another inch.
So she wouldn’t push. At least not right away. No matter how much her more moderate self might warn her to back off, Whitney wasn’t one to let a wound take care of itself. She picked and prodded and yanked the tissue into new positions to make it better. It was her calling. And if she was going to help this man successfully rebound, getting to the bottom of his marital issues definitely landed on her to-do list.
“Don’t forget—I’m a poor schoolteacher,” he added, though his jovial tone sounded forced. “I can barely afford green fees. Besides, you’re going the wrong direction. The clubs are back there.”
“I don’t want clubs yet. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.” She stopped, looking Matt firmly in the eye. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that once I make up my mind about what I want, I cover all the angles until it’s mine.”
“Noted. And if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that once I make up my mind about what I don’t want, I stand by my resolutions.”
“Good.” Since the conversation was clearly leading nowhere—at least nowhere she wanted to go—Whitney let the matter drop and strode to the racks of clothes, all of them nauseatingly pastel and khaki-colored, and started rifling through. “Now, if I’m going to be a golfer, I need to look the part. Find me the pinkest pair of pants they have in here.”
“Pink?”
“The brighter the better,” Whitney added. She wanted to stand out—especially if she was going to have to work this hard to fit in.
* * *
Even though Matt would never say he loved the act of shopping with women, he was very good at playing a supportive role. He was used to waiting patiently while Laura tried things on, offering a benign opinion when asked to choose between shirt A or blouse B, both of which seemed to match every other item in her closet. Even Hilly said he was a prince among men when it came to squiring his lady through the boutiques on Main Street—and Hilly didn’t bestow compliments lightly.
Of course, that was before he’d ever tried to shop with Whitney.
“Don’t just stand there gawking at me.” She stood outside the changing room door, an enormous pile of clothes in her hand. “My zippers aren’t going to unfasten themselves. Why don’t you come into the changing room with me and help? I promise to make it worth your while.”
His breathed through his nose. There was no mistaking her tone of voice—nor was there any mistaking his reaction to it. He wanted to unfasten her zippers, all right.
“I think my while is going to have to wait,” he returned, careful to keep his distance. “There are a lot of people here. Families—some of them whose kids I work with every day. You’re just going to have to keep it in your pants until we’re done.”
“Aren’t you going to want to see how the outfit looks?” She jiggled a tiny neon pink tank top at him. It looked barely big enough to cover her nipples, especially if she was wearing another one of those lacy, gravity-defying contraptions she called a bra.
“Why don’t we just close our eyes and imagine it instead? Or maybe I could just hold your purse.”
“That’s why they invented hooks in the dressing room.” Whitney spoke to him in the kind of slow, patient tone he normally reserved for his most difficult students. “And holding a lady’s purse is something a man in a relationship does. You know what a man on the rebound does?”
He didn’t answer her purposefully leading question. Golfwear was supposed to be about athletics—about sweat and toil. Okay, maybe not toil, since the courses in Pleasant Park wouldn’t let you on without a caddy and a cart for every four people. But Whitney was treating the sport like it existed solely to provide her a chance to have her own private fashion show. And by private, she meant the two of them, wedged inside one of the tiny changing rooms as she squeezed in and out of her clothes.
God, that sounded amazing.
“Try it on and then come out and show me,” he said. There was already far too much squeezing going on for a public place. “I promise to ooh and aah in all the right places.”
Her eyes sparkled with a meaning that his body took the liberty of interpreting for him. “Oh, there will be happy noises, I promise.”
Matt drew closer. He knew he should stay firm, put his foot down, otherwise put a stop to the juvenile antics that were part of Whitney’s general fervor for life. But this was supposed to be fun, right? Wasn’t that the only rule?
“You’re not scared, are you?” she taunted.
“Of you? No.” Of the alluring power she held over him? Maybe a little.
He kept drawing nearer to her, their faces so close it proba
bly looked like a kiss to anyone paying attention. It felt like a kiss, too, all the intimacy of bodies close and mouths closer, her breath warm and caressing.
“Not even a little?” she teased. “With all these big, bad people watching you, knowing exactly what you want to do to me right now?”
Yes, people were watching him. And yes, he wanted to do things to Whitney without a second thought for proprieties. Those fears—things that might have mattered a lifetime ago—had no power to stop the blood from roaring a furious course to his groin, robbing him of sensation as it moved past all his other organ systems to the one demanding the most attention.
She smiled. Matt was too close to see it, but he could feel it, the amusement that curled her lips into a one-sided grin. “In fact, I’d say there’s no way in hell you could get it up in a public place like this. Not you. Not the town schoolteacher. You’re just man enough to want me...not man enough to do anything about it.”
The blood came faster now. Hotter, too, if such a thing was possible, and the sensation of her body against his was the antithesis of all rational thought. Yet he remained unmoved. “Nothing you say is going to change my mind. This man on the rebound is going to hold your purse. I’m wise to your tricks.”
“Oh, Matt. You haven’t even begun to see my tricks. You set the boundaries, remember?” With a waggle of her eyebrows, she ducked into the changing room with all her clothes in tow.
Matt technically wasn’t holding anything of Whitney’s as she thumped around in the changing room. Not her purse, not her hand, not anything that might be mistaken for two people in a relationship. But as he examined a print on the wall of a golf landscape somewhere in Scotland, desolate and cold, he realized she was right. Standing outside a changing room wasn’t the hallmark of a man on the rebound. He was supposed to be throwing caution aside. He was supposed to be having fun.
In this instance, fun was a half-naked woman with a voracious appetite for sex. And it was literally waiting for him behind door number one.
With a ferocity that seemed to come from some deep, dark place that had remained dormant for too long, Matt marched to the dressing room door and knocked. “I’m coming in.”
The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) Page 9