The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical)

by Morgan, Tamara

  The corners of Whitney’s mouth fell and her brows came together in the center of her forehead. “Define aggressive.”

  “Well, that,” he said. “Don’t eat me, Whitney. You asked. Between the billboard you guys put up at the train station and the public, uh, argument between you and Natalie, you aren’t exactly winning anyone over the old-fashioned way. We like our change slow and subtle here in Pleasant Park. And you, my friend, are neither of those things.”

  If he’d thought the joke would help lighten some of the heavy atmosphere in the room, he was sadly mistaken. Whitney leaned on the counter and began drumming her fingernails. “So, what? We have to make house calls with our weathered black bags and travel via horse-drawn carriage? Is that how we’ll get accepted? I’ve been around town long enough. Almost every woman here has had some kind of work done, and call me cynical, but five times out of ten it’s because they caught their husbands checking out a younger model. Kendra, John and I didn’t just pick Pleasant Park on a whim. This place is the Holy Grail for people like us.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Matt paused. In a quieter voice, he added, “And while no one is going to deny that marriage vows aren’t as consecrated here as one might hope, most of the cheating is done behind closed doors. We like to keep our faults and weaknesses close to home. Not plastered on a billboard every commuter has to look at twice a day.”

  Before Whitney could respond, Matt’s cell phone rang, vibrating its way across the counter.

  “If that’s Laura, so help me, I’m going to throw that thing out the window. I don’t care who it hits.”

  It was, of course. Laura seemed to have an impeccable sense of timing these days. “It’ll only take a second.” Then, more to himself than Whitney, “If I don’t answer, she’ll just keep calling.”

  “She doesn’t deserve you,” Whitney muttered, but she waved at the phone, giving in.

  Matt regarded the still-ringing phone with distaste. Lately, Laura’s calls had become more regular and less important. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was a direct reaction to his too-public relationship with Whitney, but that only made it harder to stop picking up. It was cruel to rub Laura’s face in his newfound happiness. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  With a quick nod to Whitney, he moved to the relative privacy of his bedroom to take the call.

  “Laura?” he asked, his voice low. “What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to you.” Her soft voice cracked.

  “Okay. Fine. I have a few minutes.” Probably five. That was about Whitney’s limit, before she’d start banging on the door and demanding her turn to chat. “Shoot.”

  “Can you come over?” she asked quietly. “It’s kind of a long conversation.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. The last time he’d gone over there, on the fateful yard work errand, it had taken hours before he felt comfortable leaving her there alone. Even after he’d answered her questions about the insurance, she’d seemed so sad and listless, so concerned about every detail in the house. She didn’t function well alone.

  “It’s not a good time right now—how about we do lunch this weekend or something?”

  “Oh. Is your girlfriend over?”

  Girlfriend. That might be the word he’d choose to define Whitney’s presence in his life, but she’d probably end the life of anyone who said it out loud. “Sort of,” he said, uncomfortable with perpetrating the lie any more than he had to.

  “You don’t have to pretend she isn’t there,” Laura said. “I’m happy you’re moving on. Really. And she seems...nice.”

  He bit back a laugh. Nice didn’t even begin to cover Whitney’s many charms. “Thanks. Look—if it’s not a matter of life and death, can we just do this later?”

  A choked sob came through the phone. “But it is, Matt. Death, I mean. Or it could be. I’m sick.”

  * * *

  Whitney heard a heavy thud from the bedroom and smiled, hoping it was the sound of Matt getting angry. She had never seen a man so blasé about being cuckolded as that one, and it would have been refreshing for a change to see him stomp and kick and possibly punch a wall.

  Yes. Matt punching a wall would be hot—especially if he got that look in his normally kind eyes, the one where he knew he’d just lost control and didn’t give two damns about it. Or when he wore that expression of concentration so intense, a lock of his hair fell right in the center of his forehead and he couldn’t be bothered to brush it away.

  But the thump wasn’t followed by any sexy sounds. It wasn’t followed by any sounds at all. In Whitney’s experience, several thumps indicated a healthy rage. One thump usually meant—crap. He was already on edge today. She hoped he hadn’t passed out in there.

  “Matt?” she called, trying not to let her concern show. “Are you still alive?”

  He didn’t answer. Alarmed, Whitney tossed the cereal box she’d been reading aside and pulled open the bedroom door. A more polite woman might have knocked, but that wasn’t a virtue she’d ever bothered much with.

  Matt sat slumped against the far wall of his bedroom, which was as sadly underfurnished as the rest of the apartment, though still oddly neat and color coordinated. His phone was in his hand but not on, and he stared blankly at the opposite wall, where a damp, moldy patch had colored the white wall an antique sort of brown.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked, forcing herself to lean casually against the doorframe. No need to overreact. All his limbs were still in place. “Does the duchess need you to open a can of pickles for her?”

  When he looked up, it was as though a light somewhere had gone off. It was a look she knew well and avoided wherever possible. One couldn’t work in a hospital for any length of time and not know when a person reached their breaking point, when everything fell apart and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  She hated that part of medical care—just one more reason she’d committed to a lifetime of boob jobs for the overprivileged.

  “She’s dying.”

  “Bullshit.” Whitney stormed into the room and dropped to Matt’s bed, glaring at him slumped there, until he finally looked up. Inertia scared her more than anything else—she’d do almost anything to wipe that expression from his face. “This is another one of her ploys to get you back. I don’t believe her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said dully. “She’s not trying to get me back. She’s scared.”

  “Or she sees that you’re finally moving on with your life and can’t stand it.”

  Rage finally reared its ugly head. “I’m not having this conversation with you right now, Whitney, so you can stop. I know you never cared for her, but I refuse to believe even you could be so heartless right now.”

  Whitney knew she was being cruel. She felt cruel. But she didn’t know how else to make Matt see that his quiet, stubborn strength had to give sometime.

  “So, what? You’re just accepting this at face value? You don’t think she might be exaggerating things a little?”

  “Laura doesn’t exaggerate. She withholds. She underplays everything until it’s out of control.”

  “Is that what she did with that William guy? Fucking another man while you were married—that was underplaying her emotions? Jesus Christ. When are you going to wake up and realize she’s using you? That she’s always used you?”

  Matt’s glance was sharp. “Who told you his name?”

  “You’re not the only one who knows a thing or two about borough life.” Whitney could hardly believe her ears. Of all the things she’d just said, that was what he wanted to talk about? “It doesn’t take a cop like your brother to figure things out around here. The pharmacist over at the drugstore told me. Said he was some real estate developer passing through who breezed in, swept up your woman and breezed right out again. The people of Pleasant Park might l
ike to hide their own flaws, but they’re more than happy to gossip about others’.”

  “He was a real estate agent, not a developer.”

  “He was an asshole, that’s what he was. And Laura isn’t any better.”

  “Why do you even care?” Matt was on his feet within seconds, looming so close he could have kissed her. None of that soft, melty-insides kissing, either. The hard, punishing kind. The kind that would have her once again bent over the table, taking in the virile edge of his wrath. “You’ve made it more than clear that you’re only here for a good time—why does it bother you so much that I have actual human emotions? That I care? We can’t all turn our hearts on and off like they’re on a switchboard. We can’t all be you.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Whitney jabbed a finger in his chest. “You don’t know anything about my heart.”

  “Of course I don’t,” he said, his voice low and steely. “You won’t let me. Talking about those things—sharing those things—would be something people capable of a normal, healthy relationship would do.”

  “I’m capable of normal and healthy.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re too scared to even try.”

  “Fuck you.” She tried to pull away, but Matt gripped her arms with a strength she didn’t know he had. Looking pointedly at her arm, she expected him to release her, but he refused to budge. Goose bumps broke out along her skin.

  “She says they’re testing her for cancer,” he said. Whitney’s goosebumpy feeling only intensified. “They’re still doing tests, but her mom died of it when she was only thirty-six, and they’ve always suspected it ran in her family.”

  “Oh.” Whitney stopped pulling away. This, at least, was a language she could speak. “What kind?”

  “Ovarian. That was what her mom died of, anyway. And Laura always had problems...you know, down there.”

  “Down there? You can’t even say the words without blushing. You mean with her reproductive organs?”

  “You don’t get to be mad at me.” Matt dropped her arm, but the pressure of his fingers—manic, desperate fingers—lingered like a bruise. “Since the day we’ve met, I’ve let you treat me like your sex toy, let you tell me what I’m supposed to be feeling about my ex-wife. And that’s fine. I was happy to play along. But right now, you don’t get to judge or command or even make a comment.”

  “And you don’t get to cry.”

  “I wasn’t going to. But I would like to be alone, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “This is something I might actually be able to help with,” she said hurriedly, not missing his clouded, murderous look. A shaky feeling flooded her stomach, spreading its reach into her limbs, wobbling through her arms.

  And she’d always had such steady hands.

  “I have friends—I know people back in the city...”

  “I think you should go.”

  “Matt. I’m sorry.” Never one to apologize easily, the words felt heavy on her tongue. They also felt like her last chance to repair something perilously close to shattering. “That was a horrible thing to say about Laura, and it was wrong of me to bring it up. I’m aware I don’t always put your feelings ahead of mine, but you know how I react when it comes to infidelity. I’m doing my best here.”

  He didn’t hear her. “I’ll call you later.”

  She didn’t move or speak.

  “Please, Whitney. Go.”

  With that simple, firm request, she had no choice but to comply. More powerful than anger, more painful than a fist—Matt was able to reduce her to a few inches tall with just one word.

  And that was something no man had been able to do in years.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Houston, we have a problem.”

  Normally the joke, heard so many times in her lifetime she’d long since stopped keeping track, was worthy of an eye roll or two—but Whitney was impervious to raillery today, a not-uncommon occurrence when one’s not-a-boyfriend had yet to call.

  It wasn’t that she needed the reassurance about where she stood with Matt—the arrangement was clear. No rules, no ties, no pressure.

  She was just worried about him.

  And she wished she knew what Laura was angling to get out of the recent cancer bombshell. If Whitney found herself facing a life-threatening diagnosis, she’d be on the phone with a travel agent to book her the most fabulous Caribbean getaway money could buy for her and her nearest and dearest, not...she shivered. Ugh. Not calling Jared for a chat.

  “When do we not have problems?” Whitney asked lightly, ignoring her warring feelings and focusing on Kendra’s grim face instead. They were like gloom and gloomier. “I think that should be our new name. The Spa of Disappointment.”

  The pair of them sat in what would soon be their front office, enjoying the sights and sound of construction going on all around them. Despite Matt’s ominous warning that the town would never accept them, things were looking quite nice on the inside—and for once, she wasn’t talking about the construction workers.

  Kendra had her eye on one of said construction workers, a strapping young man who looked as though he had recently entered the legal age of drinking. Even though the thermometer barely registered fifty degrees outside, he never wore a shirt while he was working. In most men, it would have looked like conceit. Who was she kidding—it looked like conceit on this guy too. And even she had to admit conceit looked good.

  They ogled from a discreet distance, pretending to take a profound interest in paint swatches. Or that had been the plan, anyway, when they picked up a few salads from the deli and headed over.

  Kendra toyed with her lettuce, not really eating so much as rearranging the pieces. “It has to do with the little personnel issue we encountered last week.”

  “I told you not to worry about that,” Whitney said breezily. “Let’s just focus on getting this place finished. We’ll hire from out of town if we have to once it gets closer to opening. Candidates from the city are going to have more medical experience, anyway.”

  “That’s not the whole problem.”

  Whitney paused to watch the shirtless laborer walk by, his gloved hands bearing a huge load of two-by-fours. Now that she thought about it, he was a little too chiseled for her. Men who had necks the same size as their heads freaked her out. Give her a stealthily strong, hairy chest any day of the week. Or now. Now was good too.

  God, she missed Matt. Why didn’t he call?

  “Hello?” Kendra snapped. “Earth to Whitney. Are you even hearing me?”

  Whitney shook herself off—as well as the lingering image of Matt, stripped to the waist and lowering her onto the bed. “Sorry. It’s because you’re making me eat salad. I can’t concentrate without red meat.”

  “Yeah, like that’s the kind of meat flashing through your filthy mind right now.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Whitney returned, looking pointedly over at the barely legal Adonis. “So what’s the big problem? Are building costs running over? They always do...I thought we had that accounted for.”

  “It’s bigger than that. People not showing up to our job fair was just the beginning. The real problem is that the loan officer we thought was on our side to make this all happen? He pulled out.”

  Normally Whitney wouldn’t let such an opportune “that’s what she said” moment go unchallenged, but once again, jokes were the furthest thing from her mind. What is happening to me?

  “What do you mean he’s out? How can a bank just cancel a loan?”

  The money issue required to pull New Leaf off successfully was one they’d revisited time and time again. In addition to the three of them saving every penny they’d earned over the course of the past five years, Whitney had taken a painfully generous loan from her parents. Financing covered the rest, but they’d have to go into debt
by so many zeroes it made her head woozy to even look at the paperwork. That bank loan was, unfortunately, the biggest piece of the whole money puzzle.

  You have to spend money to make money, her father’s voice said, loud and clear and proud of her.

  We have a lifetime to build riches together, said another male voice, this one accompanied by a wash of emotion that filled her vision with red. It’s just two years. It’ll be good for us.

  “Are you ready for this?” Kendra’s words cut through the haze of Whitney’s thoughts, forcing her back to the present. “You should probably be sitting down.”

  Whitney double checked, confused. “I am sitting down.”

  “It seems that when we signed the paperwork,” Kendra began, her voice ominously quiet, “we failed to take into account the bank’s morality clause.”

  “I’m sorry—did you just use the term morality clause?”

  “I’m not sure how we missed it.” Kendra frowned. “But in choosing to approach a local bank for funding as a way to build community appeal, we failed to notice that our loan could be revoked within ninety days should we fail to meet a standard level of moral restraint.”

  “You lie. That is not a real thing.” Whitney looked around for John, assuming he’d pop out from behind one of the piles of drywall, camera in hand. “Is this your way of telling me to tone it down?”

  “It’s not you—it’s all of us.” She met Whitney’s eye. “Well, it’s mostly you. But the fact of the matter is, they’re simply looking for ways to close us down at this point. Your relationship with Matt, mine with Lincoln. And Brett. And that guy who does those tree stump sculptures out by the old sawmill.”

  “Ew. Really?”

  “You know I have a thing for lumberjacks.” Kendra shrugged. “Anyway, only John remains a paragon among us, but it’s only a matter of time before they find something objectionable about his behavior too. It was bound to happen one way or another.”

  “This place is seriously so repressed its business owners aren’t allowed to be sexual beings? That can’t possibly be true.”