The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (14 page)

“You always think you can fix them,” she said, settling back into her overstuffed chair, upholstered in the swirled brown and orange velour of the seventies. “That’s your thing. You’re drawn to broken women.”

“I am not,” he said irritably, focusing on his mug.

“Case One, Jenny Hefflemeyer.” Hilly refused to back down. She never backed down from anything. Put her against a drunk biker or an irate camel—he knew who would come out on top. Armed with Jenny Hefflemeyer, and the odds were stacked even more in her favor.

“Don’t be mean. You said you wanted to talk about Trenton’s grades.”

“Trenton’s reading skills aren’t the ones fornicating in public,” she said, her tone magnanimous. Matt retreated once again into the welcoming bosom of his coffee. This town’s gossip would be the death of him. “You remember Jenny, don’t you?”

Of course he remembered her. She was the first girl he ever kissed—a sweet, shy neighbor who’d been having a hard time fighting off a fifth-grade bully. “Sure. What about her?”

“Don’t you remember how you took it upon yourself to make her popular? That poor girl just wanted to be left alone with her books and her weird doll collection.”

He sat up straighter. “What are you talking about? She was bullied. I see it all the time in schools today. It’s not a joke.”

“Oh, the other kids teased her, I know. Don’t forget—I’m the one who drove you to and from school every day.”

He wouldn’t forget. Not only because he knew how much he owed his older sister, but because she mentioned it at least five times a month. Subtlety had never been her strong suit.

“But she never noticed any of it. Seriously—you could have placed that girl on top of a polar bear and she would have blinked and given it a little pat. I don’t know why you ever took it into your head to make her class president, but she hated every minute of it. You know her family transferred her to the charter school because of you.”

“I don’t know what version of history you’ve got on playback, but that is not what happened.” He remembered it well—Jenny was one of the main reasons he’d gone into teaching in the first place. She always ate lunch alone, spent recess sitting on a swing, rocking back and forth and singing under her breath. To everyone else, she’d always been the weird kid. To Matt, she’d just seemed lonely.

So he’d befriended her. Sat on the swing next to her at recess, ate lunch next to her in the cafeteria. She’d never been overwhelmingly excited to see him, but she’d just needed a little warming up, that was all. The class president thing had been a fluke—he’d thought it would help her make a few more friends. And it would have, if she hadn’t gotten moved to a new school. All she’d needed was someone to believe in her.

“I was her friend,” he insisted.

“No.” Hilly reached out to pet a black cat that wound in and around her feet. “You tormented that poor child right out of town with your...your...”

“Kindness, Hilly. It’s called kindness.”

“Is it?”

He didn’t care for her ironic tone. “So, what? You’re saying I’m going to cause Whitney to cry in an assembly when she wins class president? Is that it? Because I’m warning you, she strikes me as the type of woman who might have had her tear ducts surgically removed on a whim.”

“I’m saying you suffer from chronic white knight syndrome. You’re always looking for a woman to save. Shy Jenny. Unfaithful Laura. And now this Whitney woman, who, if town rumor has anything to say about it, is a train wreck just waiting to happen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never tried saving Laura.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that what you’re still trying to do?”

Always, it came back to this. Always, his family and friends refused to leave him in peace to deal with things on his own terms. He jumped to his feet, scattering the cats.

“It was nice seeing you, sis, and I appreciate the meal, but I think you’ve said enough for one night.” And she had—more than enough. But as his blood warmed up, Matt realized he’d barely scratched the surface of what weighed on his mind. Maybe Hilly had earned the right to speak out against Laura...but he’d be damned if he’d let her say a word against Whitney. “And what is that supposed to mean, Whitney is a train wreck waiting to happen? You don’t even know her.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“From who? Natalie Horn? A bunch of stubborn shop owners who refuse to adapt to change? I’ll tell you all you need to know about Dr. Whitney Vidra. She speaks her mind and doesn’t let the borough’s single-mindedness dictate her actions. I, for one, think that’s something we should all aspire to.”

“Matt?” Lincoln called. “What are you talking about?”

Naturally. No outburst of Matt’s would be complete without an audience. And opinions from each member thereof.

“Whitney. And me. I’m talking about me. No matter what you think, what any of you think—” this time he turned to include Kendra in his pronouncement, “—I’m more than aware of the repercussions my actions have on the women in my life.” Acutely so. Painfully so. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m leaving.”

Hilly’s mouth firmed, but she knew better than to try and stop him. He didn’t offer more than a tight nod to Kendra and Lincoln, who sat arguing with Donald over a Scrabble board, all three of them misspelling
catharsis
. On second thought...he reached down and traded an
e
for an
i
.

“Tell Trent and Dylan I said goodbye,” he added, and walked out the front door.

The cold night air that washed over him did little to soothe his anger, the austere moonlight only enhancing his feeling of isolation among the people who were supposed to matter to him most.

Yes, he’d done a lot of things wrong with Laura—there was no doubt of that in his mind. He hadn’t tried hard enough to hold on to her, he hadn’t forced her to communicate when they started sharing more silences than they had conversations.

But he’d never tried to save her. If anything, he’d pushed her to find her own happiness, never making demands or forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to. Early on in their marriage, he’d been offered a principalship in New Jersey—something he’d always wanted—but she’d hated the thought of being away from Pleasant Park and her family. He’d gone along with her wishes, happy to thrive at Hamilton Elementary and come home every night to their two-bedroom cottage on the outskirts of the borough.

After all, that was what a marriage was supposed to be, right? A partnership? A place where both people shared a vested interest in the future?

He slid into his car and pulled the handle roughly, narrowly missing slamming his fingers in the door. Gripping the wheel, he willed some of his anger to ebb away and was surprised to find that his knuckles had grown white.

Anger. This was anger.

The strange thing was, he had no idea where he intended the emotion to land. Hilly, Laura, Kendra...even Whitney danced through his mind, fueling a sudden urge to grab Lincoln’s gun and start shooting cans.

As he started the car and pulled across the gravelly drive instead, satisfactorily kicking up rocks that pinged against Lincoln’s car, he realized that the person he was angriest at most was himself.

Because the reality was that he didn’t think he needed to save Whitney.

But, oh, how he wished she’d ask him to try.

Chapter Eleven

“So then we thought maybe Kendra had printed the address or the date wrong or something.” Whitney’s hands moved rapidly as she talked. It made sense that she would be a hand talker, what with being a plastic surgeon and all, but Matt wished she’d sit still for a minute instead of pacing the tiny, slightly creaking floor of his apartment. “But it was all correct. We sat there for like three hours this morning, assuming someone would eventually show up to apply, but the only living thing that stopped by was a three-legged dog. We might have to try to find candidates from Philadelphia and pay them to relocate or something, which is only going to set us back further.”

“It could just be a fluke.”

“I don’t believe in flukes,” she retorted. “In this economy, how can there be no one in the area who needs a job? Do you want to quit teaching and come be my medical assistant?”

“No offense, but I can’t think of anything worse than taking orders from you all day long.”

As if a flip switched, Whitney’s mood instantly shifted. Gone were the fast movements, the faster talking—in fact, it was as if time slowed down, and her eyelids dropped as she slinked across the living room carpet toward where he stood in his linoleum-paneled kitchen. “Is that a fact? And what if I ordered you to sit your tight little ass down in that chair?”

Matt felt himself growing hard. One look from this woman—that was all it took. It wasn’t that he was a stickler for flowers and foreplay and all that, but it would have been nice to think he had
some
willpower.

Technically, this was the only reason she’d come over to his apartment today. Not flowers. Not foreplay. His only real responsibility here was to enjoy himself. The conversation about her work, the sharing of her troubles, that was just a bonus.

Her eyes glittered a warning.

“I’d sit,” he said, resigned. And he did.

“Oh, I like this,” she cooed, moving closer.

“But then I’d tell you to sit here with me.” He beckoned. Whitney’s eyes lit and she swung her legs—clad, as usual, in the tight, sexy-secretary skirts that shaped her body into a gift to the world—up over his legs. Sidesaddle. She was planning on riding him sidesaddle.

He claimed her lips for a kiss, taking his time in a slow, sensual play of their warring tongues. Whitney had a tendency to be a frantic—though generous—lover. She knew exactly how to grind her ass against his erection, forcing him to grip her hips and calm the incredible sensation that jerked him even through layers of fabric. If she wanted him to kiss her deeper, to plunge into her mouth without remorse and leave them both panting for air, she’d bite his lower lip, spurring him to action. And if she decided he wasn’t getting his hand up her skirt fast enough, she’d start making the journey on her own.

“Hey,” he said, when all those actions came into play at once. “You might have ordered me into this chair, but I’m not leaving until I’ve taken a little time to enjoy it. Sit still.”

She grinned and did the exact opposite, her squirms sending jolts of pleasure through his center.

“I mean it,” he growled. He began kissing a trail along her neck. Past the gentle slope of collarbone. Into the deep vee of her shirt, where the round peaks of her breasts rose from a scrap of wispy lace. He tasted one of those breasts, enjoying the soft swell of flesh against his tongue. “I intend to spend at least ten minutes doing nothing but this. You have the most amazing body. Let me savor it. Let me savor
you
.”

Pushing the lip of her bra out of the way, he took one of her nipples into his mouth. Hard and yearning, just like him. He suckled deeply, loving the way the skin puckered and rolled under his tongue.

As she gasped for air, he moved higher, kissing her jaw, her throat, all of it waves of rippling silk under the cinnamon-scented tumbles of hair that blanketed them both. Breathing deep, he nuzzled a path from her neck, enjoying the line of her shoulder unbroken by anything but his touch.

Whitney arched her back and ground into his lap. “Oh, God. I
can’t
.” Forceful hands on his shoulders pushed him out of the warm, blissful haven of her skin. Her eyes, for once, had lost their glaze of lust, replaced by something much more serious. “You have no idea how it aches. I can’t stand the buildup, knowing I don’t get to have you inside of me, knowing your absolutely perfect cock isn’t going to rip me in two. When you kiss me like that, it’s all I can think about. You. Filling me.”

A sudden blaze of fury intensified his rising lust. Filling her was all he could think about too—sweet kisses a different kind of agony. She wasn’t the only one suffering here.

“That’s not fair. You know that option is off the table if this thing between us is going to remain nothing more than a fling.”

“Exactly.” Her voice was strained. “Which is why you can’t take your time and...and...
worship
me like that. Get me off, Matt, make me scream. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I’m here for.”

As
you
command
. Fueled by the pulse of anger in his blood and the desperation in her voice, he stood. As she was still halfway on his lap at the time, she stood with him, her legs unsteady at the suddenness of it all. He used her lack of balance to bend her over the kitchen table, one hand nudging her legs apart, the other holding her neck to keep her in place.

If she wanted nothing more than skin and sensation, that was precisely what he’d give her.

“
Yes
. Like that.” She moaned and spread her legs, her back arched so that her ass rose in the air. He hiked her skirt around her waist, barely taking time to register the sight of her panties, tiny and damp, peeking enticingly up at him from between her legs.

Skin and sensation. Nothing more.

One finger slid in. Then two, tight and hot. Three, deeper still, and he kept her pinned to the table as she rode his hand to a shuddering, moaning halt.

The encounter was rough and crude, harsh in ways he didn’t know he was capable of. When he pulled away, Matt felt oddly shaken. Normally, he’d take a moment to drop a kiss near her ear, maybe offer a self-congratulatory joke. But today, he felt only that he’d somehow let them both down.

And he had, because he couldn’t give her everything she wanted. Everything she
deserved
. He was powerless in this relationship—something he’d never felt with Laura, even after she threw them away.

When Whitney turned to face him, she shared none of his remorse. With an almost malicious glint in her eyes, she licked her lips and zeroed in on his crotch, making it clear she had every intention of returning the favor. Even though Matt’s entire body throbbed with yearning, he crossed his arms and shook his head. He refused to accept her version of affection right now. Not like this.

Since work conversations seemed to be the only other intimacy he was allowed, he fixated on that.

“Don’t get all noble on me, Galahad,” she warned. “I can see quite clearly that there is some unfulfilled need saying hello over there.”

“I had a thought.”

She finished adjusting her clothes. “Does it involve me on my knees?”

“I don’t know,” he said irritably. “Do you listen better from down there?”

Whitney laughed, missing a valuable opportunity to ask him the source of his troubles. Probably because she already knew and refused to care.

“Do you want to hear it or not?” he asked.

“Okay, I’ll bite.
And
I’ll listen.” Whitney inclined her head. “What is this all-important thought?”

He waited a moment before speaking, willing his body to cool off and focus on her flop of a hiring fair. It wasn’t what he—or his body—wanted from her right now, but at least this was a concrete problem he might actually be able to solve. “Honestly? I think the reason you aren’t getting a whole lot of job applicants is because of your business model.”

“Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel all warm and fuzzy in her post-orgasm glow, don’t you?” Then, more suspiciously, “Why? What do you think is wrong with our business model?”

There had been talk in the teacher’s lounge lately—well, talk until he’d shown up—about the intrusive nature of a plastic surgery practice in a place where holistic health centers and family-owned businesses had long been the borough staple. Not to mention the intrusive nature of the practice’s founding members.

“You might be going at it a little aggressively, that’s all.”

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.