The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (11 page)

He relaxed and let her hands go to work. Recovery seemed like a golden future beckoning on his horizon—especially since he had the suspicion she was talking about a heck of a lot more than the flu.

* * *

Men were huge babies.

It was something every woman knew, but Whitney had daily proof of this fact, brought to her in the shape of men who whined and complained through every stage of plastic surgery.

She could extract the exact same amount of fat from the asses of both a woman and a man using the same techniques, and the only one who would complain about the bruising and pain afterward would be the man. Women accepted that pain and beauty were inexorably linked. Men, on the other hand, threatened to sue her for malpractice.

Unfortunately, if there was one thing she’d learned on the job, it was that telling men how useless they were rarely got the desired effect. It was better to pander, to soothe and coo and be the benevolent angel they sought.

That was why she stopped by all that week, bringing Gatorade and trashy magazines, which Matt pretended he hated but she knew he secretly adored. He knew an awful lot about Justin Bieber for a man nearing thirty.

“I thought you were supposed to be working,” Matt protested on the third day. He’d only stayed home from work because she’d prescribed one more day of rest—which had nothing at all to do with how enjoyable hanging out in his apartment had become and everything to do with the aforementioned truth about men and their inborn wimpiness.

Yeah
,
right
.

“I swear it’s like you never go to work,” he added.

“I’m a plastic surgeon, Matt.” Whitney breezed in the door with an armful of flowers, which she proceeded to artfully arrange in a big blue plastic tumbler—the closest thing to a vase Matt owned. “Even if our facility was ready to open, I only intend to work nine to five with a generous hour for lunch. I bet you have to put in more time at the day job than I do.”

“That’s awful.”

“It’s genius, that’s what it is. Look around you, Matt. You’re not exactly living the grand lifestyle.”

She finished putting the last daisy in place and surveyed the rest of his apartment. It was exactly what one pictured when imagining a man striking out on his own after an unhappy relationship had sucked away the largest portion of his twenties. It had none of the cold, clinical charm of a typical bachelor pad, and none of the comforts of a home. She was going to have to buy him a new couch too. She was pretty sure this one wanted to break underneath her weight.

“How are your germs doing?” she asked, coming up behind him and snaking two arms around his waist. God, she loved the lean strength of him. It was all flat abs and hard lines for as far as the fingers could explore. Which she promptly set hers out to do. “I’m not so sure I can take much more of this incubation period stuff. Hmm...well, hello there. I guess you might not be able to take much more of it either.”

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half shudder. “I’m pretty sure you could bring a man back from the dead with that move. What are you—?” His cock, stiffening against the flat of her palm, gave a satisfying twitch before she let go.

“I’m just making sure all the parts still work,” she whispered, nipping the side of his neck. “I think we should feed you. Get your strength up. Then I’m going to find ways to assemble your parts you’ve never imagined.”

“That is both the most intriguing and the most disturbing sexual proposition I’ve ever received,” he murmured.

Whitney released a crack of laughter. “I’m happy to hear it. Now sit. I brought sandwiches.”

“Oh, good. I’m starving.”

Matt grabbed the to-go bag she’d laid down next to her purse and started rifling through it. Unlike most men she knew, who would grab the best-looking part and settle in, he went to his cupboards and pulled down plates, also taking the time to set out silverware and napkins. Just a small gesture, and one she was pretty sure he didn’t even know he was making.

But she noticed, and she appreciated it. She was also put on her guard. It would be very easy to get used to a man who was helpful in the kitchen.

“Am I all clear to return to work tomorrow?” Matt asked, taking a huge bite of his pickle. He was cavalier about it, as if he knew that having a large phallus between his lips was actually a turn-on. And it was. He was the exception to the rule, the one man who could probably walk into a movie theater, order the largest pickle they had, and not cause fits of hilarity behind the popcorn machine.

Dammit
. Now she was the one getting aroused.

“I hate leaving the kids for this long,” he added. “They prefer stability.”

“They prefer recess and cookies,” Whitney returned. It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids—she’d done one or two ear pinnings a month during her residency—but it was hard to imagine a life where their presence was the end all and be all of her earning potential. “Take another bite of that pickle, would you? Slower this time.”

Laughter lit his eyes as he processed her request. “You mean, like this?” Without losing eye contact, he began running his tongue around the width of the condiment in an exaggeration of a blow job—and a rather poor one at that, if you asked her. Far too delicate.

“No, no. Don’t be so shy with the poor thing,” she commanded. “You’re supposed to wrap your lips around it like you’re starving. Like you couldn’t bear it if you missed out on a single delicious inch.”

He lowered his hand, eyes wide. “Is that your trick?”

“It’s not a trick, Matt. When I take your cock in my mouth, it’s my intention to enjoy as much of that hard, throbbing beast as I possibly can. I don’t want to miss a single delicious inch.”

Matt’s throat worked up and down, and the pickle fell to the table. If it was possible to fuck someone with just a gaze, he was doing it right now. With that kind of fierce, blue power, he could have had her stripped and panting between blinks.

Which was why, when a loud knock at the door sounded a few seconds later, it took them both a moment to process the interruption.

“Are you expecting company?” she asked, the first to speak, though her voice came out a little hoarse. “It’s a good thing you dropped that pickle. Things were about to get very inappropriate in here.”

He frowned. “I don’t think so. What time is it?” The insistent rat-tat-tat filled the apartment again. “Excuse me just a second.”

Whitney didn’t want to appear too interested, so she focused on her food. The deli by her condo baked rye bread that was so good it made her want to do illicit things with whole grains. If the past ten minutes in Matt’s company had been any indication, she was going to need the energy. And possibly some illicit whole grains.

Matt checked the peephole. “Oh, crap.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Laura.”

“The evil ex?” Whitney tried not to let her surprise show, but she did a poor job of it. The woman called
and
she showed up at Matt’s apartment unannounced? That took some kind of nerve. “You could pretend we’re not here. By all accounts you should be at work anyway.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I might have, if you hadn’t just said that loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”

“Right. Sorry.” Except she wasn’t—not really. She felt a powerful urge to see this unfaithful creature for herself, to judge and stone. “You can’t let her stand there forever, you know.”

With a deep breath and a nod, Matt pulled open the door.

“Hey, Laura,” he said kindly, though Whitney noticed he didn’t move out of the doorway enough to let the woman in. Or, she realized, to let her catch a glimpse. “What are you doing here?”

“I called the school, but they said you were sick.” The woman’s voice was soft and light, almost sing-song, like it came from a princess in a Disney cartoon—the kind who only spoke in rhymes. “I brought soup.”

Soup. That was such a joke. Give Whitney a case full of vitamin C and some Tamiflu any day. Who did this woman think she was, barging in here with her home remedies and old wives’ tales?

“Um...thanks.” Matt didn’t move to take it.

“I just remember how you used to get. You know, when your tummy hurt.”

Oh
,
geez
. What was next, a boo-boo bear and a thermometer up the ass? Unable to take another second of waiting in the wings, Whitney gave up the pretense of eating. She came up behind Matt, flanking him as she eyed the infamous cheat. “Come in, come in. We were just having lunch. You’re welcome to join us.”

As she suspected, Laura was one of those wispy, ethereal women who avoided the sun and shopped in the children’s department. She was short, coming only up to about Matt’s shoulder, which meant she came up to Whitney’s shoulder, as well, since she matched his height when she wore heels. Laura had thin blond hair and no breasts to speak of, and, for some unfathomable reason, had chosen to wear a floaty top over jeggings.
Jeggings
. Honestly.

“Aren’t you just lovely,” Whitney cooed. She nudged Matt out of the way with her hip. He stood there, watching the pair of them interact.

It was such a...Matt thing to do, to quietly watch, to let the women speak for themselves. Not the approach Whitney would have taken, that was for sure. There was a rule—one she adhered to both in her life and in the world of plastic surgery. One must always be happy and gorgeous in the face of a broken relationship, regardless of how one felt. Even if it took a boob job and ten rounds of laser tattoo removal to get there.

They should put that on a plaque and slap it up in her office.

“I’ve heard so much about you, but none of it has done you justice.” She extended a hand. “I’m Whitney.”

Laura took her hand limply, and there was a clamminess to it that made Whitney feel a thousand times better. Wet hands were not attractive, no matter how tiny and pert one’s ass appeared in jeggings.

Laura looked around uncertainly. “I’m sorry—am I interrupting something?”

Matt spoke up. “I should probably make the formal introductions. Whitney, this is Laura, my ex-wife. And Laura, this is Whitney, my—”

Whitney placed a territorial hand on his ass and gave it a liberal squeeze. “His sexual partner,” she offered.

Matt let out a strangled laugh—the sound he always made when Whitney did inappropriate things and he secretly loved it.

Okay, so maybe the truth would have been better coming from him, but it wouldn’t kill Laura to know that there were plenty of other fish in Matt’s sea—
willing
fish. Fish that were practically begging for it.

She motioned warmly and made proper welcoming noises. Laura, her eyes wide and her color mounting, had no choice but to enter.

In that moment, Whitney almost felt sorry for her.
Almost
. She hadn’t gotten the whole story out of Matt yet, but based on his standard of living, it seemed a reasonable assumption that Laura had gotten the house and the car and any sort of household gear that hadn’t come from a frat house.

Considering which one of them was the cheating hosebeast, that hardly seemed fair.

“I should have called first,” Laura mumbled.

“Nonsense.” Whitney ushered Laura to a chair and dropped half of her sandwich on a plate, avocado and mayonnaise oozing out the sides. “I have to get back to my office in a few minutes, so you two can have all the time you need. I’m a surgeon, you know. A plastic surgeon—we’re setting up a new practice in town. I’m quite good. In fact, I make an extraordinary amount of money.”

Behind her, Matt covered his laugh with a cough. Laura blinked up at her. “Do you?”

“I know what you’re thinking. You want to know what it is I’d change about you.” She tilted her head and pretended to survey the woman, even though she’d made her assessment in the first few seconds. “You know, I wouldn’t change a thing. You have lovely proportions.”

“I do?” Laura colored rosily. “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”

“Well, it’s true. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Now, me? I’m all ass and no tits.”

Matt chortled again.

“But I find it suits me just fine. And Matt here doesn’t seem to mind.”

Before Laura could say anything more, Whitney spun and planted a kiss on Matt’s mouth. A wet one, with lots of tongue and a few little mewls thrown in for good effect, germs be damned. If there was one thing she was good at, it was putting on a show.

But it was a mistake, that kiss.

Matt stopped before the kiss got
really
good, the abruptness of his hands on her shoulders as he pushed her back almost painful. A slight shake of his head and an anxious furrow in his brow could only mean one thing: Matt was worried about his ex-wife’s feelings.

Whitney had to stop and breathe, her fingers rising to her lips almost of their own accord. They felt tingly and hot, and all she could think of was how much she wanted him to kiss her in her other hot, tingly places. Of how badly she wished he’d toss his nobility aside and give her a proper deep dicking.

But she was the last thing on his mind. As was always the case when she found herself a new fling, she was the odd woman out—the one who had no real claim on a man’s time or his heart.

“You know what?” she said brightly, her smile tight. “I think I’ll leave you two alone for a spell.”

“No, Whitney—you don’t need to go,” Matt protested, but it was a move taken in half-measures, at best.

“I’d love to stay, but they’re installing the entryway tiles today,” Whitney lied. In actual fact, renovations on the office had all but stopped while the bank reassessed their business plan. There was some strange loophole Kendra pretended didn’t exist and refused to talk about, which meant that hanging out in Matt’s cheese-smelling apartment had been the highlight of her week. “You two have a nice chat, and you can call me later. Okay?”

“That’s probably best,” Matt agreed. Damn him.

She leaned in and pecked him on the cheek, dropping her voice to a low whisper. “You better call me, young man, or I will make it my personal mission to punish you. Is that understood?”