The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (15 page)

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 like 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.”

“Well...there’s something else.”

Whitney didn’t like Kendra’s tone. Having been friends far too long for women of a certain age to mention, Kendra had a scary amount of insight into Whitney’s inner workings. If she was holding something back, it could only mean she was trying to protect Whitney.

And they both knew the only thing she needed protecting from was herself.

“Spill it.” Whitney pushed her salad away. Not even the buttery croutons seemed palatable now. A few more weeks of this and she’d be withering away.

“The guy who owns the bank is someone you know. I get the feeling the reason he’s pushing this morality clause is personal.”

No
way
. That sort of thing didn’t happen in real life. “I swear to God, if you tell me Matt is secretly a bazillionaire holding all the strings to our financial future, I’m going to kick out our new separator wall.”

Kendra laughed and shook her head. “It’s not Matt. And you might not know him face to face—just circumstantially. Walter Horn? Ring any bells?”

Whitney mentally rifled through her little black book of the past few years for lovers scorned, but nothing seemed to connect the dots. One of her crowning triumphs in life was that she always left her lovers a little better than when she met them—happier, more confident, sated. It was a gift. “Nothing comes to mind.
Should
I know him?”

“I guess that depends on how much time you’ve been spending at the golf store lately.”

“That’s not funny. You know I was banned. That Natalie woman—”
Natalie
Horn
. That was why the name sounded so familiar. “Please tell me this Walter guy is some sort of third cousin eight times removed.”

Kendra shook her head sadly. “Married eight years. Two kids. Huge house, luxury cars, the whole bit. You messed that one up big time, Whit. Between the two of us, this project is doomed.”

Whitney’s heart sank. Not because getting their funding stopped put a kink in their plans—this fight was by no means over—but because no matter how kindly Kendra might pretend her sordid affair with a chainsaw artist was the cause of their problems, this was Whitney’s doing.

Antagonize people. Overreact. Repeat.

“What if I go issue a formal apology?” she asked, the words tasting of regret. And salad. Neither one was very delicious. “I might need you to promise to funnel wine and happiness down my throat later, but I’ll do it.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Kendra admitted. “This whole thing is snowballing way out of our control.”

“I don’t understand how we could have so grossly misjudged this town.” In all their earlier visits, the people had seemed friendly and receptive, if slightly snobbish. She refused to believe that a group of individuals this concerned about appearances had no need for a medical spa. “They need us. They want us. They just refuse to admit it.”

That sounded rather familiar, actually. The citizens of Pleasant Park. A certain young, nubile kindergarten teacher she couldn’t seem to get out of her mind.

“We’ll find a way around it.” Kendra took Whitney’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ve got some ideas in the works. Just keep your head down and play nice for a while, okay?”

Whitney squeezed back. “I can do one better.”

She ignored Kendra’s look of anxiety and started plotting. No way was she going to sit back and let life happen to her. Whitney might not be the paragon of femininity that this town seemed to idealize, but she wasn’t without her strengths.

Foremost among which was her refusal to give anything up without a fight.

* * *

Matt lined his kids up in the hallway, watching tiredly as they swung lunchboxes and chattered their way into the cafeteria. This had to be the longest week of his life. Between Laura’s diagnosis and the argument with Whitney, he was running perilously near his empty gauge.

But that didn’t stop him from noticing a morose face at the end of the line.

“Cecily, no one is going to make you eat the fish sticks if you don’t want to.” He offered an encouraging smile to the little girl bringing up the rear. Since the first day of class, colorful beads had clacked at the end of her multiple braids, and he’d developed an extraordinary ability to interpret the sounds. Those were near-tears ticks. “Here. I’ll go in with you and tell Ms. Patterson you want the gluten-free option today. I hear it’s yummy. Chicken and stars.”

Click
,
swash
. Happy nodding.

He took Cecily’s hand and followed the class into the lunchroom. Technically, teachers got lunch off to recover and refuel. Between the cafeteria workers and the playground attendants, most teachers were able to sneak in a full forty-five minutes to themselves.

More often than not, though, Matt ended up sitting with the kids at the miniature fake wood-grain tables. Six hours a day wasn’t enough time to connect with all twenty-four students, and it was amazing how much he could learn over Lunchables and juice boxes.

Cecily, for example, recently lost a grandmother and was struggling to understand the monumental finality of death—it wasn’t just the mushy, tasteless fish sticks making her cry. As Matt had been a similar age when his own mother had passed, he knew just how much that extra kindness mattered, how much the little things became everything.

He murmured a warning to Ms. Patterson—a somewhat grouchy lunch volunteer whose arms were so short in proportion to her bulk the older kids had nicknamed her T-Rex—about the need to tread lightly. In the middle of his entreaty, Matt glanced up toward the entrance of the cafeteria. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, unless it was the flash of color, so out of place in the drab beige school and his own muted state of mind. Or maybe it was just that he could sense her. When Whitney approached—even from a hallway halfway across a building—he felt it. A change in the atmosphere, a tightening in his stomach. She moved the very air around her, and his body was calibrated to detect each shift.

She turned the opposite direction, though, toward the front desk. The tightening in his stomach took a turn for the worse. He’d been half afraid he wouldn’t ever see her again. Seeing her and having her walk away from him was worse. Especially since her motivations were unclear.

“I don’t want to eat that.” Cecily gripped his hand tighter.

“No, no. You’ll like it.” He squeezed back. “I promise.”

“It smells funny.”

“What if I got some too?” He looked at the plate, broiled chicken and some unpronounceable gluten-free grain that could maybe, possibly, barely be mistaken for star shapes. It did smell funny. “We could eat it together. Maybe we can even convince Ms. Patterson to throw in an extra brownie.”

“The brownies aren’t gluten-free.”

“Work with me here, Lisa,” he said. “This is a brownie emergency.”

It was also a Whitney emergency, but she’d disappeared into the maze of administrative offices. And no matter how much he might want to talk to her right now, his first loyalty was to helping Cecily tackle gluten-free stars. And Ms. Patterson’s chocolate-disapproving ways.

He managed to wrest an extra brownie out of the woman and sat down to eat with Cecily. For the next fifteen minutes, he refused to imagine Whitney waiting for him in his classroom without a shirt on, or the conversation she might be having with his coworkers about his sexual preferences.

And he did a pretty admirable job at it, if he did say so himself. He even got Cecily to laugh.