The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (3 page)

“Is your work top secret? I’d offer to tell you what I do for a living, but you’ll laugh.”

“Oh, I already know what you do. You’re an English professor. The elbow patches and Oxford shirt give it away.”

Matt looked down at his attire. Sure, Lincoln had said a button-down shirt and jacket would put him on the firm path to celibacy, but Matt refused to take fashion advice from a man who owned two-hundred-dollar jeans. “Should I have left a few of the buttons undone? Lincoln said chest hair is passé.”

Whitney grinned widely, and Matt couldn’t help his elated feeling of pride. See? He was funny. He could still do this.

“And I’m not an English professor,” he added. “But good try.”

“Lecturer?”

“Getting warmer.”

“Oh, crap—you’re a poet, aren’t you?”

He braced himself. “Actually, I teach kindergarten.”

The silence that followed lasted for exactly five seconds before Whitney burst into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that shook her whole body, and, predictably, she held none of it back.

Matt was used to getting strange reactions. People—especially female people—couldn’t help but find something to talk about in his chosen profession. Most of them thought it was sweet. Some thought it was creepy. Trust this woman to find it downright hilarious.

“That is so adorable it almost hurts my teeth,” Whitney said once she finally regained her composure.
A
kindergarten
teacher
? Did a more nauseatingly endearing profession exist anywhere in the world? “So you, like, sing songs all day? And clap and play games and stuff?”

Rather than take offense to her reply, as she expected, Matt laughed, his same soft chortle that never seemed to contain any malice. Whitney found it strangely addicting.

“There’s a little more to it than that. But yes, I’ve been known to sing.”

“I swear to God, if you tell me you karaoke on the weekends, I’m walking out the door,” Whitney warned.

Divorced, chivalrous, kid-loving, kind...it was like someone had taken a poll of all the non-threatening, asexual characteristics a man could possibly exhibit and rolled them up into a tidy package. Somehow, it worked for him—and the feelings being aroused in Whitney’s breast were anything but asexual.

“Singing in front of six-year-olds and singing in public are two different things.” Matt smiled, deepening his cherubic dimples. “And to be honest, I’m not very good at either one.”

Whitney was not the sort of woman who paid any attention to her ovaries or what was expected of them as she strode confidently into her mid-thirties, but she could have sworn they swelled in autonomic response to that smile.

The waitress came by then, her hands laden with plates of towering stacks of pancakes that glistened with butter and late-night calories. With the promise that she’d be by with more coffee in a few minutes, she left them to divide their bounty however they saw fit.

Sharing a plate of food with someone you just met was supposed to be an awkward experience. In the thick of a relationship, cutting up pancakes and fighting over the last piece of toast had a comfortable feeling to it, a dance of breakfast food and camaraderie perfected over time. She almost liked the first time better. Hesitancy, fumbling, mumbled apologies—there was no better way to get to know a man than to see how he handled them all.

But Matt just smiled charmingly at her and doled out her pancakes as if she was six. God, he was cute.
Too
cute
. What was she doing here at this diner, with this man, in the middle of the night? She hadn’t come all the way out to quaint, bucolic Pennsylvania to woo the local catch—and a divorced schoolteacher to boot. Clichés were for young women, for dewy-eyed nursing students who thought it was the height of romantic fantasy to follow their boyfriends into the wilds to save the downtrodden and medically bereft.

“You gave me all the bacon,” she pointed out, accepting her plate. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“If it’s going to make you frown at me like that, you don’t have to eat it.”

“I’m not frowning at you.” She grabbed one of the pieces of bacon and took a huge bite. Crispy, just the way she liked it. “I’m frowning at the situation.”

He paused in the motion of bringing his fork to his mouth. “And how, exactly, is this a
situation
? Where I come from, we call it breakfast.”

“And where is it you come from? Stepford?”

“There you are again, making fun of me when I least expect it. You have a gift.” Although his words were mild, Matt followed up by narrowing his eyes and watching the group of teenagers in the back get noisily out of their booth and make their way out the door.

Whitney thought for a moment that she had succeeded in scaring Matt away, that her admittedly faulty tendency to speak her mind had finally proved too much for his mild-mannered adorableness and he was going to escape with the crowd.

Disappointment twinged somewhere in her nether regions. But then he held up a finger and tossed his napkin on the table, a total gentleman when he added, “Would you excuse me for a second?”

Matt hated to walk away just when the teasing was coming out of Whitney’s mouth again, but he remembered all too well his own misspent youth. Well,
misspent
was a bit of a strong word. The worst thing he’d ever done was hit a car in the parking lot with a grocery cart and not leave a note for the giant ding it left in the door. But he
had
spent considerable time in diners like this one, taking up valuable restaurant real estate and leaving handfuls of pennies in return.

The restrooms were located near the back, so he headed that way, passing the table covered in empty creamer cartons and sugar packets, making it look as though a war had taken place. He stole a quick peek at the check—all of ten dollars for five cups of coffee, and not nearly enough tip for a timestamp that went back three and a half hours. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it to the table, hurrying past so the waitress wouldn’t see.

When he slid back into the booth, ready to tackle his plate, Whitney reached out a hand. “Give me your wallet.”

“Is this a holdup?” he joked.

She kept her hand in place. “Back there at the bar, did you really not know what a DUFF was?”

He crossed his heart. “I swear. I would never do that to anyone. I thought you looked nice.”

“The wallet, please.”

He handed it over, watching as she pulled out his ID and scribbled his name and address on a napkin. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was doing, and a part of him—a rather important part—perked up with sudden interest. He’d been alone for over half a year now, lonely for a lot longer than that.

But by the time Whitney got to his address, he put a hand over hers. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Her eyebrow rose. “We’re not going anywhere without it.”

“I thought we were just having pancakes.”

Her eyebrow went even higher, if such a thing were possible. “Listen, Matt. You’re cute. And you’re sweet. I saw what you did over there for the waitress—and it was either the most clever move a guy has ever made on me, or it was the most charming act of kindness I’ve seen in a long time. Either way, you win. That’s why I’m going to make this as easy as possible for you. Would you or would you not like to accompany me to my house to have mindless, attachment-free sex until the sun comes up?”

Matt blinked. Okay, so Lincoln was right. Women were a hell of a lot more forward than he remembered. And it wasn’t that he didn’t find this woman attractive—he
did
—but... Whitney released an irritated noise and leaned over the table, actually grabbing him by the shirt collar and forcing him to meet her halfway.

Whatever her plan was in that moment, it worked. Damn, did it work.

Her lips were just as hedonistic as their bright red lipstick promised—the right combination of soft and pliable, pressed against his with a forcefulness that seemed fitting, given what he knew of her personality. She wasn’t shy with the tongue, either, flicking lightly into his mouth with the syrupy sweetness of pancakes, heedless to the other people trying to enjoy their wee-hours-of-the-morning breakfast.

He let himself fall into it, into
her
, and deepened the kiss almost against his will. That slow, sensual graze of her tongue against his, the soft moan that rose from her throat and tumbled into his—that was where the stirrings of lust became a pounding, forceful reality. This was the kiss of a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. This was the kiss of a woman who would probably never end a marriage because of a lack of passion.

It was also the first kiss that Matt had shared with anyone other than his ex-wife in over five years.

Which made things difficult.

Whitney pulled away and licked her lips, her eyes narrowed and glittering, her meaning clear. “Well?”

Matt leaned back, dazed and slightly bewildered and no longer capable of pretending that his mild interest hadn’t erupted into something much more...substantial. This was not how this whole dating pool thing was supposed to happen. He wanted to ease into it, dip his toes in and all that. Not plunge headfirst... Well, not plunge. Period.

“I haven’t been with anyone since my wife,” he blurted out. He paused and then let loose a laugh. He couldn’t help it—this whole situation was beyond absurd. “And I believe I might be oversharing again.”

She paused in the middle of putting the napkin with his ID information securely in her purse. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“It’s not
that
weird.”

“It’s a little bit weird. How long have you been divorced?”

Matt crossed his arms and firmed his resolution. This whole get-back-on-his-horse, clamber-aboard-the-wagon, jump-in-the-sack thing was too much. He might be woefully behind the times when it came to dating, but he refused to believe that casual sex was the cure for a failed three-year marriage. “Eight months.”

She let out a small huff. “And didn’t you say there wasn’t any passion before that?”

“I’ve really got to stop saying everything that pops into my head.”

“Don’t you dare. I adore it.” She dropped a bill on the table and rose to her feet, reaching for Matt’s hand and pulling him up behind her. The space between them, infinitesimal as it was, felt thick with promise. “What you need more than anything right now is a rebound girl.”

“I do?” Then, “What’s a rebound girl?”

She smiled brightly. “I am. Here’s how it works. I don’t want you to buy me a ring. I don’t want to bear your children. I don’t even want to be your girlfriend. All I want is you and me and as much sex as we can possibly squeeze into the four hours before dawn.”

Matt’s mouth went dry. “That’s a real thing?”

“Oh, Matt. Poor, sweet Matt. You have no idea. You’re obviously one of those men built for monogamy and the kind of love that lasts until you’re wrinkly and don’t remember where you put your teeth—which of course means that you’re completely wrong for the bar scene and for women like me.”

“Then why would I go home with you?” The rational part of him warned him to cool off and back away. The still mildly tequilaed part of him, the rigid stirring in his groin—they had plenty to say on the subject.

“Because,” she said with painstaking calm, “you can’t start a long-term relationship until you rebound, and believe me when I say I’m exactly the kind of girl you want in the interim. I’m an exceptionally good lover. And commitment makes me itchy.”

“I think you’re making this up.”

“I think you’re overanalyzing.”

“Am I?” His head whirled.

“Besides.” She smiled coyly and wound her fingers through his. “I’m feeling generous.”

“Are you trying to say this is like charity?”

She laughed. “Only if you’re really bad at it.”

“I’m not bad at it,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. But he stepped away, putting some much-needed distance between them. He wasn’t that guy, the carefree one-night stand, no matter how much his body might disagree. And it disagreed—rather strongly. With a deep breath that did little to redirect the flow of his blood, he said, “And while I’m flattered that you would offer, I think this is where I call it a night.”

The look Whitney cast him was full of all those things that indicated a woman scorned. Her lips downturned in a frown, and her eyes narrowed with icy disdain. “You’re saying
no
?”

“It’s more like I’m saying I’d like to see you again. During the daytime, maybe.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in seeing you again?”

He shrugged, trying not to show how much those words stung. He’d heard it wasn’t uncommon—the city girls hitting the small-time local clubs in hopes of a brief, illicit fling in which follow-up dates and awkward morning conversations need not apply. But Matt was kind of looking forward to the awkward morning conversations, those heady first days of intimacy.

Whitney was right. He was built for monogamy and toothless love.

“It was just a hunch.” He extended his hand in an offer of friendship. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you wanted. Do you think you can get home all right?”

She eyed his hand warily. “I’m a grown woman. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“I can call you a cab.”

This time, the corners of her mouth lifted in a wry, twisted smile, and she gave his hand a firm, decided shake. “Thanks, Galahad, but I’ll manage to find my way. I always do.”

Without another word on the subject, she grabbed her things and made for the door, leaving an almost visible trail of regret and temptation behind her.

“Lincoln isn’t going to believe this.” He barely believed it himself. Plopping back down to the vinyl seat, he grabbed a piece of bacon—cold and greasy—from Whitney’s plate and ate it.

And he’d thought he hadn’t understood women before.

Chapter Two

“John!” Whitney launched herself at her friend of more than fifteen years, unable to stop her exuberance from showing. Even though she built up quite a bit of momentum, what with her body mass and the acceleration of excitement that propelled her across the parking lot, he caught her easily. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

He held her for a moment, smelling of laundry soap and mint, before placing his hands on either shoulder and forcing her to take a step back. With a crinkle in his eyes, he took her in, indulging himself for a full minute before nodding with satisfaction.

At over six feet tall and with a robust, bearded physique perfected over time and a love of pastries, John was a comfort to be around. He was slightly older than her—not that he would ever admit to it—and his role as snuggly paternal figure was more than complete.

“You look well,” he said in his clipped voice. He might look like a behemoth, but he spoke like the polished boarding-school baby he really was. “However, our office does not. I’ve seen prisons more welcoming than this. I thought they were supposed to start this week?”

Whitney turned to survey the exterior of their soon-to-be medical spa and rejuvenation clinic, New Leaf. In the chill of March, with nothing but dead grass and gray skies to set it off, it did look rather like a concrete block beloved by criminals and avoided by upstanding citizens of the world.

“Why do you think it came so cheap?” Linking arms with her friend, she added, “It’s not so bad inside—it’s older than dirt and they say we’re going to have to gut the plumbing, but just think of it in terms of potential. Sweet, beautiful, money-making potential. And we can plant chrysanthemums or something for the outside. People love flowers.”

“Only the elderly love chrysanthemums.”

“That’s half our target demographic right there.” Whitney pulled out her key ring—with all the keys to the office and her new condo, she felt like a jingling janitor—and unlocked the door. “Welcome to your new home.”

She gave him a minute to adjust. The former dental office, located just outside the center of town, stood a testament to 1980s architecture everywhere. Not for them the quaint, historic brick that dated to the country’s earliest settlement period or the turn-of-the-century Victorians that lined up like gingerbread houses along the north of the borough. No. They got dated carpeting and vertical blinds.

So maybe the office wasn’t exactly the way they’d pictured it, but leasing this heap of rubble was a heck of a lot cheaper than building their facility from scratch, and had the added bonus of making them saviors to the community. The building was an eyesore, a scab. They were going to transform it into beauty, all upscale and sleek.

That was the whole point, actually. Pleasant Park was chock-full of people flush with disposable income and desperate for all things upscale and sleek, unwavering in their desire to be urban but surrounded by the bucolic Pennsylvania countryside that was anything but.

“Well, it
is
roomy,” John eventually said, nodding once to confirm his approval. “You’re sure they said three months?”

Whitney hoisted herself up on one of the laminate counters, feeling inordinately pleased with herself for navigating the tricky maneuver in her tight pencil skirt and dangerously high-heeled boots.

“I’ve seen the plans myself. I believe I’m sitting in the surgery suite right now.”

“How charming,” John murmured. “I can practically see the love handles melting away.”

“I don’t have love handles!” Whitney protested, sitting up straighter. “I’m a strictly junk-in-the-trunk miss. Now you, on the other hand...”

“I’m not going anywhere near you and your scalpel of fury, so don’t even try.” John laughed,
his
love handles jiggling delightfully in the process. “Besides, for someone who advocates artificial beauty so much, I don’t see a whole lot of discreet scars on your body.”

“I’ve had at least half a dozen moles removed, and you know as well as I do this isn’t my real nose. And I thought about getting a breast enlargement to balance my upper and lower halves.” Whitney stuck her arms straight out in front of her, her B cups smooshing together in the process. “But those babies would get in the way of my technique something fierce. Can you imagine stitching sutures with a couple of double Ds in the way? It’d be like you trying to perform a Shiatsu with a couple of cantaloupes taped to your chest. Alas, I’m destined for average beauty and ninja surgical skills. We all have sacrifices to make.”

John leveled her with one of his signature looks—bushy eyebrow raised in an exact emulation of a young Sean Connery. “I have not now, or ever, accused you of being average. I wouldn’t dare.”

Before she could plant the kiss on his lips he so clearly deserved, the front door swung open with a crash. Kendra, bedraggled in the sparkly shirt from the night before, her heels in one hand and eye makeup smudged halfway down her tiny, heart-shaped face, took one look at John and let out a squeal. Like Whitney, she launched herself into their friend’s arms, though she became almost engulfed by the breadth of them.

Whitney laughed as they said their hellos. Kendra effused an aura of stale perfume, stale beer and fresh coffee—the unmistakable scent of the Walk of Shame—and John was doing his fastidious best not to notice.

“I texted you to let you know that you didn’t need to come in today.” Whitney nodded toward her purse. “Did your little orange friend turn out to be not much in the way of a good host?”

Kendra stuck out her tongue, flashing the silver piercing in the center. It wasn’t the only piercing she had—but with the exception of a tiny diamond stud in her nose, it was the only other one visible to the public. “Judge not, Whitney dear. You’re looking none too pure of heart yourself this morning.”

“When have I ever been pure of anything?”

Kendra laughed, and even though she’d probably just rolled out of bed and stumbled here by foot, Whitney felt a surge of pride and admiration for her friend. There weren’t a whole lot of judgment-free women out there in the world who looked and acted as fabulous as Kendra. Indian by birth, educated at Brown and possessed of a wicked skill at threading a pair of eyebrows into submission, Kendra was the main reason they were actually going through with opening the spa. Her MBA lent them all authenticity, and her esthetician training rounded out an already impressive line of services.

“Did you at least have a good night?” Whitney asked.

“It was...interesting,” Kendra hedged.

“Oooh, interesting.” John leaned on one elbow, propped on the counter near Whitney. “I like the sound of that.”

“Let me guess,” Whitney said, pretending to be thoughtful. “He also spray-tanned his dick, didn’t he?”

John let out a crack of laughter and even Kendra gave in to a soft snort. “A lady never tells.”

“Well—what is it, then?” Whitney prodded when Kendra didn’t offer more. Her friend had never been very good at hiding her worries. Stress always made her quiet.

Kendra shook her head, her chin-length hair—now bereft of the pink wig—swishing around her with razor-like precision. “It’s just that I passed four people I recognized on the walk over here this morning. Three frowned at me.”

“Screw it. Let them frown.” If there was one thing Whitney hated more than critical townspeople, it was critical townspeople who dared to judge her friend. “You’re fantastic.”

Kendra tapped a finger on her lips in a gesture of thoughtfulness. “Don’t think I don’t know that. I just wonder if we overestimated...”

“What, sweetie?” John raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “I officially terminated employment at the sports clinic as of yesterday—there’s no backing out now.”

“We’re not backing out of anything.” Whitney was no quitter. She’d make this business work if she had to run through the town center with her scalpel in hand, threatening the masses. “This is our dream, remember? Everything we ever wanted? The reason we’ve slaved away for years? Any of this ringing a bell? I have fond memories of us sitting in the student lounge writing out a business plan on the cafeteria napkins—I think my parents might even still have a few of them. My mom will probably make us a scrapbook.”

John’s look was just enigmatic enough to cause her pulse to leap. “How could any of us forget? Jared was just finishing medical school, you started taking all your nursing prerequisites...”

Whitney jumped off the counter and pretended to take a profound interest in counting the dead fly carcasses on the huge window overlooking the parking lot. There was no way to avoid the subject—not when Jared had been such an integral part of their group. The Four Musketeers, they’d called themselves, all of them playing second fiddle to Jared’s inborn God complex, herself included. She’d wanted to be his goddamn nurse, for crying out loud. His helpmeet.

She was no man’s helpmeet.

And even though she knew John and Kendra were on her side, it still sometimes felt like they blamed her for Jared’s absence in their medical spa dream-come-true.

He’s
the
one
who
cheated
, she wanted to scream.
He’s
the
one
who
ruined
the
fantasy
.
The
one
who
ruined
me
.

If there was one thing Whitney had learned from her life experiences, it was that she didn’t need Jared Fine to make her life complete. She didn’t need anyone for that. Yes, they were a few years behind schedule, what with Whitney’s determination to return to school and become a surgeon herself. And yes, a fourth partner would have considerably reduced the amount of loans they’d had to take out to make this happen.

But they’d persevered. They’d made it. And they’d done it all without him.

She turned, a fake smile plastered to her face so tight it burned. “I, for one, am having no doubts whatsoever. I love this town.”

“I take it that means your evening with Matt went well?” Kendra accepted Whitney’s change of subject without batting a false eyelash.

“There’s a Matt already?” John asked. He, too, was a master at reading Whitney’s not-so-subtle cues. “You girls certainly have been busy.”

“Who? That guy at the bar last night?” Whitney pretended to think about it. “Nah. I was a perfectly good girl last night.”

Under normal circumstances, she wasn’t a very good liar—she had far too much directness to be able to pull duplicity off with any real measure of success. But in the full light of day, it was easy to pretend that she had
not
attempted to corrupt a kindergarten teacher, and that she had
not
, much to her dismay, failed in said attempt.

And he’d been such a good kisser too. Surprised, and then...not surprised. Not surprised had been quite the experience.

She decided to change the subject. “I came home alone and at a perfectly respectable hour. Are you going to see what’s-his-orange-face again?”

Kendra pursed her lips. “Probably not. But I mean it, Whitney—I think we may have underestimated just how conservative this place is.”

Whitney shuddered.
Conservative
was one of her least favorite words. Sweater sets and respectable investment portfolios were other things that made her itch, right up there with commitment. “What are you saying?”

“Just that we might need to tread a little lighter. We’ll be fine—I’m probably overreacting. These people might be a little bit more old-fashioned than we’d like, but they have money. They know other people with money. And they have an inborn need to compete with the Joneses. Let’s focus on fitting in with that.”

“I’m not wearing pastels,” Whitney warned. “Or pearls.”

John grinned. “Maybe we could start small. Drink less, perhaps?”

Kendra shook off the last of her doldrums and began to walk through the front office, pointing out the future waxing room and massage facilities to John.

Whitney adjusted her skirt and followed her friends through the empty corridor with its boring white walls and cheap gray carpet, thinking of the grave look on Matt’s face when he’d offered her a handshake in place of more intimate relations.
Hmm
. Maybe drinking less was a good idea. They could at least adhere to a strict intoxication-on-the-weekends-only rule.

“The time to ingratiate ourselves here is now, while we have a little time on our hands,” Kendra said, nodding firmly. Then she winced and held a hand to her head. “Or maybe tomorrow, once I’ve had a nap.”

John put an arm around Kendra’s shoulder and steered her in the direction of the front door. “I’m going to take this one home and pump her full of fluids and aspirin. You okay to hand off the keys when the contractors get here?”

Whitney nodded. “I’ll even fight the urge to flirt outrageously with the cute ones. See how respectable I’m becoming already?”

“Don’t listen to her.” Kendra allowed John to lead her away. “She’s got her sights set on the local schoolteacher. She’ll be the ruin of us all.”

“I do not have my sights on him!” Whitney called back, making her voice purposefully loud. “I barely even remember his name.”

Lies
. Every last one of them.