Annie Says I Do

Annie Says I Do Carole Buck Single Guy's Proposal When Matt Powell asked Annie Martin to help him get back into the "singles scene," she figured he needed some advice about women. But Matt's suggestion that they share a few practice dates threw Annie for a loop. Could she really "date" her best friend? Single Gal's Reply The answer was a resounding yes!Matt was sexier - and a better kisser - than Annie could have imagined. Suddenly, marriage-shy Annie was considering saying "I do." But first she'd have to convince her reluctant would-be groom to do the same… . Annie Says I Do Carole Buck www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To the “real” Annie, who’s actually an Ellen. May all your ever-afters be as happy as you deserve. Contents Prologue (#u5c040d1a-23a0-5caf-8bd7-eea1e7ebbc51) Chapter One (#u9c7277bf-e52b-5524-83ca-73fff30d6702) Chapter Two (#u018e5c70-44f5-5ac6-bdf8-9148c9434dbc) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue While they were known to friends and family as Annie, Zoe and Peachy, they called themselves the Wedding Belles. None of them was absolutely certain who had first suggested the nickname. However they all agreed that the appellation had been inspired by the bridesmaids’ gifts given to them by Eden Marie Keene the weekend before she married Richard Powell. The gifts were bell-shaped silver lockets on delicate silver chains. “Oh, wow.” Eden’s thirteen-year-old sister, Peachy, breathed when she opened the velvet-covered box that contained her present. She looked up at the bride-to-be, her green eyes luminous with pleasure. A flush pinkened her freckle-dusted face, clashing with her incorrigibly curly red hair. “This is great.” “It’s beautiful,” Zoe Alexandra Armitage declared softly, lifting her locket with slender, impeccably manicured fingers. A willowy, blue-eyed blonde of twenty-two, she was one of two women who’d spent four years sharing a college dorm suite with Eden. She was also living proof that looks could be very deceiving. Judging on appearances alone, few people would ever guess that such a coolly elegant young woman had spent a significant portion of her formative years in places where the only available running water was that found coursing between the banks of a river. “Let’s wear them for the wedding,” Eden’s other roommate, Hannah “Annie” Martin, suggested with characteristic decisiveness. Where Zoe resembled a picture-book princess, she was the epitome of the All-American, no-artifice-necessary girl. Of average height, Annie had an athletically slim figure. Her sable brown hair was thick and glossy, her creamy skin glowed with good health. She exuded an aura of energetic confidence. Eden’s lips curved into a radiantly satisfied smile. “I was hoping you’d want to.” “These will look terrific with our dresses,” Peachy commented, tracing the exquisitely engraved surface of her locket. “Anything would look terrific with those dresses, Peachy,” Annie declared, her long-lashed brown eyes sparkling. “Unlike some brides I could name, your sister has excellent taste.” “You’re not going to start complaining about your second cousin’s wedding again, are you?” Eden grimaced. “It happened years ago!” “What does that have to do with anything?” Annie countered. “I still suffer from flashbacks about being one of Barbara Jeanine’s bridesmaids. I think I’ve got some kind of postnuptial stress disorder. Or maybe a chronic case of taffetaphobia.” Eden and Zoe looked at each other and groaned. “What was so awful about your second cousin’s wedding, Annie?” Peachy—whose given name was Pamela Gayle—wanted to know. “Chartreuse,” came the succinct response. “Huh?” “The bridesmaids’ dresses were chartreuse,” Zoe explained. Her uninflected tone suggested she was repeating information she’d heard many, many times before. Peachy pulled a face. “Oh, gross.” “The dresses also had hoop skirts,” Annie noted. “Oh, seriously gross!” “Don’t forget the parasols,” Eden said. “Or the picture hats,” Zoe added. “I looked like a bilious mushroom.” Annie gestured expressively. “It was a marriage made in heaven, with bridesmaid dresses straight from hell.” “Heaven?” Eden scoffed. “You said Barbara Jeanine and what’s-his-name—Marvin? Melvin?—got into a raging fight at the reception and wound up throwing chunks of wedding cake at each other! I thought they filed for divorce before the honeymoon even started.” “They did,” Annie conceded easily. “But I don’t believe in letting facts get in the way of a clever turn of phrase.” “No wonder you’re planning to go into advertising,” Zoe quipped. “Well, we don’t have to worry about food fights or ugly dresses where Eden’s wedding is concerned,” Peachy asserted. “It’s all planned out and it’s going to be perfect.” “Eden does seem remarkably calm,” Annie observed, cocking her head to one side. “I mean, most brides-to-be I’ve known spent their final weekends as single women popping tranquilizers, breaking up with their fianc?s, or plotting to murder their mothers. Sometimes all three.” “My mother and I did have a minor disagreement before I came to meet you,” Eden admitted with a smile. “But aside from that, everything’s fine. I’ve only got one real concern.” “That Rick won’t show up at the church?” Annie was teasing, of course. She had good reason to know that the chances of the groom in question leaving his bride-to-be standing at the altar were nil. After all, she was the one who’d introduced the couple and seen the romantic sparks fly. If ever two people were made for each other... This wasn’t to imply that matchmaking had been Annie’s objective when she’d invited Eden to spend part of their sophomore year spring break at her home in Atlanta, Georgia. Heavens, no! Love at first sight had been the last thing on her mind when she’d casually presented her college roommate to her longtime next door neighbor. Yet within thirty seconds of their eyes meeting and hands touching, it had been obvious that Eden and Rick were bonded for life. Of course, tumbling into love like the clich?d ton of bricks seemed to be standard operating procedure where the Powell men were concerned. According to family lore, Rick’s father had proposed to his future wife in the middle of their first date. And Annie had watched Rick’s younger brother—her best buddy, Matt—lose his heart to a girl he’d never met, whose name he hadn’t even known, on the first day of their junior year of high school. “Bite your tongue, Annie,” Eden retorted. While her tone was chiding, her serene expression indicated that she harbored no doubts about the strength of her husband-to-be’s emotional commitment to her. “I know,” Zoe said, her sky-colored eyes dancing. “You’re worried about what you’re going to do with four food processors.” “Five,” Peachy corrected with a giggle. “There was another one delivered to the house yesterday afternoon. I heard Uncle Ralph tell Dad he should raffle off the extra ones to help pay for Eden’s reception.” “Aha!” Annie fixed the prospective bride with a triumphant look. “You’re worried that your uncle Ralph is going to do something embarrassing at the wedding!” “Uncle Ralph always does something embarrassing at weddings,” Eden responded dryly. “At funerals, too. It’s a family tradition.” “So what do you have to worry about?” Zoe questioned. She frowned consideringly for a few moments then continued in a pseudomelodramatic whisper, “Could it be...the wedding night?” “Oh, I’m all prepared for that,” Eden replied airily. She cast a conspiratorial wink at her younger sister. “Peachy lent me the textbook from her sex education class.” “Really?” Annie looked intrigued. “Has Rick seen it?” Eden’s mouth quirked provocatively. A wicked glint appeared in her crystal gray eyes. “Actually,” she drawled, “I thought I’d let the facts of life—ahem—come as a surprise to him.” “Eden!” her roommates gasped. “What?” The inquiry was the essence of innocence. “Girls who plan to get married in virginal white aren’t supposed to make dirty jokes,” Annie informed her primly. “Who’s joking?” “Well, if that’s the case,” Zoe said, “you should at least give Rick a chance to skim the table of contents of Peachy’s textbook.” “Maybe there’s a video version of it,” Annie suggested. “That way he could fast-forward through the boring stuff.” “I’d be glad to lend him my notes,” Peachy volunteered. While the blush on her cheeks hinted she was not completely comfortable with the bawdy banter going on around her, the impish light in her eyes indicated she was game to join in the fun. “I mean, I did get an A in the class.” “Really?” Zoe asked, arching her well-groomed brows. She sounded sincerely impressed. The color of Peachy’s face intensified. “Well, actually, it was an A-plus. I did an extra-credit project.” “Forget about lending your notes to Rick, Peachy,” Annie said, starting to chuckle. “Give them to me!” “Me, too,” Zoe concurred, joining in Annie’s humor. A split second later Peachy was laughing, too. Within a matter of moments, all three prospective bridesmaids were helpless with hilarity. “Ladies...please...” Eden reproved, gesturing for decorum like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “Settle down.” It took a while, but order was eventually restored. “You...” Annie paused to catch her breath. “You still haven’t told us what you’re worried about, Eden.” The soon-to-be Mrs. Richard Powell looked blank for an instant, then the corners of her lips curled up. “Oh. That.” “Yes?” Zoe prompted. Eden’s smile widened to embrace her two dearest friends and her kid sister. “I’m worried about which one of you is going to catch my bouquet...and be the next bride.” One “I‘m still having trouble believing you saved that thing, Annie,” Matt Powell said, plunging a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa in front of him. “It’s been nearly nine years since the wedding.” The “thing” to which Matt was referring was Eden Keene’s bridal bouquet. He’d discovered it in Annie’s possession—pressed and carefully packed away—several hours ago while helping her settle into her new condominium in Atlanta’s fashionable Buckhead area. He’d been teasing her about it ever since. Teasing was one of the hallmarks of Matt and Annie’s three-decade-old relationship. They’d been born in the same hospital just twenty-four hours apart and had grown up living next door to each other. They’d shared baths and sandboxes as toddlers, schoolwork and secrets as preteens, and a unique bond of understanding throughout adolescence and into adulthood. If Annie had been given a dollar each time somebody had told her that she and Matt were “just like brother and sister,” she would have been able to retire as an extremely wealthy woman before reaching age thirty. Heck, receiving just a dime per repetition would have allowed her to build up quite a respectable nest egg! She’d never liked the sibling analogy. It was such a clich?. More than that, it failed to reflect the fundamental truth about her ties to Matt. Brothers and sisters were supposed to be close. It was more or less written into their genetic contracts. She and Matt had chosen to bond with each other. Theirs was a purely voluntary alliance that, despite a blood oath of mutual fidelity sworn at age eight, was subject to unilateral abrogation at any time. When asked how she’d describe her relationship with Matt—and his with her—Annie usually replied that the two of them were best buddies. People unwise enough to suggest that there might be something sexual percolating beneath the apparently platonic surface of their friendship provoked either hoots of laughter or offended glares, depending on her mood. This wasn’t to suggest that what went on between Hannah Elaine Martin and Matthew Douglas Powell was all sweetness and light. Heck, no. They’d been trading verbal jabs from the time they’d learned to talk. They’d even had a few playground skirmishes that had degenerated into fistfights. But when push came to shove... Put it this way: Annie was absolutely certain that if she ever telephoned Matt in the middle of the night from equatorial Guinea and said she needed him, he’d come rushing to her aid on the first available plane—no questions asked. What’s more, she was equally positive that she’d respond in the same unreserved fashion should he ever call her for help. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” Annie complained, selecting a tortilla chip and skimming it across the surface of the salsa. Both she and Matt loved spicy, south-of-the-border food. The Mexican restaurant in which they were sitting was one they’d patronized together many, many times. “I caught the bouquet at Eden’s wedding and I kept it. So what?” “I don’t remember you actually catching the bouquet,” Matt drawled, picking up the long-necked bottle of beer at his elbow and taking a healthy swig. He surveyed her with amused blue-gray eyes. “It seems to me the bouquet bounced off somebody’s head and fell into your hands by default. You didn’t look very pleased when it did, either. In fact, I think there was a second or two when you seriously considered dropping the thing.” Annie crunched down on the salsa-coated tortilla chip. In point of fact, Matt’s recollection was right on the money. She’d definitely experienced a moment of dismay when she’d realized that, despite some determined maneuvering to avoid doing so, she’d somehow ended up clutching Eden’s bridal bouquet. There’d been plenty of female guests who’d tried to catch the ribbon-trussed bundle of flowers, of course. Had there been an inconspicuous way of handing the bouquet off to one of those want-to-be-wedded types, Annie would have opted for it. But there hadn’t been. So she’d been forced to smile and laugh and graciously respond to a lot of prying questions about her matrimonial prospects. The one thing nobody had asked her nine years ago was, “Do you want to get married?” Her answer—had someone put the query to her—would have been succinct. “No,” she would have stated. “I don’t.” If pressed, Annie would have gone on to explain that although she had nothing against marriage, it wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She craved a challenging career and the opportunity to establish herself as an independent woman. When she imagined the sweet smell of personal success, it didn’t include the delicate odor of orange blossoms. Her feelings about getting married hadn’t changed much in the nine years since Eden’s wedding. She’d thought they might when she’d reached thirty. This expectation had been the result of watching a significant number of her contemporaries go into husband-hunting frenzies after they’d passed the Big 3-0 unwed. While the spousal search had paid off for some, it seemed to Annie that most of her single women friends were still frantically seeking Mr. Right. There were even a few so desperate to do the nuptial deed that they were ready to settle for Mr. Not Too Obviously Wrong...or worse. “Don’t you want to get married, Annie?” an unattached acquaintance had recently demanded of her. The context of the question had been a discussion—a one-sided litany of complaints, really—about the lack of eligible men in Atlanta and the abundance of competition for them. “Not particularly,” she’d answered frankly. “Although I’m certainly not ruling it out. If I meet someone wonderful and we fall madly in love with each other, I’ll probably want to get married. But I’m not really looking. I like the life I have. The life I’ve made for me. Being on my own is—” The sound of her name summoned Annie back to the present. She looked across the table at Matt, wondering how long she’d been caught up in her thoughts. “Have a nice trip?” he inquired wryly. “Sorry,” she apologized, reaching for the glass of unsweetened ice tea she’d ordered when they’d sat down. She sipped at it, trying to recall what they’d been discussing before she’d gotten so enmeshed in her marital musings. “I, uh, what...?” “We were talking about your keeping Eden’s bridal bouquet.” “Oh.” Annie set down the glass and shifted in her seat. “Right.” “It’s not like you to be so sentimental,” Matt asserted, then paused for a few moments. When he resumed speaking, his tone was tender. “Now if it had been Lisa who’d caught Eden’s bouquet...” Annie’s breath wedged at the top of her throat as the half-whispered words gave way to an emotionally charged silence. She watched, hands clenched, heart hammering, as Matt retreated into himself—into a world of memories she knew she’d never share. Lisa, she thought. It’s always going to be Lisa. “Lisa” was Lisa Anne Davis. Lisa... The new girl in school with whom Matthew Douglas Powell had fallen head over heels in love on a September morning nearly a decade and a half ago. Lisa... The young woman Matthew Douglas Powell had married in a joyous June ceremony some nine years later. Lisa... The adored wife Matthew Douglas Powell had laid to rest on a bleak February afternoon a few months shy of his fifth wedding anniversary. Annie had been with Matt at the beginning and the end...and afterward. Monitoring his well-being had been one of her chief concerns since Lisa’s tragic passing, fifteen months ago. She’d done everything she could to help him piece his shattered existence back together. She’d held him while he’d wept for his lost love. She’d soothed him while he’d raged against the unfairness of life. She’d spent hours—aching, seemingly endless hours—listening while he’d recalled the soaring happiness that had been his. The first year after Lisa’s death had been hard on Matt. So hard that there’d been a few desperate days when Annie had genuinely been afraid that he might surrender to his grief and do something irreparable. Thankfully, those desperate days—and the heartsick fears they’d engendered—had passed. Anger had eased. Sorrow had yielded to resignation, if not acceptance. In recent weeks Annie had begun to believe that Matt had finally come to terms with what had happened and had started to heal. Or had he? she wondered uneasily, studying the lankily built man sitting across the table from her. If the look on Matt’s face was any indication— “It’s chow time, y’all.” The ebullient announcement jolted Annie out of her anxiety-tinged reverie. Its source was a ponytailed young waiter named Rudi. The possessor of an eager-beaver grin, a bodybuilder’s physique, and an apparently inexhaustible store of enthusiasm for his job, he’d served Annie and Matt during many of their previous visits to the Rio Bravo restaurant. “For the lady, the usual fajitas con pollo.” Rudi said, plunking a sizzling platter of chicken chunks, onion strips and sliced green peppers in front of Annie. “Hold the guacamole, double the side order of pico de gallo. Watch the plate, it’s really hot.” “Thanks,” she managed, still a bit off-balance. “You’re welcome,” came the cheerful response. “And for the gentleman—what else but tacos al carbon. Heavy on the onions, forget the sour cream.” “It looks great, Rudi,” Matt said, surveying the feast being placed before him. The introspective expression that had troubled Annie was gone. He looked as though the weightiest matter on his mind was how to fill his mouth as quickly as possible. “We aim to please,” the waiter answered. “Although it’s not very difficult with you two.” He tilted his head to one side. “Look, I realize it’s none of my business—but do y’all ever eat anything besides chicken fajitas and beef tacos?” “Oh, sure,” Matt said easily, flashing a quirky, crook-cornered smile. “Whenever we go out for Chinese, I get shrimp fried rice and she gets Moo Goo Gai Pan.” “Sometimes we split an order of stir-fried green beans with garlic,” Annie noted. “In other words, y’all know what you like and you stick to it.” “At least as far as food goes,” Matt qualified. Rudi considered this for a few seconds, then glanced back and forth between Matt and Annie. “Anything else?” he asked helpfully. “Another beer, maybe? Or a refill on the ice tea?” “I’m fine for now,” Matt said, picking up his fork. “Me, too,” Annie concurred. “Okay. I’ll check back with y’all later. Enjoy your meal.” “We always do,” Matt replied. Rudi grinned in response, then pivoted on one heel and bustled away, his ponytail bobbing against his bulked-up neck. Matt dug into his entr?e almost immediately. Ignoring the tantalizing aroma of her own main course, Annie studied him as he ate. While his show of appetite was reassuring, her mind kept flashing back to the expression she’d seen on his face when he’d uttered Lisa’s name. He’d seemed much more at peace with himself lately, she reminded herself. And today, when he’d helped her unpack at her new home, she’d felt as though the “old” Matt had been restored to her. The old Matt, who’d never been touched by true love or untimely death—who’d laughed easily, shared unstintingly, and embraced each new day as having the potential to be better than the one before it. Finding Eden’s bridal bouquet hadn’t appeared to have had an adverse effect on his mood. In fact, if she’d been asked to compare their reactions to the discovery, Annie would have said that she’d been more unsettled by the discovery than he. She’d chalked her response up to a certain degree of...well, embarrassment wasn’t precisely the word, but it was in the neighborhood. Allocating the silver Wedding Belle locket she’d received from Eden a place of honor in her jewelry box was one thing. Treating a dried-out bunch of ribbon-tied rosebuds as though it were some sort of treasured artifact was entirely another. Matt had been right when he’d said it wasn’t “like” her to be sentimental. Except for an abiding romantic fantasy that involved waltzing with Fred Astaire, mushy-minded emotionalism had never been her style. It wasn’t a matter of being insensitive. At least, Annie didn’t think it was. She had feelings. Intense, deeply held feelings. And she cared—passionately—about her family and friends. Nonetheless, if there was a gene for going gooey over raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, it obviously had been left out of her DNA. Lisa Davis, on the other hand, had sighed about the beauty of sunrises, sunsets and starry nights. She’d sobbed during weddings, baby showers and certain television commercials. She’d also been a total sucker for holidays, happy endings and the music of Barry Manilow. It had taken Annie a long time to accept that Lisa’s lace-trimmed, hearts-and-flowers attitude was genuine. It had taken her even longer to understand that this attitude was one of the things Matt—her reasonable, rational best buddy Matt—loved most about the woman he’d made his wife. Annie bit her lower lip and continued to scrutinize Matt. Maybe she’d been wrong, she worried. Maybe his teasing her about Eden’s bouquet had been a smokescreen for his true feelings. Maybe he was suffering inside, haunted by memories of his own wedding. Maybe the fragile, faded flowers had made him think of the baskets of blossoms that had filled Lisa’s hospital room during the awful days near the end of her— “I’m okay,” Matt interrupted quietly. Annie stiffened. “What?” “I’m okay,” he repeated in the same even tone, setting down his fork on the edge of his plate. “You can stop looking at me like you’re afraid I’m going to freak out.” Aghast, she tried to reject his words. “I—I w-wasn’t—” “Annie.” That’s all he said. Just “Annie.” But those two precisely uttered syllables—plus the directness of his gaze—were more than enough to silence her stammered denial. Annie sustained Matt’s steady, blue-gray stare for the space of a few heartbeats. Then she looked away. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, not entirely certain for what she was apologizing. “Don’t be.” Easy for him to advise, impossible for her to comply. Annie made an awkward gesture, torn between the need to explain herself and the conviction that doing so would only make things worse. The former finally won out. “Look, Matt,” she began. “I don’t want you to think that—I mean, I wasn’t really...well, yes. I guess I was. But I’m not...not—” She gestured again, frustrated by her inability to express herself. She struggled for several seconds, then blurted in a rush, “It’s just that I get concerned about you, you know?” “Of course I know.” The reply was quick and unequivocal. Yet for all its undeniable swiftness and seeming simplicity, something about it triggered an odd jolt of emotion deep within Annie. It also drew her gaze back to Matt’s face. “I...I don’t...understand...” she faltered. Matt leaned forward. “Your ‘getting concerned’ got me through hell, Annie,” he told her. “If you hadn’t been there for me after Lisa died, I might not be here now.” Annie’s throat tightened. This was the first time she’d heard Matt indicate that he realized how dangerously close to the emotional edge he’d come in the wake of his wife’s passing. It was also the first time she’d heard him acknowledge her role in bringing him back from the brink. “We’re friends, Matt,” she said, hoping her inflection communicated how much the word meant to her. “Friends help friends when friends need it.” “Yes,” Matt agreed, nodding. A comma-shaped lock of sandy blond hair fell forward onto his forehead. He forked it back into place with an unthinking sweep of his right hand. “But it’s important to realize that the kind of help friends need can change.” Annie hesitated, sensing that they were entering into uncharted emotional territory. Uncharted for her, at least. There was an expression in her best buddy’s eyes—a tempered, disconcertingly tough expression—that suggested he’d been exploring this ground for some time. “What are you trying to tell me?” she finally asked. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m all right,” he answered. “Not one hundred percent, but I’m working on it. Yes, I have moments when I miss Lisa so much it hurts. And I think about her. I think about her a lot. But I don’t obsess the way we both know I did right after she died.” “So?” Annie could barely get the word out. Matt remained silent for several seconds, the look in his eyes softening. “So,” he finally replied, “it’s time for you to stop ‘getting concerned’ about my mental stability whenever I mention my dead wife’s name.” As gentle as the implied reproach was, it still hurt. Annie’s first instinct was to dispute it. She opened her mouth to do just that, but closed it without uttering a sound. What are you going to say? she challenged. That you’re a better judge of Matt’s state of mind than he is? Are you going to suggest he’s some sort of basket case? Just a little while ago you were thinking how much better he seems! A terrible thought suddenly occurred to her. What if she didn’t really want Matt to recover from his grief? What if, in some dark corner of her soul, she was relishing his dependence on her? What if— No, she denied. No! It couldn’t be. It absolutely, positively, could not be. She knew herself better than that. And she knew her feelings for Matt better than that, too. Annie took a deep breath and looked the man sitting across from her squarely in the eye. “You’re saying I overreacted when you started to talk about what Lisa would have done if she’d been the one to catch Eden’s bouquet.” “I’m saying you’ve saved me from myself more times than I can count since Lisa died,” he corrected without missing a beat. “But the kind of help you gave me during the past fifteen months—the kind that involved your being part nursemaid, part psychotherapist and all-round guardian angel—isn’t the kind I need now.” Annie let several seconds slip by, watching Matt’s face intently. “What kind do you need?” she finally asked. Matt smiled. Grinned, almost. The expression was shatteringly familiar to Annie. It was a passport back to a carefree past she’d thought was beyond reclaiming. “I need you to be my best buddy again,” he responded with disarming candor. “And to help me get a social life.” * * * It took Annie most of the rest of the meal to determine precisely what Matt meant by this. “You want me for fix you up with someone?” she asked, rolling up her final fajita. Matt paused in the act of forking up the last few grains of tomato-tinged rice that had come with his ent?e. He seemed genuinely startled by her question. Then, astonishingly, he began to laugh. There was a definite edge to the sound. “Fix me up?” he echoed after a few seconds. “God, no! The last thing I need is anybody else trying to ‘fix me up.’” “Anybody...else?” “I’m up to my ears in people who want to introduce me to ‘nice’ girls.” “Who?” The question popped out, unbidden and unconsidered. “I don’t know.” “How can you not know who wants—” “No, Annie,” Matt cut in, shaking his head. “It’s the prospective dates who’re the strangers to me.” “Oh.” She paused, mulling this over. “But the people who want to introduce you—” “Them I know.” Annie reached for her glass of now lukewarm ice tea and took a sip. “Do, uh, I, uh, know any of them?” “Oh, definitely.” The response was wryly ironic. “The list includes my mother, Lisa’s mother, Lisa’s older sister, my brother’s wife—” “Eden?” Annie replaced her glass with a thunk. She’d spoke with Eden about Matt over lunch just two days ago. Her friend had been sympathetic and full of advice. Yet not once had she mentioned that she was attempting to play matchmaker for her brother-in-law. She hadn’t even hinted at it. “None other,” Matt affirmed, picking up his beer bottle and draining it. “I see.” And maybe she did, Annie thought. Then again, maybe she didn’t. One thing seemed plain enough, though. While she’d been “getting concerned” about Matt’s emotional state, other people had been judging him sufficiently recovered from Lisa’s death to allow them to start pitching potential replacements at him. Friends help friends when friends need it, she’d told her best buddy earlier. Yes, he’d agreed. But it’s important to realize that the kind of help friends need can change. Annie drew a steadying breath. “Okay,” she began evenly. “You say you need me to be your best buddy again and help you get a social life. But you also say you don’t need me to fix you up with anyone because you’ve got eligible women coming out of your ears. Exactly what is it that you want me to do, Matt?” “I want you to clue me in about being single.” “Huh?” “You know the scene, Annie,” Matt explained earnestly. “You’re a veteran of the battle between the sexes. You’ve been going out with guys for years.” “Not that many,” she retorted, stung by what he seemed to be implying. “I’m only thirty-one!” “But you have been around the block a few times,” he persisted. “You’ve got some mileage on you.” Was Matt trying to be insulting? Annie wondered. She could live with him describing her as a “veteran” of the dating wars. She’d used the phrase herself once or twice, joking that she had the scars to prove her claim. But when he resorted to automotive analogies... “I don’t know what kind of social life you think I’ve been leading, Matt,” she observed stiffly. “But I haven’t been cruising the highways or racing in the Grand Prix!” “You haven’t been sitting in the garage, either,” he countered. “I have.” Although comprehension didn’t dawn at that point, it definitely began nibbling away at the edges of Annie’s confusion. “Oh,” she murmured after a moment or two, studying Matt very carefully. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he suddenly seemed to be having trouble meeting her eyes. Yet the squared set of his shoulders signaled determination. So did the stubborn jut of his jaw. “Matt, look—” He preempted her with a rush of words. “You and I both know I wasn’t Mr. Suave and Studly before I met Lisa,” he said flatly. “I was a short, hormonally challenged geek in junior high. Even after the testosterone finally kicked in the summer before freshman year, I didn’t pick up any action. Eight inches of height and a crop of zits, yeah. But action? No way, Jose. I hit tenth grade without ever having had a one-on-one date. The only girl I’d ever kissed was you. I didn’t have a clue—” “Wait a minute,” Annie interrupted. Although she thought Matt’s assessment of his adolescent self was unduly harsh, she was willing to let it pass. Not so, the claim he’d made regarding her. “You never kissed me!” Matt clenched his right hand and thumped it against his chest, feigning a stab to the heart. “I’m wounded,” he declared with a comic groan. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten playing Spin the Bottle at Tommy Lombardy’s thirteenth birthday party.” Annie frowned, trying to remember. After a few seconds of concentrated effort, she began to recall the event under discussion. All things considered, she would have preferred not to. “That wasn’t a kiss, Matt,” she stated. “Oh, really? What would you call it?” “A head-on collision with teeth. You nearly broke my nose!” “And you split my top lip with your braces,” he riposted. “But don’t worry. I’ve forgiven you. I’ve also acquired a little finesse since that episode. At least...” Matt paused, a smile ghosting the corners of his mouth. “I never had any complaints from Lisa.” An odd, edgy emotion stirred within Annie. Not envy, exactly. But unnervingly close to it. “She was a happy woman,” she said quietly, meaning it. “And it was because of you.” There was a pause. “You didn’t like Lisa at first, did you?” Matt said after a few moments. Annie blinked, taken aback by the assertion. “I didn’t dislike her,” she responded, grappling with feelings that were nearly a decade and a half old. “Lisa just seemed... different...from me. She was so feminine, you know? So girly. She was perky and pretty and she looked like she perspired cologne. Assuming she perspired at all, of course. I, on the other hand, was a flat-chested tomboy who sweated like a horse. She made me feel—oh, I don’t know exactly. Self-conscious, I guess. And then there was the way she affected you. I mean, you took one look at her the first day of junior year and all of a sudden you were walking around like a character in Invasion of the Body—” She stopped abruptly, fearing she might have gone too far. “No offense meant, Matt,” she tacked on awkwardly. “None taken.” “You don’t mind me, er—” “Joking about my relationship with Lisa?” Annie nodded warily. “Not at all.” The answer sounded sincere. “I know how careful you’ve been the past fifteen months, Annie. But you don’t have to tiptoe around my sensibilities anymore. As special as what Lisa and I had together was, the memory of it doesn’t have to be treated like a holy relic.” Matt paused, then started to chuckle. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers, huh?” She smiled. “Your reaction was pretty radical.” Matt smiled back at her. “Yeah, well, true love has always hit the men in my family like lightning.” There was another break in the conversation. Annie found herself savoring a buoyancy of spirit she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Lisa didn’t exactly like you at the beginning, either, you know,” her dining companion suddenly remarked. “She didn’t?” This was news to Annie. Lisa Davis had always been extremely nice to her. “She was jealous.” “Of me?” “Yeah. She used to talk about how smart you were. And about how you always stood up for your convictions. Like the student protest you organized when the school board tried to ban a dictionary from the library because it supposedly contained lewd definitions. She said you made her feel inferior.” “I certainly never tried—” “Of course her real problem was you and me.” “You and me?” Annie shook her head. “There wasn’t any ‘you and me,’ Matt!” “I know,” he replied with a rueful look. “But it took Lisa a while to accept that. She had trouble believing what I kept telling her.” “Which was?” “That I’d never really thought of you as a girl.” Annie chewed this over for a bit. Then, perversely, she asked, “Not even at Tommy Lombardy’s thirteenth birthday party?” The question clearly took Matt by surprise. “Uh...uh—” “Never mind,” she said, letting him—or was it herself?—off the hook. “What did you tell Lisa you thought of me as? One of the boys?” Matt tapped a fingernail against his bottle of beer. “It’s hard to put into words,” he admitted. “I guess—well, you always seemed to have your own special category. Sort of, uh, genderless.” Genderless? Jeez! “Thanks a bunch, Matt,” Annie said sarcastically. “Oh, come on.” His voice held a combination of defensiveness and accusation. “Be fair. Are you going to sit there and tell me you used to think of me as a guy?” “Not thinking of you as a guy isn’t the same as thinking of you as some kind of—of neuter!” Matt made a quick, conciliatory gesture. “I realize that. ‘Genderless’ was a poor choice of words. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Like I said, defining our relationship is hard. It’s just...there!” “‘Just there,’” Annie repeated slowly. Then she frowned, harkening back to the revelation that had diverted them off in this direction to begin with. “Did Lisa finally understand about us?” “Yeah. Sort of.” Matt’s mouth twisted. “She ended up deciding there was no reason to be jealous because the two of us were just like brother and—” “Y’all done?” It was Rudi, the waiter, eager as ever. “I am,” Matt responded after a fractional pause. “Annie?” “Me, too.” Rudi began clearing the table. Annie and Matt sat in silence until he finished the task and inquired whether they wanted dessert or coffee or both. “Just the check, I think,” Matt answered, glancing at Annie for confirmation. She nodded. As the waiter hustled away, Annie decided it was time to get down to brass tacks. “You know, Matt,” she remarked. “I’m still trying to figure out what kind of help you think you need from me.” “It’s simple, really,” he replied. “I need you to go out with me.” Annie’s heart lurched one way. The rest of the world seemed to lurch the other. She put her hands on the table, seeking some kind of stability. “Go out?” she eventually said. “Go out as in...on a date?” “Not a real date.” If Matt sensed the tizzy he’d thrown her into, he didn’t show it. “A practice one.” Annie opened and shut her mouth several times. Finally she stammered, “I, u-uh, don’t, uh, think—” Reaching forward, Matt covered her hands with his own. “When people first started offering to fix me up,” he said, “I was shocked. And more than a little angry. It was as though they were suggesting I cheat on Lisa. But after a while, the shock faded and the anger went away. I began to understand that people were making the offers because they cared about me—because they wanted me to move on with my life.” Annie swallowed, acutely conscious of Matt’s touch. “Lisa would want that, too,” she stated quietly. “Do you honestly think so?” His fingers tightened around hers. He clearly placed a great deal of importance on her answer. “Yes,” she told him. “I honestly think so.” Matt exhaled on a long, slow sigh. His grip relaxed. Annie eased her hands out from under his. She waited a few moments, then carefully tried to steer their discussion back on track. “About this practice date...” “One probably won’t be enough,” Matt said, picking up the cue. “More like three or four.” There had been many times in her life when Annie had felt as though she could read her best buddy’s mind. This, unfortunately, was not one of them. “I don’t get this, Matt,” she confessed. “You’ve apparently got a huge pool of available women waiting for you to dive into. Why in heaven’s name do you want to go out on three or four ‘practice’ dates with me?” “Because those practice dates might save me from drowning in what you so picturesquely call that ‘huge pool of available women,’” he answered bluntly. “It all comes down to one thing, Annie. I have no real experience being a single guy. I hooked up with Lisa in my junior year of high school and that was it. For all intents and purpose, I’ve been out of circulation for fourteen years. When it comes to the contemporary male-female thing, I’m lost.” “And you think going out with me can help you, er, find your way?” “Don’t you?” This was not a question Annie was prepared to answer. She parried it by asking, “Exactly what do you mean when you say ‘practice’?” “We go out. I do what I think a single guy should do on a date and you critique me.” The scenario had a certain logic to it, Annie decided after a few moments of reflection. A certain twisted logic, to be sure, but logic nonetheless. Still, she couldn’t help questioning Matt’s basic premise. Based on her familiarity with the “contemporary male-female thing,” she seriously doubted that his self-proclaimed lack of experience would cause him any problems once he started meeting the allegedly nice girls to whom everyone was so anxious to introduce him. Hmm. Maybe she could match him up with a few— No. Scratch that idea. “Annie?” Matt prompted. She focused on him again, a strange quiver of awareness skittering up her spine. She found herself imagining his impact on some of the unmarried females of her acquaintance. It wasn’t a soothing scenario. And then Matt smiled at her. It was a smile Annie couldn’t remember having seen before. Then again, maybe she had...but without ever having registered the sensuality it contained. She certainly registered it now. Annie cleared her throat. “What do you want me to say, Matt?” “A simple ‘yes’ would be sufficient,” her best buddy declared. Two “No.” “No?” “Wha— Oh, no. Not you, Matt,” Annie said. Matt thought she sounded frazzled and more than a bit fed up. “Look, somebody just shoved the copy for a new TV spot under my nose. Can you hang on while I check it over?” “Sure.” “Thanks. This shouldn’t take long.” There was an abrupt click followed by the tinny strains of a familiar pop tune. Matt wedged the phone receiver between his shoulder and chin. Swiveling his chair to face his desktop computer, he hit the function key that called up one of the many on-line databases to which he subscribed. His older brother and business partner, Rick, kidded him about harboring delusions of omniscience. He typed a series of letters, frowning thoughtfully at the information that flashed up on the screen. He typed a bit more, his frown relaxing into a satisfied smile. “I was speedin’ down the information superhighway,” he sang, improvising nonsense lyrics to go with the mind-numbing telephone music as his fingers danced across the computer keyboard. “When a cyberspace policeman—” Click. “Matt?” It was Annie again. Her tone was considerably mellower than it had been. Matt deduced that whomever had been unwise enough to shove ad copy under her nose had had it summarily shoved back for a rewrite. “Still here,” he told her. “Sorry I kept you waiting.” “No problem. I figured you were giving me a taste of the nineties’ version of playing hard to get.” There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I beg your pardon?” Matt leaned back in his chair, smiling. “A guy calls a modern career woman up and asks her out on a date,” he elaborated. “But instead of responding with a quick yes or no, she leaves him hanging on hold while she cuts some poor underling off at the knees.” There was another short silence. Then Annie started to laugh. The sound was tantalizingly husky. It insinuated itself into Matt’s ear like a warm breath. “Not a bad scenario.” The acknowledgment was wry. “But if this particular modern career woman had been cutting this particular underling off anywhere, it wouldn’t have been at the knees.” “Ouch. What was the copywriting crime? Dangling participles?” “Worse. Much worse.” “But nothing you can’t handle.” Matt made the assertion with unalloyed sincerity. Annie was one of the most competent people he knew. She also had a knack for kicking butt when butt-kicking was required. “Well...” “Hey, you got me through Miss Kolodzy’s sophomore composition class, didn’t you?” “That was quid pro quo for your coaching me in math the year before. Besides, you weren’t the literary equivalent of tone deaf.” “Really? I seem to remember you telling me that if abusing the English language were a federal offense, I’d be on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.” A second laugh rippled down the line. Funny, Matt reflected, reaching up and jerking loose the knot of his tie. He must have heard Annie’s laughter a million times in the past thirty-one years. Yet he’d never noticed how...provocative...it sounded. “I was exaggerating to make a point.” “Mmm.” There was a pause. “I think you mentioned the word ‘date’ a few minutes ago?” Annie eventually prompted. “Yeah, I did.” Matt shifted, experiencing a sudden prickle of nervousness. “We, uh, left things undecided when I brought you home from Rio Bravo on Saturday. I was wondering how tomorrow night was for you.” “Tomorrow night,” Annie repeated. Matt heard a rustling sound, as though she were paging through a calendar. “Hmm. That’s Friday...” She’s already got a date, he thought, his body tightening. And not a “practice” one with a pal, either. A real one. Well, why the heck shouldn’t she? he demanded of himself a moment later. Annie had devoted the past fifteen months to taking care of him. She’d gone above and beyond the call of duty, even for a best buddy. She had every right to decide that enough was enough—that it was time to start tending to her own long-deferred needs. If only he’d thought the situation through before he’d blithely picked up the phone and punched in her office number. If he’d done so, he would have realized that it was very likely she’d have plans for tomorrow evening. As ignorant of the ins and outs of the singles’ scene as he might be, even he knew that Friday nights were prime dating time. Matt spent a surprisingly unpleasant few seconds speculating about the identity of the man Annie might be seeing the following evening. Could she have gotten back together with that architect she’d been dating around the time Lisa had gotten sick? he wondered. Or maybe she’d take up with the gallery owner he recalled her discussing in connection with her fundraising work for the Atlanta Symphony. And what about that hotshot local newsman, Trent Barnes? Hadn’t she made several admiring references to him in recent weeks? Matt frowned at the idea of the broadcaster. Although he’d refrained from mentioning it to Annie, there was something about Barnes that bugged him. Maybe it was his hair. It always looked so preternaturally perfect on TV. Matt figured the guy probably could report from the middle of a hurricane—wearing one of his trademark tan trenchcoats, of course—without mussing a strand. His hairspray bill had to be higher than the gross national product of— “Matt?” It was Annie. He blinked, wondering what he’d missed. “Uh, yeah?” “I just told you that tomorrow night is fine with me.” “Oh.” He raked a hand back through his hair. “That’s great.” There was an awkward pause. “Is something wrong?” Annie finally asked. “No.” The denial was quick. “Everything’s fine.” “You sound...odd.” “Sorry.” Although Matt wasn’t certain an apology was necessary, he felt impelled to offer one. “I, uh, guess I’m surprised you’re not busy tomorrow night. What with it being Friday. Plus, I’m calling at the last minute—” “Calling at the last minute is phoning from your car on the way over to a woman’s house.” Matt straightened in his chair. “Guys actually do that?” “Not to me, they don’t.” Annie’s voice was crisp and confident. “At least, not more than once.” “You let them know who’s boss, huh?” “Let’s just say I make it clear that I’m not so desperate for a date I’ll let myself be treated like a takeout pizza. I require a lot more than fifteen minutes advance notice before I’m ready for pick up. I respect myself. I expect other people to do the same.” It occurred to Matt that he’d just heard a good summary of Hannah Elaine Martin’s philosophy of life. He wondered fleetingly how many of the women with whom people kept trying to fix him up shaxttitude. He also wondered whether there was a quick way of culling those who did from those who didn’t. “Never let it be said that Matt Powell can’t take a hint,” he declared, easing back in his chair. “So. Respectfully, would you like to go to a movie with me tomorrow night?” “A movie? On a first date?” “Don’t men and women do that anymore?” “Of course they do. It’s just that, uh...” “Yes?” “Look, Matt...were you serious when you said you wanted me to critique your, er, single guy technique?” “Absolutely,” he confirmed without missing a beat. “Let me have it, Annie. What’s wrong with my idea?” “Think about it. What happens when a man and a woman go to the movies?” “Is this a trick question?” “No, you idiot. It’s not a trick question.” Matt chuckled. “Okay. Just checking. Mmm. Let me see. What happens when a man and a woman go to the movies? Well, first they drive to one of those multiscreen theaters, line up, and buy a pair of overpriced tickets. Then they go inside and buy overpriced refreshments at the concession stand. Then they head into the theater, search out a pair of decent seats, and crawl over a bunch of people in order to get to them. As soon as they settle in, a couple with a crying baby plunks down in front of them. Then a trio of talkative little old ladies takes up residence in the seats directly behind them. Shortly after that, a gang of teenagers files in. Eventually the lights go down, the movie comes on, and the man and woman watch it. If it’s funny, they both laugh. If it’s sad, they both get choked up—although the man pretends he isn’t. If it’s scary and the woman grabs the man, he probably uses that as an opportunity to cop a—” “Matthew.” “What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Don’t contemporary single guys cop feels?” “Not unless they want to be accused of sexual harassment.” “Oh.” “Modern men are expected to ask permission before they start groping.” “You mean, ‘May I please put my hand on your—’” “Let’s get back to the movies,” Annie cut in decisively. “Is talking on your list of things a man and woman do when they go to one?” “Talking? No. Of course—” Matt stopped, grasping the point she was trying to make. “Oh. I get it.” “A first date is supposed to be an opportunity for two people to get to know each other,” Annie stressed. “It’s difficult for them to take advantage of that opportunity when they’re sitting in the dark, staring at a big screen, scarfing down empty calories from the refreshment counter.” Unbidden, Matt’s mind flashed back to his first date with Lisa. He’d taken her to a movie. The evening had pretty much conformed to the pattern Annie had just described. Given the shakiness of his adolescent social skills, this had been perfectly fine with him. It had been hard enough to muster the words he’d needed to ask Lisa if she’d like to go out with him. There was no way he could have carried on an extended conversation with her during the date itself. As for the business of copping a feel...well, the closest he’d come to that had been the heady half second when his hand had brushed Lisa’s as he’d passed her a paper napkin. He’d damned near swooned at the contact. Matt glanced toward the right corner of his desk, his gaze settling on a silver-framed photograph of his late wife. The romantic-looking portrait had been taken a week before their wedding. He kept a copy of the same picture tucked away in his wallet. Rubbing the base of his left ring finger with the ball of his thumb, Matt registered the absence of the wide gold band he’d worn for nearly five years. He’d buried the band along with the woman who’d given it to him. Lisa, he thought painfully. Oh, sweetheart... “I’m not saying going to a movie is a bad idea,” Annie went on, sounding as though she felt the need to backpedal. “I mean—” “I understand exactly what you mean,” Matt interrupted, resolutely steering his thoughts away from the past. “And bad idea or not, I’ll bet I can come up with a better one between now and 7:30 p.m. tomorrow when I pick you up.” * * * In Annie’s considered opinion, Matt did. Come up with a better idea than going to the movies, that is. “How in heaven’s name did you get a reservation here?” she asked him after they’d been seated at an elegantly appointed table for two in one of Atlanta’s most popular restaurants. “This place has been booked solid since the day it opened.” Matt shrugged, his expression bland. “Connections.” “Connections?” Annie picked up the intricately folded linen napkin from the plate in front of her and spread it across her lap. “You know the computer course I’m teaching at Georgia Tech?” She nodded. “The father of one of my students happens to own this place.” “Ah.” “I promised the kid a good grade if he got me a table tonight.” For a split second Annie thought he was serious. Then she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Oh, honestly, Matt,” she chided, starting to laugh. A moment later an immaculately attired waiter approached their table. He presented them with a pair of handwritten menus, then politely inquired whether they’d like anything from the bar while they considered the evening’s culinary offerings. “So what do you think?” Matt asked after the man had taken their beverage orders and moved away. He leaned forward, his expression intent. “Would a woman like coming here on a first date?” Deep down, Annie realized he hadn’t intended the question quite the way it came out. Unfortunately, this realization didn’t prevent his words from flicking her on an unexpectedly tender spot. “Well, gee,” she returned, her tone like acid-laced honey. “How would I know what a woman would like?” Matt looked at her, clearly startled. Then he grimaced. “Oh, Lord. Annie, I’m sorry. I wasn’t—” She dismissed the apology with a gesture. “I know it’s difficult for you, Matt,” she told him. “But this practice date scheme of yours isn’t going to work unless you can start thinking of me—at least occasionally—as having a gender.” Matt remained silent for a long time, staring into her face. Then the nature of his scrutiny changed. His gaze began to slide downward. Slowly. Very, very slowly. From her eyes to her lips. From her lips to her breasts. By the time he’d completed his leisurely visual inventory and brought his gaze back up to meet hers, Annie’s body was tingling as though it had been infused with electrified champagne. Her breathing was swift and shallow. “If there’s going to be a problem with our practice dates,” Matt drawled, his voice several notes deeper than usual. “It won’t be due to me forgetting you’re female.” * * * That was the first of a series of remarks that left Annie increasingly off-balance as the evening unfolded. It wasn’t until they were midway through their main course that she realized exactly what was going on. Matt was flirting with her! His approach wasn’t sweep-her-off-her-feet bold. Nor was it seduce-her-down-the-garden-path subtle. It was...well, Annie wasn’t certain how to describe it except to say that it was pretty darned effective! But it doesn’t mean anything, she reminded herself firmly, reaching for the glass of Chablis she’d ordered to go with her meal. This is practice, not personal. Matt’s acting the way he thinks a single guy is supposed to behave on a first date. And you’re supposed to be critiquing him. Annie took a sip of her white wine. All right. Fine. She’d do what she was supposed to do. Critique Number One. Um... Er... She couldn’t. She just couldn’t! Matt was her best buddy. Their relationship was unique. She couldn’t treat him like a...a— Like a what? she demanded of herself. Like a man? Like an attractive, eligible man who’s invited you out to dinner? Annie’s earlier admonition came echoing back. I know it’s difficult for you, Matt, she’d said. But this practice date scheme of yours isn’t going to work unless you can start thinking of me—at least occasionally—as having a gender. Et tu, Annie, she thought. The success of this exercise wasn’t solely dependent on Matt’s perception of her. Her perception of him was an integral ingredient, as well. Therefore, it was incumbent upon her to— Hold on. Just a few moments ago, when she’d been trying to define what it was that she couldn’t treat Matt like, hadn’t she used the adjective “attractive”? Why, yes. Yes, she had. And the use of that word had been unthinking. Automatic. Instinctive. Hadn’t it? Oh, absolutely. Well? Didn’t that prove she wasn’t entirely oblivious to Matt’s, uh, gender? Something deep inside Annie shifted. It was the psychological equivalent of a movement by one of the earth’s tectonic plates. Not enough to trigger a major quake, but sufficient to touch off a palpable emotional tremor. She set down her wineglass very carefully. Then, with equal deliberation, she began to take stock of the man sitting opposite her. His hands drew her attention first. Men’s hands often did. Many of her female friends talked about noticing a man’s eyes or butt—depending on the direction of his approach—first. She tended to begin by checking out hands. Matt’s were well-shaped, with flexible fingers and closely pared nails. There was a feathery dusting of light brown hairs on the backs of them. They were trustworthy hands. Obviously strong, yet endowed with a disciplined economy of movement that seemed to promise that this strength would never be misused. What would it be like to be touched by those hands? Annie wondered suddenly. Not in friendship or in fun. That sort of contact held no mystery for her. But touched in the intimately erotic way a man— She slammed the brakes on this train of thought. Not that she was terribly shocked by the direction it had taken. She was an experienced adult, after all, not an unfledged innocent. Still, there was such a thing as going too far, too fast—especially for someone whose only objective was to help her best buddy get a social life. Shifting in her seat, Annie transferred her gaze from Matt’s hands to his face. His mouth. Quirkily made, yet compellingly male. Bracketed by grooves that were deeper than those found on most thirty-one-year-old males. His nose. Ferrule-straight, but just slightly off center. A potent counterbalance to his angular cheekbones and stubborn jaw. While the idiosyncratic combination of features didn’t add up to matinee idol handsomeness, it had an undeniable appeal. His eyes. Deep set beneath level brows, with a web of finely etched lines radiating from the outer corners. A changeable blue-gray in color, they exuded integrity and intelligence. Matthew Douglas Powell wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever been out with. And yet, the adjective “attractive” very definitely— “Annie?” She started so violently she nearly knocked over her wineglass “Y-yes?” Matt regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. “Do I have a piece of spinach stuck between my teeth?” “Spinach?” Annie darted a bewildered glance at his plate. How could there be spinach stuck between his teeth? He’d ordered lamb chops with asparagus! “You’ve been staring at me.” “Oh.” She scrambled for a way to explain her behavior. Telling the truth didn’t strike her as a viable option. “I, uh, did...uh, you get your hair cut?” “I got a trim this afternoon.” Matt frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong with the way it looks?” “No.” Annie shook her head. “Of course not. Why would you think that?” “How would you react if someone asked you if you’d done something to your hair?” “That’s different.” Matt lifted his brows. “How?” “Women are supposed to be paranoid about their hair.” “But men aren’t?” Annie hesitated, conscious that this exchange was veering into absurdity. “Uh, no,” she finally said. “Try telling that to some poor guy who’s afraid he’s going bald.” “That’s certainly not anything you have to be concerned about,” Annie observed, eyeing Matt’s sandy blond thatch of hair. “Not yet, anyway.” The caveat surprised her. “Are you saying you’re worried about losing your hair?” “Well, it doesn’t prey on my mind twenty-four hours a day,” Matt responded dryly. “But, yeah. I do feel a nasty little twinge on the mornings I notice there seem to be a few extra strands clinging to the bottom of the bathroom sink.” Annie fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. Strange, she reflected. She’d never imagined that Matt might be insecure about his appearance. Other men, sure. She’d dated men so anxious about their faces and physiques that they couldn’t pass a polished surface without doing an assessment. But Matt? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him glance in a mirror! Yes, he’d been self-conscious about his looks during adolescence. Who hadn’t been? Besides, he’d seemed to overcome his geeky self-image after he’d shot up eight inches and fallen in love with Lisa Davis. Annie simply couldn’t picture him brooding over his hairline. “I don’t suppose harboring deep-seated anxieties about baldness is something a contemporary single guy should admit to on a first date,” Matt commented, clearly fishing for feedback. “Well, that depends,” Annie replied judiciously. “The nineties-style male is expected to be sensitive enough to share his vulnerabilities.” “Oh?” “Of course, if he’s too sensitive—” she flashed an ironic smile “—nineties-style females will think he’s a wimp.” “Lord.” Matt shook his head and speared a stalk of asparagus with his fork. “Why do you women have to make life so complicated?” A spark in his blue-gray eyes told Annie she was being baited. She opened her mouth to bite, but was forestalled by a thoroughly unwelcome greeting. “Why, Annie Martin! Darlin’, I haven’t seen you in ages!” Annie didn’t have to look to determine the source of this interruption. The Southern-fried, sugar-coated voice could belong to only one person. Her name was Melinda—”Call me Honeychile”—Reeves and she was an ex-beauty queen whose favorite title was “Mrs.” Although Melinda had a comfortable income thanks to multiple monthly alimony checks, she occasionally earned a little extra spending money by modeling. That’s how Annie had met her. “Hello, Melinda,” she greeted the magnolia-skinned blonde. “You’re looking well.” “I’m just back from the cutest l’il ole island in the Caribbean.” Melinda patted her platinum-pale tresses. “What about you, sweetie?” Annie glanced across the table at Matt. While he wasn’t exhibiting the lost-his-brains-and-thinking-with-his-gonads response Melinda evoked from most men, it was clear as crystal that he wasn’t oblivious to the blonde’s physical assets. “I’m just fine, thank you,” she said, trying not to grind her teeth. “I don’t think you know my, uh, friend, Matt Powell. Matt, this is Melinda Reeves.” Matt rose to his feet in a seamless movement and extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Reeves.” “My, my, my,” Melinda responded, accepting the proffered appendage. “I do so admire a man with good manners. Call me Honeychile, Mr. Powell. E’vybody does.” Annie darted another look at her “date.” While an encounter with someone of Melinda’s ilk probably was necessary for any man seeking to familiarize himself with the singles’ scene, she couldn’t help wishing that this meeting had come later—a lot later—in Matt’s orientation process. “Call me Matt, ah, Honeychile,” he suggested, reclaiming his hand. “Why, thank you.” Melinda preened a little. “I most definitely will.” She preened a little more. “Well, I really must be goin’. I’m meetin’ one of my ex’s for dinner. Nice to see you again, Annie. You take care of yourself, you hear?” Annie made a gesture that was a cross between a bye-bye and a brush-off. The other woman responded with a languid waggle of her long-nailed fingers then sashayed away on four-inch stiletto heels. “Interesting,” Matt commented, reseating himself. “Don’t even think about it.” The words were out before Annie had time to consider their implications—much less to prevent herself from uttering them. “Excuse me?” Oh, well, Annie thought with a mental grimace. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, Matt had asked to be enlightened about the contemporary male-female thing. It wasn’t as though she was butting in with unsolicited advice. “Melinda ‘Honeychile’ Reeves is the kind of woman who treats men like kites,” she said flatly. “Kites?” Annie gestured. “She gives them just enough string to let them think they’re flying free. Then she yanks on the string, hauls them in, and hangs them on a hook someplace until she’s ready to play again.” Matt rubbed his jaw. “And here I thought she seemed sort of sweet.” He was teasing her. Annie knew he was teasing her. She also knew she probably deserved it. Even so... “You have a lot to learn about women, Mr. Powell,” she informed him. Matt smiled. Slowly. Sexily. From somewhere deep inside Annie came to the realization that he hadn’t so much as bared a bicuspid at the blond and busty Melinda. “That’s why I’m out with you, Ms. Martin,” he said. * * * “A strike?” Annie yelled through cupped hands. “Are you crazy? Get a pair of glasses! That was a ball!” “Gee, Annie,” Matt said through a bite of hot dog. “Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Annie turned in her seat and nailed him with a disdainful look. “People who didn’t start cheering for the Atlanta Braves until they won the pennant have no right to criticize people who were rooting for them when they were the worst team in the league.” Matt took a moment to chew and swallow, then another moment to take a gulp of beer. Annie’s passion for the Braves had always amused him. She was so sane and sensible about everything else. Except, perhaps, for the enduring crush she had on Fred Astaire. But that was an interest she confided only to her closest friends. Her devotion to the Braves, she flaunted like a flag. Going to this game had been Annie’s idea. She’d extended the invitation six nights before, when he’d brought her home from their inaugural practice date. While she hadn’t specifically said the outing should be categorized as their second date, he’d decided to treat it as such. Within certain limits, of course. Although modern male-female etiquette might dictate otherwise, he had no intention of passing up a chance to twit his best buddy about her unswerving support for her favorite team. “That pitch was in, Annie,” he said, fighting back a grin. She responded with a singularly indelicate noise. “Traitor.” “Better that than a blind loyalist.” “Just because you—” Annie broke off, the crack of a wooden bat connecting solidly with a leather-covered ball diverting her attention back to the brightly illuminated field below them. She surged to her feet shouting. “Go for it! Go for it!” Thousands of other fans were screaming variations on the same imperative. A few seconds later the stadium erupted in a thunderous cheer as one of the Braves slid into home plate in a cloud of dust. “All right!” Matt exclaimed as the umpire signaled the runner was safe. While he wasn’t a Braves fanatic, he wasn’t immune to the thrill of a home team score. “Yes, yes, yes!” Annie exulted, raising her arms in triumph. “And the Braves take the lead in the bottom of the seventh,” an announcer boomed through the stadium’s public address system as the scoreboard lit up with a razzle-dazzle display of computerized images. “Whew.” Annie sank back down into her seat, removing her official Braves baseball cap and swatting a lock of chin-length brown hair off her cheek. She turned toward Matt. “Can I have a sip of your beer?” “Sure.” She took more than a sip from the condensation-fogged plastic cup he handed her. Matt watched as she did so, his gaze tracking the working of her slender throat then drifting downward. Like himself, Annie had been a late bloomer. But just as he’d finally shot up, she’d eventually filled out. She’d never been in the cup-floweth-over category, he decided as he studied her modest T-shirted curves, but she definitely looked as though she could pass the enough-for-a-handful test. “Thanks,” she said, returning the beverage container with a dimple-flushing smile. “I needed that.” If she’d noticed his assessment of her shape, she gave no indication of it. While Matt supposed he should be grateful for this, he found her seeming obliviousness irritated him. Had this been a “real” date—had he been, say, that TV newsman with the helmet of cement-sprayed hair—he was damned sure she would have registered being ogled! Then again...maybe not. Annie had less vanity than just about any female he knew. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen her fuss over her appearance. Was it possible she didn’t think such fussing was worth it? Matt asked himself suddenly. Was it possible she didn’t know how appealing she was? So what if her features were too asymmetrical to meet the standards of so-called classic beauty? So what if they were too strong to be classified as “cute”? There were qualities in Annie’s face—the generosity of her mouth and the warmth of her big brown eyes to name just two—that caught a man’s interest and held it. Surely she must have discovered that! And then there were those long, slim legs of hers. No one could persuade Matt that Annie didn’t know what kind of assets they were! Just look at the way the skimpy white shorts she had on showed them off. Heck. Just look at the way the snug-fitting garment displayed the firmly feminine contours of her backside! Now that was a view guaranteed to kick any male pulse into high gear. “Oh, no!” Annie leapt up, her creamy-skinned face flushing with dismay. “Go back!” A despairing groan rolled through the stands as the opposing team’s right fielder fired the fly ball he’d just caught to second base for a double play. “And that’s the inning,” the stadium announcer intoned. “At the end of the seventh, it’s Atlanta five, New York four.” “That was terrible,” Annie moaned, collapsing into her seat. She slumped forward, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as though trying to blot out the athletic incompetence she’d just witnessed. “Yeah,” Matt agreed, watching her intently. “Terrible.” There was a pause. Finally Annie lifted her head and looked at him. “Why are you staring at me?” she demanded. He opened his mouth. After a moment he closed it. “Yes?” An emotion he couldn’t put a name to fizzed in the depths of her dark, long-lashed eyes like carbonation in a cola drink. Matt hesitated, the clich?d phrase about “No guts, no glory” zipping through his mind. “Did you, uh, do something to your, uh, h-hair?” he finally stammered. Annie blinked several times. Then, remarkably, she started to laugh. The sound rippled through him like liquid sunshine, warming every fiber of his body. “You know, Matt,” she said, taking his cup of beer from his suddenly slackened grasp and raising it in a saucy salute. “You may have less to learn about women than I thought.” * * * “Call me old-fashioned,” Matt declared, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his car. “But I’m never going to get used to women doing stuff like that.” “Like what?” Annie asked, undoing her seat belt. She and Matt had just parked in front of her condo after an evening of Cajun food and dancing. “Patting you on the rear end?” He stiffened visibly. “The place was crowded. It could have been an accident.” “Mmm.” Annie considered telling him that this seemed highly unlikely to her. Whether Matt knew it or not, his tush was extremely...er, pattable. Especially when it was encased in tight, wash-faded jeans the way it was this evening. Although she’d never goosed a guy herself, she could understand why another woman might succumb to the temptation Matt’s backside presented. Of course, understanding didn’t mean she had to like it.... Matt unhooked his own seat belt and turned to face her. “Tell me the truth, Annie. Have you ever waited for another woman to go to the ladies’ room so you could hit on the man she was with?” Annie shook her head. “That’s not my style. But you’d better get used to being vamped. The brunette who slipped you her phone number tonight was just the beginning. You’re a very desirable commodity.” “Oh, come on.” “You’re straight. You’re single. You’re attractive.” She ticked the qualities off on her fingers. “You’re also the co-owner of a successful business.” Matt remained silent for several moments, then asked, “A ‘desirable commodity,’ you said?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, I guess I can adjust to the ‘desirable’ part.” His mouth twisted. “Where was all this female attention when I was suffering through puberty?” “You wouldn’t have known what to do with it.” “True.” Chuckling wryly, Matt swung open the driver’s side door. “I’m not sure I know what to do with it now, either.” Annie waited patiently while he walked around and opened the door on her side of the car. “Thank you,” she said as he handed her out. “You’re welcome,” he responded, shutting the door. “I was meaning to ask if it was okay for me to do this.” “To do what?” Matt gestured. “The door thing.” “The...door...thing?” “Yeah. Am I—or am I not—supposed to open them for the women I take out? I refuse to light cigarettes because I don’t want to encourage anyone to smoke. But what about opening doors? Is there a rule? Or is this another one of those damned-if-a-guy-does, damned-if-a-guy-doesn’t situations like that sensitive-but-not-too-sensitive routine you tried to explain to me during our first date?” Annie had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. Matt—with whom she’d once stood eye-to-eye—was now six feet tall to her five-foot-five. “I don’t think the ‘door thing’ is significant anymore,” she said. “I’m not sure it ever really was, to tell the truth. I, personally, put it in the same category as the great shaving debate.” “The what?” A warm spring breeze sent a lock of hair fluttering across Annie’s face. Before she had a chance to brush it away, Matt reached forward and casually smoothed it back into place. As light as the contact was, it sent a quiver of response arrowing through her. “The, uh, great shaving debate,” she repeated after several tremulous seconds. “It revolves around the question of whether women who shave their legs and underarms are victims of the oppressive standards of beauty imposed by a male chauvinist society.” “I take it you don’t spend much time anguishing over the matter.” “Let’s just say I think women have a lot more important things to be concerned about than the socio-political implications of using depilatories—or of having doors opened for them.” “Yeah.” Matt nodded his agreement, shoving his hands into the pockets of the lightweight leather jacket he’d worn with his jeans. “Me, too.” The walk from his car to her condominium was made in silence. Once they arrived at their destination, they turned to face each other. The light that hung next to her front door cast a pale spill of illumination over both of them. The silence stretched on. “Well,” Matt finally said, taking his hands out of his pockets, “I guess it’s time for me to make my big move.” Annie’s heart performed a sudden hop-skip-jump. “Your big move?” “This is our third date.” “So?” Her voice was only marginally steadier than her pulse. “So, I skimmed through a couple of paperback romances during the last few weeks and I noticed that the hero tends to make his big move on the heroine at the end of their third date. Unless, of course, he was overwhelmed by passion and pounced on her the first time they met.” “You’ve been reading romance novels?” Matt shrugged nonchalantly, apparently undisturbed by the tone of her question. “I remembered how Lisa used to talk about them and I figured I might pick up a few pointers. I mean, romances are basically written by women, for women, right? They offer a guy insights into the feminine psyche he’d probably have trouble getting otherwise.” “I...see.” His explanation actually made a great deal of sense. “Have you ever read any?” “Romance novels?” “Yeah.” “A, uh, few.” “And?” “Some of the language is a little flowery for my taste. But I enjoy the relationships. And the happy endings.” He grinned. “No less than I’d expect from a woman who has a nine-year-old wedding bouquet bagged up in plastic.” Annie sighed. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” “Nope.” Matt paused, cocking his head. “What do you think about that famous cover model? You know—the big blond guy with the incredible hairless chest who can’t seem to keep his shirt on?” “Oh, puh-leeze.” “Not your type?” “Hardly.” “I’ll bet your heart still belongs to Fred.” “Fred? As in...Astaire?” “Who else? Unless you’ve developed a thing for Fred as in Flintstone.” “I wouldn’t call my, uh, admiration for Fred Astaire a thing,” Annie quibbled. The image of a tuxedo-clad man and an elegantly gowned woman glided through her mind. She wasn’t certain about the genesis of her fascination with this sort of male-female partnership. She only knew that her Fred-and-Ginger fantasy was an enduring one. “Hey, do you remember the ballroom dancing lessons you conned me into taking back in sixth grade?” Matt asked suddenly. “The ones in the basement of our church?” “Conned you?” Annie echoed, stiffening with indignation. “You made me shell out ten dollars of my hard-earned baby-sitting money before you’d agree to be my partner!” “Well...” “You hated it, didn’t you.” Matt seemed genuinely taken aback by this accusation. “No,” he denied, shaking his head. “Of course not. I’ll admit I had some misgivings about going. I mean, waltzing and all that stuff seemed kind of wimpy to me. But once we got there...” He paused, an odd expression stealing into his eyes. “You wore a cream-colored dress to the first class. And flat shoes with little bows in front. Sort of like ballet slippers.” Annie moistened her lips, conscious of an abrupt acceleration in her pulse. It had been years since she and Matt had talked about this particular chapter in their friendship. She’d had no idea his recollection of it was so vivid. “My palms started sweating as soon as I took hold of you,” he continued reflectively. “I was afraid I was going to leave wet handprints everywhere I touched. And there seemed to be a total disconnect between my brain and my feet. I felt like such a klutz.” “At least you didn’t keep mixing up your right and left the way I did.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/carole-buck/annie-says-i-do/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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