Matched, page 10
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk to him.
It was more that she didn’t know what to say.
I’m sorry seemed so long overdue, it would’ve been meaningless. Let’s be friends hadn’t worked out fifteen years ago and despite being older and wiser, Lindsey didn’t trust the swooning the smileys on her panties did every time Will flashed a smile her direction. Which wasn’t often, and mostly came with a sarcastic tilt, but still.
She wasn’t as immune to her houseguest as a modern single woman should’ve been. Especially given that he was apparently immune to her.
So she worked late and hoped he would be gone by the time she got home.
She was finishing paperwork when someone knocked at her office door. Her assistant had left an hour ago, and the paralegals had quickly followed. She looked up, expecting to see one of her fellow lawyers in the firm, but instead, her dad stood there.
Much better than seeing Marilyn, even if Dad’s appearance brought back memories of the last time he’d come to visit. About a year and a half ago, on a comfortable October afternoon, he’d stumbled in, skin pasty, cheeks wet, brown eyes lost. It’s Mom, he’d said, his voice cracking. She’s gone.
Lindsey shut the door on the flashback and blinked quickly. Today, he stood tall, his olive complexion normal, nothing lurking in his expression beyond the normal subtle unease she always thought she saw whenever her occupation came up.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked.
She stood, gesturing him to the client chairs across the desk. “Not at all. Come on in.”
He twisted his bowler cap in his hands and took slow steps into the walnut-paneled room. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said.
“Your widow support group is tonight?”
He nodded. “Supposed to be a couple new ladies joining us tonight. Always tough, you know?”
Lindsey didn’t. She couldn’t imagine, and she didn’t want to. She crossed around to take the seat next to him. A grin hitched half his mouth under his rapidly salting dark hair. “Your boss know you go barefoot?”
“Yep. I’m writing a cookbook. The Barefoot Lawyer in the Kitchen.”
Dad chuckled, and she went back in time twenty years or so, to when she had big dreams and no idea how much she would stand in her own way.
And when none of them knew how to cook. Dad and Nat still didn’t, and Lindsey wasn’t yet ready to own what she’d been working on in her spare time.
“Your name’s come up a few times lately,” Dad said. “Thought you might want to know.”
Lindsey waited for him to fill in the blanks. She’d let Nat know Billy’s whereabouts, but she didn’t know if Nat had told Dad and if Dad, in turn, would’ve told Marilyn. Not that it would matter for long. She doubted Will was still at her house.
“Did I ever tell you how I asked your mom out on our first date?” Dad said.
Lindsey tilted her head. She’d heard the story several times, and she was positive that Dad’s mentioning that story now, in relation to Lindsey’s name floating around Bliss, would not be a good thing. “Once or twice,” she said.
His chin scrunched beneath a lopsided smile. “I was living over here in Willow Glen, working management at the furniture store.”
Lindsey nodded. She missed Mom too. If talking made him feel better, she’d let him talk.
“She walked in looking for a new filing cabinet,” he said. “Tell you what, I knew right then I wanted to marry her. So when I found out she worked on The Aisle, I made sure I went for Knot Fest. And there she was, talking to one of those other Aisle people. I walked up to her, and I said, ‘Excuse me, the matchmaker said I needed to come talk to you right now.’”
“Had she?” Lindsey asked on cue.
“No, but I dragged your mother to the matchmaker’s booth. I figured Gail would either say I was right, that I needed your mother in my life, or she’d out me for lying. At least I’d know either way.”
“And?”
“Well, your mother said Gail told her the same thing about the yahoo she was talking to when I interrupted her, but when we got to the booth, Gail clapped her hands and said she knew that seeing your mother talking to another man would make me find my balls. And then she told your mom that accepting my offer of dinner was the best decision she would ever make.” Dad chuckled. “Gail was an ornery one. Gave a toast at our wedding that next spring.” He slanted an eye at her. “Knot Fest hasn’t been the same since she left.”
Lindsey’s suit itched. “Dad, I’m not a matchmaker.” She said it softly, because even though he told people she was on a mission to save the world—she’d used a domestic abuse case she’d assisted with several years ago as her justification to him and Mom for her occupation—she knew he’d always been disappointed that she didn’t subscribe to the Bliss mentality.
Not the same way he did, anyway. Bliss believed in getting it right the first time.
Dad swept a quick glance about the room. Her degrees and certifications and awards all hung on the walls, but they felt small and insignificant.
Not enough.
“I know, you do your own thing,” he said.
Lindsey bit down on her instinctive desire to defend herself more. She’d long ago learned that a well-delivered eyebrow of I do not have to explain myself to you, coupled with the chin tilt of I am fulfilling a vital role in society, and I do it well tended to hurry the would-be love crusaders on their merry way. She’d publicly accepted herself, especially when she visited Bliss, and eventually, she’d discovered who among them could accept her, and whom she was better off without.
But with her family—she still couldn’t fully explain herself without facing her own feelings of inadequacy.
And Dad was getting entirely too close to one of the tender spots on her not-so-petrified heart.
“Marilyn has been getting ideas,” he said into the silence.
Being in her own office made it almost natural to fold her arms and stare down her father.
“I know, I know,” he said again. He held a hand up. “I wanted you to know so you can be prepared.”
“I’ve already handled Marilyn.”
“Don’t think she’s done yet,” Dad said.
“That’s her problem.”
Dad grinned. “Glad to know you have a handle on this. I used my only weapon last summer for Nat.”
And an effective weapon it had been. Dad had balked almost as hard as Natalie when Lindsey suggested that he get close to Marilyn if he wanted to help Nat in her war against the Queen General, but Dad had been the best person Lindsey could see who could’ve softened Marilyn and her hard-assed No Divorcées in Bliss stance.
Not that Lindsey had told Dad the whole truth of what she saw. She wasn’t a matchmaker, and even if she were, she would never, ever voluntarily say aloud what her internal barometer thought of Dad and Marilyn.
Dad’s smile slipped away. “Felt like I was betraying your mother’s memory.”
“Mom would’ve been proud of you.” Mom and Marilyn had had an interesting relationship too—one of tolerance on Mom’s part and a dependence on Marilyn’s part, though the Queen General of Bliss didn’t like to admit dependence on anyone, and probably didn’t even realize she had been dependent on Mom. Had Mom been there to guide Nat through saving last summer’s Husband Games, things would’ve been significantly less rocky for all of them.
But the fact that Mom was not there was what had made planning the grand finale of Bliss’s annual Knot Fest so difficult for all of them, and why it had been necessary for Dad to get creative with helping Nat.
“Still feels like I’m betraying her some days, and Marilyn and I are just friends,” Dad added. He gripped the armrests and shifted in his seat. “This Billy Brenton thing—it’s something else, having a star here, isn’t it? Don’t suppose he’ll stay long though. Heard on the radio he lost his favorite guitar in that fire last night. Real shame.”
“For Bliss, or for Marilyn?”
Dad heaved a dad-sigh. “Isn’t that the question. But I meant for Billy. Seems like a good guy.”
Lindsey wasn’t going there. “Have you considered using your powers to convince Marilyn to quit trying to marry off Kimmie?”
“Bit of a sticky situation there.”
“I understand her wanting to see Kimmie happily married and prepared to inherit her part of the bakery,” Lindsey said, “but I believe Marilyn could choose more effective tactics.”
Dad coughed over a laugh. “You do that lawyer-talk thing pretty good.”
“Tact tends to get me further than calling someone batshit crazy.”
“Maybe you could find Kimmie a good match,” Dad teased.
Lindsey assessed him again. Was he leaning toward Team Marilyn over Team Castellano? A wave of loneliness and nostalgia made her blink. “Where’s family dinner tomorrow?”
“Wok’n’Roll.” He checked his watch. “Should get going, I suppose. See you tomorrow, hon.”
Lindsey stood with him. “Stop by anytime.”
Dad didn’t grimace like he would’ve in days gone by, but he did give her a one-armed hug with a gruff, “Go home. You work too hard.”
She would’ve appreciated the sentiment more if she hadn’t been afraid of what was—or wasn’t—waiting for her at home.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Lindsey pulled onto her dark street. When she saw the dark blue truck with Tennessee plates in her garage, her raw heart did a girly squealy number the same time her brain went into self-preservation mode. She didn’t have much gumption left for the day—fairly normal by this time of night—but she reached deep, deep down to find the stamina to fake it. Shoulders squared, spine erect, eyedrops applied to minimize the evidence of exhaustion, she carried herself from her garage into her kitchen.
And promptly blew out a relieved breath.
It was a disaster—the counters were cluttered with plates, cups, silverware, and Will had even dug out the electric s’mores maker she kept on hand for nights when Noah stayed over. But the man himself was nowhere in sight.
The humming of the heater and the refrigerator were the only sounds in the house. No guitar, no radio, no voices. All normal, except for that truck in her garage.
She let her hair down and kicked off her ivory pumps, then deposited her takeout bag on the table. She should’ve cooked—it was healthier, and between the hours at her desk and her mid-thirties creeping in, her metabolism wasn’t what it used to be—but she’d wanted comfort food tonight.
Lindsey unbuttoned her suit jacket on her way up the stairs, tiptoeing lightly. She turned down the hallway to her bedroom, but paused outside her guest room. The door was open, the dinosaur lamp lit on the nightstand, and her raw heart banged the rest of its rocky casing away at the sight.
Will slept on his stomach on the green dinosaur comforter, his arm dangling over the side of the bed. His fingers twitched, then his hand lifted, reaching for something in his sleep. A guitar? A ball? The dog she suspected he’d lost?
And hadn’t that been a lovely moment last night? She knew his mother was dead. She remembered that vividly from spring break, because she’d grown up in the land of fairy tales, and there was an adorable orphan boy who wanted someone to love. The boy without a family had chosen the girl without a friend. He’d crept into her thoughts often since her own mother passed away. But last night she’d let out her win-at-all-costs side, and she’d gone straight for his jugular without thinking. She hadn’t shoved her foot so far down her throat since the night he pulled her onto the stage in Colorado and told her—and the whole tavern—that he loved her.
But he was here, for reasons God only knew, sleeping soundly.
His breath came out slow and steady. His cap sat crooked on Noah’s T. rex pillowcase. If he stayed much longer, he’d need to see a barber. Lindsey had a nearly uncontrollable desire to run her fingers through his hair, to see if it was as soft today as it had been the last time she’d known him. And that thick stubble on his cheeks and chin was long enough to be soft too. The good soft. Especially against her softer parts.
Intrigue and desire warmed the smileys on her panties.
She turned away.
He could have anyone he wanted.
He could be good for anyone he wanted.
And despite everything, or maybe because of everything, she hoped that one day he’d find the woman he deserved.
She tiptoed across the hall to her bedroom, changed into a fuzzy lavender sweater and jeans, then went downstairs and pulled her chicken Parmesan out of the bag. She opened a Mae Daniels book on her iPad while she ate. Nat had liked the book. Kimmie had raved about it. Lindsey hadn’t had a chance to read it yet.
But as soon as she realized the hero was Southern—the charming, drawling, smiling kind of Southern—Lindsey shoved it away.
She had enough of that in her life.
“What’s wrong, lawyer lady? One of them couples you’re splitting up get back together?”
Will peered at her from between the slats of the banister on the top step. Despite his words, his voice was mellow and relaxed. Borderline teasing. How long he’d been sitting there watching her, she couldn’t say. Awareness prickled her skin, and the smileys on her panties leapt to attention.
In all the good ways.
In all the bad ways.
She wiped a smudge of marinara sauce from her lips. “Yep. Nailed it.”
He didn’t move, but sat there watching her with his sleepy bedroom eyes.
She pushed away the rest of her pasta. “Did you call someone and tell them you’re safe?”
“Called and told ’em I’m not dead. Not so sure about safe yet.”
Her pounding heart could appreciate that. “How’s Mikey?”
Something flickered in his expression, then shuttered. “Fine. Might could be better if you told me about him and that brunette you didn’t want to talk about last night.” He stood and stretched. The white t-shirt beneath his red plaid button-down rode up, giving Lindsey a glimpse of chiseled abs and a trail of sandy hair.
Almost the middle of January, twenty degrees outside, and she was suddenly craving an ice cream cone. To distract her. To cool off. To have something else to lick.
He made one of those stretching noises, then dropped his arms and started down the stairs, bouncing casually, in no hurry, subtly asserting his dominance in her house.
Her blood pressure started an uphill climb. Didn’t matter how edible he looked, he didn’t get to play man of her house.
“You gonna finish that?” Will—no, Billy, because he was wide awake now and one hundred percent channeling his inner country rock god—rounded the base of the stairs and eyeballed her pasta with the kind of lust a man usually used on Lindsey herself.
She’d represented a congressman’s wife, a popular local news anchor’s wife, and the wife of the biggest badass divorce attorney in the county. And she’d gotten her clients excellent settlements in every case. She wasn’t easily intimidated, she didn’t back down from a fight and she never ran away.
But tonight, she pushed her dinner away and stood. “Help yourself.”
Capitulating was apparently the wrong move, because the grin he gave her went past country boy and all the way to redneck. Here, hold my beer and watch this shit kind of redneck.
“Saw you got some chocolate chips,” he said. “You bake cookies? Got a hankering for something sweet and gooey.”
The smileys on Lindsey’s panties stood higher and waved at him, but she gave them a silent order to behave.
Even if sweet and gooey sounded pretty fabulous to her too. Smeared all over his chest—nope.
Couldn’t go there.
Will wasn’t fling material. He was lifetime-of-regrets material. And she wouldn’t do that to either of them again.
She went to the cabinet over her fridge and pulled out her paternal grandmother’s old cookbook, then deposited it on the table.
“That ain’t cookies,” Will said.
“Closest you’ll get from me. I keep everything on hand except motivation.”
Those toasted honey eyes connected with hers.
Serious. Curious. Dangerous.
Her stomach launched into a getting-jiggy-with-it two-step, which should’ve been anatomically impossible, not to mention wrong, but with Will—he inspired her crazy.
His gaze dipped to her mouth.
She swallowed hard. Licked her lips. Lifted her chest. She couldn’t help herself. Responding to male interest—it was natural.
She liked men. She liked being with men. But usually, she kept that no-longer-petrified organ in her chest out of it. With him—she was already invested.
She always had been.
His eyes lifted again, darker, more intense. “Got a notion I could get you motivated.”
He could.
He absolutely could.
His voice was seeping through her cracks again, poking at her softer parts, her feminine parts, her weak parts. “There is one man that I bake cookies for,” she said, “and you, Billy Brenton, are not him.”
If he was curious about her other “man”—Noah—he didn’t show it.
Ego probably told him he didn’t need to worry.
“Deep down,” he said, still in that hypnotizing voice of his, still holding her captive with that gaze, “I’m just a country boy. Friends and family, they still call me Will. Think he might get some cookies?”
Oh, cookies. The good kind of cookies. The kind that was better than butter and sugar and chocolate. She swallowed. Hard. “If he—”
A song split the tension in the kitchen. Something twangy and loud that made Lindsey think about his sister.
Will stepped away from the table, reached into his pocket and answered his phone. “Yes, ma’am?”
Lindsey turned away.
No. The answer was no. She couldn’t give him any cookies. The baked kind, or the between-the-sheets kind. Not with their history. Not with who they each were today.
Will’s conversation was heavy on the mm-hmms and uh-huhs, with the occasional yes or no thrown in. Lindsey took her iPad from the table and walked into her sunroom.
