Matched, page 17
She almost believed they could be butterflies-and-rainbows happy forever.
She should’ve logged in upstairs and caught up on email.
Instead, she stepped into the kitchen and eyed Noah’s favorite cabinet.
She could stand to work off some steam. She’d had to wear her growly face entirely too much in the office this week.
Five minutes later, she returned to the sunroom, plate in hand.
Will’s breathing stayed slow and deep.
The blinds were open, the room bright from the overhead light, and dusk was settling outside. But with the privacy fence, no one could see in. She set the plate on the arm of the couch, then flicked open the buttons on her suit jacket and slid it off. Cool air touched her shoulders and arms.
When she unzipped her skirt, Will’s left eye slid open. His right eye followed, and his breathing stopped. “Am I dreaming, or is this a really good day?” His voice was husky with sleep, and it made Lindsey ache to hear more.
“Depends. Is that a phone on your pants, or are you happy to see me?”
He tossed the phone aside, and the tent in his sweatpants left no question that he was happy to see her. “C’mere, pretty lady,” he said.
She did.
But not before she shimmied out of her skirt and shell too.
“Lord have mercy,” Will breathed.
Lindsey straddled him on the couch, rubbed herself against his bulge and watched his gaze wander over today’s smiley faces. “No mercy for you tonight.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, angling back when he tilted his mouth closer to hers.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and tried to pull her close. “Gonna tease me?”
“I’m fixin’ to treat you.”
His smile went wide, and he added a chuckle that made her smileys swoon. She reached for the plate and plucked the treat off it. The chocolate had melted and swirled with the marshmallow oozing out between the two graham crackers. She swiped a finger full of sugary goodness. “How do you feel about s’mores, country boy?”
His erection pulsed between her legs. “Real good.” His voice was huskier, his eyes hot.
She slid her finger into his mouth, and when he sucked on it, she felt the pull all the way to the deepest parts of her womanhood. She rocked against him.
He caught her wrist and held the s’more steady while he swiped at the marshmallow goo. “Your turn, pretty lady.”
Her lips parted. She swirled her tongue around his finger, tasting sweet chocolate and marshmallow, and then she gave his finger one long, hard suck.
“Sweet hallelujah,” Will breathed. He bucked against her.
She brushed his lips with the treat. “You want a bite?”
“I want you.”
She tossed the s’more on the plate and slid her hands under his T-shirt to the light hair on his solid chest. He cupped a hand behind her neck and pulled her close. His lips suckled and teased hers while he expertly unhooked her bra with one hand.
She rocked against him and parted her lips, her tongue darting out to tangle with his.
All his sounds were new, but they felt familiar—the low groan deep in his throat when she tweaked his nipples, the gasp that escaped when she rocked her hips harder against his erection, the rumble of more when he fisted his hands in her hair and held her tighter against him.
Lindsey thrust harder against him, yanked at his T-shirt. “Make me feel good.”
He shifted and helped her tear the shirt off, then hooked his thumbs in the elastic of her panties. She lifted, helped him scoot them down, then reached for his pants.
Someone knocked on the door.
“They’ll go away.” She tugged at his pants, and he thrust his hands into her hair and claimed her lips.
The knocking came at the door again, but it was followed by another sound.
A key.
“Oh, shit.” Lindsey leapt off Will’s lap. “Nat?” she called.
“It’s Dad.”
Will’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit,” he echoed.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” Lindsey yelled.
“Or not,” Will muttered. He yanked his pants on and grabbed his shirt while Lindsey dove into her clothes.
Wrigley looked toward the kitchen.
“Hold on a minute, Dad,” Lindsey called.
“Lindsey?” Dad called. “You have visitors?”
“I—it’s—kind of.” She flipped her hair out from beneath her jacket as he walked into the sunroom.
With Marilyn trailing behind him.
Dad’s eyes went round as they swiveled between Lindsey and Will. Marilyn—generally unflappable—did a guppy impersonation.
“This is a nice surprise.” Lindsey’s heart shouldn’t have been hammering. She was an adult, this was her house and she had nothing to be ashamed of. But her breastbone was taking a beating anyway. “What brings you two by?”
Dad cleared his throat, then took two awkward steps back. “Thought you might want to go out for dinner before our widows group. Guess you’re busy.”
“No, we’re—” She glanced at Will. He lifted a brow. What were they? “We’re hanging out,” she finished. Lamely.
“You got a dog,” Dad said.
Wrigley lifted his head, pointing a wary eye at Marilyn.
Smart boy.
“He’s mine.” Will stepped beside her. Not close enough to touch, not far enough away to be simply friendly. His easy, people-like-me country boy grin was out in full force, emphasizing the Billy in his personality.
She could still recognize Will in there too. A mature, confident, make-no-excuses Will.
But the thunderclouds and tornadoes moved in, hovering at the edge of her anti-match-o-meter.
“Lindsey’s been real nice, giving us a place to stay,” Will said.
Dad’s mouth hung open for a second, glancing again between Will and Lindsey. “Looks like,” he said.
The half-eaten s’more on the couch arm didn’t say anything, but it sat there like a chocolate marshmallow elephant, everyone obviously aware of it, no one wanting to mention it.
Lindsey was almost positive she had a streak of marshmallow over the whisker burn around her lips and on her neck. But she refused to squirm.
Marilyn squared her shoulders and set her chin. The Queen General had entered the building. “Billy, it is so lovely to finally meet you. I’m Marilyn Elias, president of Bliss’s Bridal Retailers Association and chairperson of Knot Festival. And by the power vested in me as a direct descendant of the founders of Bliss, I hereby welcome you to our quaint little corner of the world. It’s our most esteemed pleasure to have you nearby. I trust your accommodations have been adequate?”
“Couldn’t have asked for better, Miss Marilyn, ma’am.”
“I would be more than happy—”
Dad slid her a side-eye, and she stopped.
Will’s country boy grin stayed in place, but there was a keen awareness in the flicker of his gaze. Fifteen years ago, he’d said he wasn’t much of a scholar.
He didn’t have to be. He was smart about people, about music, about life. “Dinner sounds like a right good plan.” Will put his hand at the small of Lindsey’s back. Those warm honey eyes connected with hers, laugh lines crinkling, his country boy grin turning to a rueful, private smile. And she couldn’t help but smile back.
He’d always made it impossible not to smile back.
Dad cleared his throat.
“Real good timing, actually,” Will said. “I was fixin’ to call Pepper Blue tomorrow to talk about that judging gig with your Battle of the Boyfriends, but seeing as you’re here now—”
Lindsey choked on her tongue.
Marilyn tittered, that obnoxious, fake giggle that Nat called her devil laugh. “Oh, Billy, how lovely! By the power vested in me as chairperson of Knot Festival, I hereby accept. We would be delighted to have you, playing or judging.”
“Aw, now, can’t play for you.” He put an apology into the tilt of his lips, then topped it with a wink. “Take too much attention from the real talent of the night.”
The man was annoyingly charming. “The Battle of the Boyfriends is almost four weeks away, Billy,” Lindsey said.
Pointedly.
Will lifted a brow at her. So? it said.
“Tour rehearsals don’t start until after that,” he said. “Told my management team this afternoon. Be an honor to do it. Love giving back to little towns. Came from one, you know.”
This has nothing to do with you, his words said.
But there was a dare lingering behind his words.
Go on. See if you can let go after three weeks. I’ll still be here.
Lindsey swallowed hard. “That’s very kind of you.”
Marilyn tittered again. “Such generosity,” she said.
“Aw, shucks, ma’am. Ain’t nothin’.”
“And how delightful that your dear friend Mikey has found true love in Bliss too. I’ve always said it’s the town of fairy tales.”
Will nodded. “Yep. Never seen Mikey smittened before.”
Marilyn’s eye twitched. “Smitten.”
“Suppose it depends on where you come from, Miss Marilyn.”
“Where I come from,” Lindsey said, “it’s dinnertime. Pizza, anyone? I’ll call it in.”
“Dinnertime,” Dad agreed.
“I might could be up for that,” Will said.
Marilyn’s eye twitched again, which would’ve been funny if Will wasn’t playing games with all of them. Teasing Marilyn with her grammar, playing the Billy card to win Dad’s approval, pushing Lindsey’s buttons because he could.
Lindsey grabbed the s’more plate and stepped out of the room to call in a pizza order. And even though it was on par with leaving Will to swim with the sharks, she left him with her guests and went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. When she returned to the sunroom, everyone had taken seats. Marilyn was perched primly in a chair, Dad at one end of the couch, Will lounging at the other end. Not a problem in general.
But the conversation was not good.
“We used to have a matchmaker,” Marilyn was saying, “but our hopes for our next matchmaker have thus far not materialized.”
“Looks like you’re making do,” Will said.
“It would be easier to bear, were there not a uniquely qualified person living so close by. Who has also been asked to judge the Battle of the Boyfriends.”
Three sets of eyes swivelled to Lindsey. Wrigley stared at Marilyn with a doggie frown that bordered on I’m fixin’ to growl at you.
From Wrigley, that was positively dangerous.
“Enough, Marilyn,” Dad said softly.
“Simply making an observation,” she said. “Lindsey, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the privilege of being in your home. It’s quite lovely. Rather unexpected.”
“Fits her well, what I’ve seen,” Will said.
As though he belonged here too.
As though he were staking his claim.
As though he had a right to an opinion.
He shouldn’t have. But he did.
No small part of her that wanted to know what he thought of not just her house, but also her life. Her choices. Who she was.
She needed to let him go now.
Because she wouldn’t be able to keep her own terms when his three weeks were over.
BY THE TIME Lindsey’s dad and the crazy Bliss lady left, Lindsey looked like she would’ve rather been plucking her nose hairs with rusty tweezers. She collapsed onto the couch in the sunroom, head in her hands, her whole body sagging like she wanted to dissolve into a puddle.
“Didn’t have to invite ’em to stay,” Will offered.
If that was supposed to be a glare she aimed at him, she was missing the mean in it. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Not as though she had been crying, but more like she was exhausted. “You could make friends with a possessed unicorn, couldn’t you?”
“Probably so. We both fart rainbows.”
She gaped at him for half a second before a sad laugh slipped out. “I should show you to the door too.”
Probably so on that too. He was getting attached when he knew better. Aside from the havoc she might play on his heart, he didn’t have time to go chasing a girl. His next album was delayed, management was talking about adding stops to his tour and last time he talked to Aunt Jessie, she’d clammed up completely and said she had to go when he asked how Sacha’s monthly moonlight aura-cleansing went.
Aunt Jessie and Sacha disagreed sometimes, but Will had never seen them out-and-out fight. Whatever was going on, he figured they’d make up soon enough.
So he did what he did best lately—he stuck his head in the sand, pretended his life and his family and his career were all in order, and he retreated into his music.
He grabbed his Yamaha and sat next to Lindsey, crowding her while Wrigley took his spot at her feet. “Wouldn’t kick me out, would you?” Will pressed a kiss to her hair. “’Who’s gonna do your dishes if I go?”
“I’ll hire a pool boy.”
“Pool boy can’t do this.” He strummed the Yamaha, looking for the notes in “Three Little Birds.” Didn’t take long to find them, and before he started singing, she shifted.
“I know this song,” she said.
He grinned. Didn’t surprise him. He’d pushed her mostly out of his brain the last fifteen years, but some songs—like this old one—always made him think of her. “Sing it with me,” he said.
“Not a chance.”
“Aw, c’mon, lawyer lady. Can’t be that bad.”
“Yes it can.”
He skipped the first verse, went straight to singing about everything bein’ all right. And she leaned into him, her head nodding on his shoulder while he sang.
She fit there, snuggled up to him while he played. He treated her to another Bob Marley song, then switched into some Colbie Caillat. His crew would make him turn in his man card if they heard, but all that “Brighter than the Sun”—it fit Lindsey.
It fit what he felt when he saw her. When he touched her. When she ran her fingers over his arm, his leg, his guitar. When she pressed a kiss to his shoulder, giggled at the lyrics he improvised to be about her so he could listen to her sweet laugh.
Didn’t make any sense she couldn’t feel it too, but she’d still put that three-week limit on him. And the girl wouldn’t have her mind changed.
Not easily.
Good thing Will had some experience in fighting his way to the top. Couldn’t help wondering what he’d lose to get there this time though.
“Never did finish that s’more,” he said eventually.
Lindsey pushed his guitar away, then climbed into his lap. “You play dirty, Will Truitt.”
He didn’t have to concede or argue the point, because she touched her lips to his, opened her mouth to him, and treated him to something better than all the s’mores in the world.
LINDSEY HAD A very strong suspicion why Will didn’t breach the threshold of her bedroom, and by Saturday morning, she was equal parts relieved and frustrated by it.
No, that wasn’t true.
She was way far gone on the frustrated end of the spectrum.
She shouldn’t have been—her couches had gotten plenty of action—but he was wearing her down. Making her want to invite him all the way in.
He’d made her house more into a home every day. Some nights by making dinner, others just by being there with Wrigley while she cooked, a good bit by putting music back into her life, but mostly by being her friend.
It was what had worn her down fifteen years ago too.
Why do you let them treat you like that? he’d asked after seeing her friends give her a subtle snub for the umpteenth time.
There’s more to it than I can explain. But it’s my fault. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong and said things about things I don’t really understand. It was all she’d told him, because she hadn’t wanted to confess to her gift. She’d wanted to be normal.
Still deserve better, no matter what you did, he’d said. So long as you meant good.
He’d treated her as though she were normal. kindhearted. Human—she made mistakes—but forgivable.
Better, he’d treated her as though he liked her.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed him and his friendship until she’d crossed the line she couldn’t uncross. There had been no mixed signals from her match-o-meter fifteen years ago. He’d been her spring rain shower. Warm and refreshing, but still wet and cloudy. Fleeting. Not meant to last.
Now, though, every time she walked into her house she felt sunny days and rainbows. Yet every time he had to play Billy Brenton—whether it was on the phone, or to tease her, or even when she was at work and someone mentioned him—she felt ice storms and droughts coming.
She shouldn’t have given him three weeks. She should’ve walked away.
And now, she had only two weeks left.
This wasn’t his normal life, he’d admitted. He was surrounded by people—by the cameras that taped his weekly BillyVision videos that he put on YouTube for his fans, by his crew, by management team, by his band. And then there were the interviews, the parties, the small gigs in crowded bars and lounges, the benefit shows for charities. He usually wrote songs for his next album on his bus, he said.
His tour bus. A box on wheels. A nice box, by the sound of it, but still a box that was skinnier than a lane in the road.
The thought had nearly given her a panic attack, and he wouldn’t even be on said bus during their fifteen days left together.
Even if her match-o-meter hadn’t been out of whack, their lifestyles were. So Saturday morning, while he was sleeping—sprawled on his stomach cross-wise on her guest bed, his mouth slightly ajar, his hair still mussed from what her fingers had done to it last night—she gathered a few necessities, and then tiptoed downstairs. She let Wrigley out for a potty break and filled his food bowl, and she’d started a note telling Will that she would be out doing family things all day—a final dress fitting with Nat, then time with Noah to keep her Most Favored Aunt status—when someone knocked on the door.
