Chapter 12
Matt ran for his phone, stubbing his toe on his dresser as he grabbed for it. Sophie’s ringtone always had his heart beating a little faster. Emergencies were rare, but he didn’t like her calls to go to voicemail.
“Hi.” Alana’s voice had a lilt he found irresistible. “Sophie loaned me her phone—I lost your number.”
“Bit early to be up and about, isn’t it?”
It was only six thirty. He imagined her as the type that slept in.
“Camp drills are at six. I decided to give them a go. It’s exhausting, really, all those jumping jacks, but the kids seem to love them.”
“I didn’t know jumping jacks were still considered a useful exercise.”
“Apparently they rank right up there with tap ‘n’ tote, whatever that is,” she said with a laugh. “Look, I have to cancel our date for tomorrow night. I’d forgotten it’s the campfire night. Evidently my grandmother always attended, so I must as well. We’ll have to reschedule.”
Reschedule.
She said it like he was a slot on a calendar, an activity in a series of activities planned at her whim: hump Enzo, buy tickets to Paris, book hair appointment, reschedule night with Matt.
Brakes. His ridiculous reaction told him it was time to put the brakes on.
He was blowing every interaction with her out of proportion. If she wanted casual, he was good at casual. Or at least he used to be in the years before he’d married Liza.
“No problem,” he said, hoping his tone sounded more laid-back to her than it did to him.
“Parents are invited,” she said cheerily. “Encouraged to come, I’m told.”
Though most of his waking moments for the past seven months had been focused on him being the best parent he could be, he didn’t like the way Alana said the word parents. Like he was in some sort of circumscribed, predictable club or something.
“Gotta run’” she said over the clanging of pots and excited voices in the background. “They’re serving blueberry pancakes for breakfast. If I don’t see you tomorrow, call me and let’s find a time to get together. Ciao.”
Matt rubbed out the pain in his toe. Ice would be good. But maybe he’d be better off with it on his head instead of his foot.
The woman riled him. And worse, he was pretty sure she wasn’t trying to.
As he drove to the stadium, he decided that what he should do was go out after the game and get laid. Maybe that’d clear his head. But he was way out of practice in the pickup scene. He’d been married and faithful for six years and hadn’t had much interest in sex since Liza died. Except for his disastrous hook-up with a woman in Philly and inevitable sessions with his tried-and-true hand, he hadn’t pursued his body’s urges. Until he’d met Alana. Until the feel of her body and the erotic pulse of her lips set him on fire and left him unable to douse the flame.
Great. He was horny, and the object of his fantasies was inviting him to campfire night. Wasn’t that a kicker?