Smitten

  This time there was a measure of truth in his accusation. Matt hadn’t had such a great night either, and she should have been more concerned with his feelings. Somehow that made it all the worse.

  A feeling of failure came rolling in like fog. It was silent and isolating. And, like fog, it swam away from her as she moved forward, but it was always there, obscuring life. Anger, on the other hand, was something she could sink her teeth into. “We’re not married!”

  “Lizzy, I have a news flash for you. In the eyes of this community, we’re about as married as anyone can get.”

  She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. “How could I have been so dumb? Why did I tell all those people you were my husband?”

  Matt speared a chunk of potato. “You were a desperate woman, Lizzy. You panicked.”

  There was a hint of laughter behind his eyes. Damn him, he was in the driver’s seat. And he knew it. He held her reputation in the palm of his hand. She tightened the sash on her robe. “I suppose I have a few options.”

  “You can sell the house and move to Montana.”

  Lizabeth rolled her eyes.

  He set the plastic container on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. His voice was soft. A whisper in the darkness. “We could actually get married.”

  Her heart jumped in her chest. Marry him. The possibility shimmered in front of her. It was a great big soap bubble of an idea, and it dredged a giggle up from somewhere deep inside. A lifetime of Matt Hallahan grinning at her over the morning paper. A lifetime of warm sheets, and double-dares, and fresh doughnuts from the bakery. He’d protect her from dragons and flashers and hold her close while he slept. And he’d love her long into the night, whispering outrageous suggestions and words of endearment.

  Unfortunately, soap bubbles are fragile and short-lived, and Lizabeth needed something that would endure. Her husband would also be father to her children. She couldn’t risk another failed marriage and what it would do to her sons. And then there was still the motorcycle. She put her fingers to her temples, where a dull throb was taking hold.

  “Got a headache?”

  She nodded. “It’s been a long day.”

  Lizabeth opened her eyes to a sun-drenched room. Matt had crawled in next to her last night, hugging her to him as if his big body could ward away all earthly problems. And to some extent it could. When she was wrapped in his arms, well-being seeped through the layers of self-doubt.

  This morning the bed was empty next to her, and she felt a stab of panic. He was gone. Could she blame him? She closed her eyes and groaned. Her life was a mess.

  “Lizabeth,” she said, “you screwed up.” She looked at the clock and gasped. It was after ten! And someone was knocking on her front door.

  Lizabeth wrapped her robe tight around herself and answered the door. “Yes?”

  “Blue Star Glass. I’m supposed to fix a window.”

  He was short and chunky, and he was wearing a blue shirt with MIKE written over the pocket in red script. She stared at him blank-faced, still half-asleep. “You must have the wrong house.”

  “I don’t think so. I got a work order for this address. Very weird, too. Some guy came in first thing this morning, all dressed up in a suit and tie, wearing a paper bag over his head. He said he accidentally broke your bedroom window last night, and he paid me to fix it. Lady, you have some strange friends.”

  It was close to twelve when Lizabeth got to work. She scanned the street, but she didn’t see Matt’s truck or bike. Landscapers were laying sod in the front yard of the colonial. Backhoes were working across the street, excavating basements.

  The cul-de-sac would be completed by spring. The carpenters would be replaced by mothers and children. The whine of power tools would give way to the drone of televisions and vacuum cleaners. People would be complaining that they couldn’t grow grass because Matt had left too many trees. He’d done it purposely so the cul-de-sac would fit in with the older, more established community.

  It was quiet and cool in the colonial. Lizabeth stepped into the foyer and listened for the sound of men working. She heard nothing. The house was pretty much done. Next week they would move the office into the house next door, and that’s where it would stay until spring. Matt had decided to use the second house as a model rather than sell it immediately.

  She hesitated at the top of the basement stairs, feeling odd in the empty house, wondering if she was still the office manager. A lot had happened in twenty-four hours, and she wasn’t sure how Matt felt about any of it.

  A phone rang, and the recorder clicked on. “Matt? Are you there? I know you’re there!” Thirty seconds of colorful swearing in a deep, masculine voice. “I hate these damn recorders. I hate talking to a machine. And I hate having people listen to me talk to a machine. I don’t know why I bother anyway, because nobody ever calls me the hell back. My number is…” The time ran out and the recorder cut off.

  Lizabeth hurried down the stairs and played back the rest of the messages.

  It was after five when she finally stood and stretched. She hadn’t seen Matt all day, but she’d found a terse note taped to the desk saying he’d be at the lawyer’s most of the afternoon. Probably trying to see if he could get an annulment from a nonexistent marriage, she thought.

  She heard the front door open and close. Footsteps overhead going into the kitchen. Her heart skipped a beat. The workmen were all long gone. It was either Matt or a serial murderer. She contemplated sneaking out the patio door.

  “Lizabeth?”

  It was Matt. And it was too late to sneak away. He stood at the head of the stairs, his body backlit by the kitchen light. He seemed impossibly big, slouched in the doorway.

  “I was just getting ready to go home,” Lizabeth said, sliding past him.

  “So was I. And then I realized I had this problem.” His voice was weary. “I couldn’t figure out where I lived.”

  He wore a dark pin-striped suit that was perfectly cut to his broad shoulders and slim hips. His white shirt was open at the neck. His tie had been loosened. The slacks clung to his muscular thighs and gracefully fell to a pair of black, Italian leather loafers. He looked more like a CEO than a carpenter. And that’s exactly what he was, Lizabeth thought with a jolt.

  He and Frank Kocen, his hospitalized partner, were the executive officers of Hal-Cen Corporation. It wasn’t General Motors, but it was a respectable little construction company, and from what she could see it was growing at a slow but steady pace. They weren’t taking any chances. They were building good homes at a reasonable price and reinvesting their profits.

  She watched him go to the refrigerator and take out a can of cold beer. She’d never envisioned him in a suit. In fact, she had never thought that he might own one. A five-o’clock shadow was darkening his jaw, whitening his teeth, emphasizing the hard planes of his face. If she’d met him on the street, she might not have recognized him at first, but she sure would have given him a second glance. She half expected to see women lined up on the front lawn like cats in heat. He was awesome.

  “You’re staring,” he said.

  “I’m not used to seeing you in a suit.”

  He grunted, oblivious to his own image, and took a swig from the can. “As the company grows, I find myself spending less time on the job site and more time closeted with bankers and lawyers and real-estate agents. Especially since Frank broke his hip. It’s not something I enjoy. I chose construction because I like the hands-on part of building things.”

  “When Frank comes back will you be able to retire your suit?”

  “Pretty much. As long as you stay in the office. You were right about needing more support staff. Frank and I can’t handle it any longer.” He finished the beer. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I like working in the office.”

  He wasn’t really asking if she liked it. He wanted to know if she was going to stick around. He knew the thought of marrying him gave her a headache. That w
asn’t an encouraging sign. Last night he’d felt desperate as she curled next to him in bed. He’d only just found her, and he was afraid he’d already lost her.

  He couldn’t even figure out what had gone wrong. One minute they were friends and lovers, and the next thing he knew, she was furious because he’d charged off after the flasher. The memory brought a smile to his mouth. He had to admit he’d felt foolish standing there buck naked in front of her neighbors.

  Lizabeth almost fainted when he smiled. It was the small, unguarded smile of a man laughing at himself. It was a little embarrassed and utterly charming. It almost broke her heart. He was so damn lovable! “What are you smiling about?”

  “I guess I was a real bozo last night.”

  Lizabeth laughed. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. “You were sweet.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmmm. I was the bozo. I overreacted.”

  “No, no. You were right,” Matt said. “I went berserk. I lost control.”

  “True. You did lose control.”

  “I had good reason to lose control, Lizabeth. The man is a nutcase. And now he’s resorting to violence.”

  “He got frustrated and threw his shoe at my window. I’d hardly call that violent. You, on the other hand, are prone to violence. You even enjoy violence. You keep a whole cardboard boxful of violence. And you watch hockey! You probably like boxing and wrestling, too.”

  “So sue me. I’m a man. Men like those things.”

  “Not my men, buster!” she shouted.

  “Unh!” She thunked her fist against her forehead. She was doing it again. What was wrong with her? She was unreasonable. She was making a mess of things. She took a deep breath. “Maybe we should go home.”

  Matt vented his exasperation on the beer can, crushing it flat. “How many homes are you talking about? Are we still married?”

  “We’re talking about my home…our home,” she corrected. “And we’re still married. At least until I can come up with a better story. Is that okay with you?”

  “Anything’s okay with me as long as I can get out of this suit.”

  Chapter 8

  Lizabeth dropped a cotton nightshirt over her head. She fluffed the pillows on her bed, turned down the sheet and summer comforter, and set the alarm. What she needed was a good night’s sleep in her nice comfy bed, she thought. She needed space, some time to think. And she needed rest. She crawled into bed and groaned out loud as her spine relaxed and her bare legs slid between the cool sheets.

  The sound of swearing carried to her from down the hall. There was a loud crash and more swearing. A door opened, then slammed shut. It was Matt. Now what? What more could possibly go wrong?

  They had snapped at each other all through supper. After supper she had refused to go riding on his motorcycle, and he had refused to watch Terms of Endearment, saying it was a sissy movie. Now he was stomping around like a bear wearing lead boots.

  Matt looked at her closed door and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he said. You know how she hates violence. You know how she hates when you lose control and go running around naked. Okay, he had that one covered. He’d put on a pair of pajama bottoms.

  He knocked on the door.

  “Yes?”

  He sucked in a lungful of air. “I have to talk to you.”

  “I’m tired. Can’t we talk tomorrow?”

  “No. We can’t talk tomorrow. We have to talk now.”

  “I don’t want to talk now.” She didn’t want to talk to someone who called Terms of Endearment a sissy movie. And he’d implied her mashed potatoes were lumpy. And he’d yelled at Ferguson just because Ferguson had eaten his shoe. And more than that, she wasn’t up to having him in her bedroom.

  She couldn’t get a grip on her emotions. There was love and fear and anger all jumbled together, and she couldn’t stop them from tumbling out. Ever since last night she had been saying things she regretted, and yet, she kept saying them.

  He did some deep breathing, counted to ten again, tried the doorknob, and found it was locked. More deep breathing. More counting to ten.

  “Oh hell,” he said. He gave the door a good kick and broke the lock.

  Lizabeth sprang up to a sitting position, too astonished to be angry. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. “You broke my door!”

  Now that he had kicked something he was feeling much better. He was even able to speak without shouting—just barely. “That isn’t all I’ve broken. I’ve also broken Jason’s bed. I don’t fit in a twin size.”

  “Have you tried the couch?”

  “Ferguson’s sleeping on the couch.” He slapped the spare pillow into shape and turned back the sheet.

  Lizabeth felt panic claw at her throat. “You’re not sleeping here!”

  “The hell I’m not.” He rolled in beside her and gave something that was close to a growl. “I don’t fit in this bed either. Every bed in this house was designed for midgets.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”

  “Last night I wasn’t interested in sleeping.”

  “And I suppose the only thing you have on your mind tonight is sleeping?”

  “You got it.”

  How insulting! They’d been married for less than twenty-four hours, and he wanted to go to sleep. Of course, it wasn’t a real marriage, but it was insulting all the same. She glared over at him. “Well, since you don’t fit in this bed, you might as well go somewhere else. Why don’t you go kick Billy’s door down and ruin his bed.”

  “Don’t push me, Liz. I’m a man on the edge.”

  She gave him a long, considering look and decided to let him teeter. “Hmmm,” she said, slithering down beside him.

  “What’s ‘hmmm’ supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just hmmmm.” She shut the light off and smiled in the darkness, deciding she liked having him next to her. She liked the way his warmth cut through her nightgown. She liked listening to him breathe, liked the way he made her feel safe from whatever terrors the night might hold. Now that she had a chance to reconsider, she might even like to make love to him.

  “’Night,” she whispered, rustling closer as she turned her back, not so innocently snuggling her bottom into his hip.

  He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without giving himself away. He’d made a colossal mistake. He’d been hurt when she’d suggested he sleep in Jason’s room. As the night wore on he’d become more and more frustrated. The bed had been the last straw, but in all honesty, if he hadn’t been thrashing around in a snit, the bed would never have collapsed. Now he was next to her, and he was miserable. He’d told her he was only interested in sleeping. Yeah, he thought, and cows could fly. Every muscle in his body felt as if it were tied in knots. He was hard—everywhere. And he was supposed to sleep?

  He turned toward her and put his hand to her waist, feeling the flare of her hip. She would have been pretty when she was a teenager, he decided. But as a fully grown woman she was magnificent. Her breasts were full, and her lips were as soft as her breasts. He liked the way she tipped her head back and laughed deep in her throat. Honest laughter. And he liked the way she made love to him. Honest loving.

  His thumb stroked over the ridge of hipbone. “Lizabeth?”

  She twisted in his arms until she was facing him, her face inches from his.

  Matt feathered his lips against her forehead when he spoke. “I think our marriage hasn’t gotten off to a good start.”

  “I’ve noticed that, but I don’t know how to fix it. Maybe it’s unfixable.”

  Sometimes love just wasn’t enough, she thought. Sometimes there were differences that couldn’t be bridged. Sometimes there were personalities that couldn’t adapt. Some people simply weren’t meant to be married. Maybe she was one of those people. The possibility brought a new rush of sadness, and she sought solace from it in Matt’s embrace. She was tired of being sad. She had spent too many sad nights with Paul.

  She raised her mouth
to Matt, and her lips trembled when he kissed her. Lord, how she loved him. If they had only met at another time—when the boys were grown, or before they’d been born. His kisses were gentle but persistent. His hands moved under her nightshirt, and the feel of his callused palm on her bare belly pulled her away from thought. Desire warmed her, drugged her. She gave herself up to it, needing to be part of him for a little while longer.

  Lizabeth woke to the aroma of coffee brewing and the smoky smell of bacon frying. It was 6 A.M. and responsibility lay heavy on her. So heavy she could barely open her eyes or raise her arms.

  She was going to have to cut Matt out of her life, and the wound was going to be unbearably painful and impossible to heal. She’d been a fool to let things go this far. She’d had some misgivings before—silly ones about tattoos and education, but when Paul left with her kids it had triggered an anxiety attack that had raised serious, legitimate questions. When you combined the serious questions with the silly misgivings it didn’t seem like the relationship had much of a chance for long-term success.

  She was a mother. That was the bottom line. And the mothering part of her was strong. So strong there was a tendency for it to squeeze out everything else. Perhaps because all her life she’d been Mac’s daughter or Paul’s wife, now she couldn’t keep herself from being Jason and Billy’s mother. She’d make a terrible wife. She didn’t know how to divide herself up so that there was some for Billy and Jason, and some for Matt, and some for Lizabeth. Matt would be neglected, she thought.

  In a small corner of her mind she couldn’t help compare Matt to Paul and wonder if Matt would eventually find comfort in other women. Even as she thought these things, a tear trickled down her cheek, and she wasn’t sure if it was for Jason or Billy or Matt or herself.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, and she absently wondered if it was the police chasing down the flasher. No, she decided, the flasher wouldn’t be running around at six in the morning. Anyway, there were too many sirens. She could hear the throaty blast of air horns now. Fire trucks. And they were getting closer.