tank top. That was probably it. Coming from any other man, she’d think he was checking her out. Flirting, even. Not that she got checked out much lately. But occasionally, when the moon and stars were aligned, it still happened. At least often enough that she still recognized it.
“Maybe we could have dinner. Catch up,” he continued. “And I didn’t get a chance to tell you how great you look. You still look eighteen.” He lowered his voice. “Only better.”
He was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was like… Her brain felt like it was sloshing around in her head, still a little pickled by tequila and a lot off balance. It was like he was coming on to her. But why would he do that? To what end? She didn’t get it. A glimmer of hope shone in the dark recesses of her brain. Maybe she’d misread the whole situation. It occurred to her that she could out-and-out ask Della, but then the jig would be up. Her feelings for Jack would be written all over her face.
She didn’t get men. Never did. Probably never would. The old Jack was gone, that much was clear. But so what? He was always a great guy. And, no matter what, he was Della’s big brother. Maybe the universe was offering him up to her as a sort of learning tool, a risk-free piece of her incomplete “man puzzle.”
They could be buddies. Mattie fought the sinking feeling that followed that thought. At the very least she could learn from him, understand what it was—or wasn’t—that made men tick. It would be like watching a football game from the safety of the press box rather than getting creamed on the playing field.
It was a consolation prize, but she’d take it. Mattie lived in a small town and that meant playing by small-town rules. Most of her friends were married, which meant they had little time left between soccer games and laundry for hanging out with her. And bonding with other women’s husbands was a recipe for disaster. So for those situations where she mingled with couples her own age, she wore her bookstore spinster status like an access badge: Harmless—no threat to marriage. Full clearance to barbecues and bar mitzvahs.
In other words, she was boring.
But Jack could change that. Suddenly the image of him as her hip gay friend was appealing in an off-center sort of way. They could hang out. Maybe he would take her to Atlanta, introduce her to the club scene. She felt a sly grin tug at the corner of her mouth as her mind drifted to the boxes of unworn shoes that lined her closet. They were hers, bought and paid for, but off-limits in some self-imposed way. Yet in the back of her mind hadn’t she’d always thought a day would come when she’d wear at least one pair? Up until now she just hadn’t been able to imagine what day that would be….
“Mattie? You okay?”
She blinked, aware that she’d been drifting on her own thoughts. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked up at Jack as if she were seeing him for the first time, the awkwardness suddenly gone. “Yes, I’d love that,” she answered.
“Great.” He seemed a little taken aback by her response, as if he’d expected her to say no.
“So…” Mattie took a deep breath and searched for something supportive to say. She could do this. “So have you and your partner found a house yet?”
“My partner has his condo on the market.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say more but then decided against it. “As for me, I still need to look around, check out the local real estate.”
Mattie managed to babble for a solid three minutes, offering advice as though Jack hadn’t lived here for the first twenty years of his life. All the while her brain tried to process their new relationship, stalling while she fought for balance. Her old Jack fantasy was deteriorating somewhere in a ditch. That was okay: a new friendship was budding. She swallowed hard and forced herself to stop talking.
“Thanks.” Jack nodded, an amused expression on his face. “I’ll, uh, try and remember all that.”
Humor the crazy babbling lady. She wanted to die.
“So what about dinner tomorrow night? Pick you up at seven?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Good.” He finally raised his head, looking over her shoulder. “I should go now.” He frowned. “But before I do, I have something to ask you.”
She frowned. “What’s that?”
He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her to face the Crown Vic. “Is this your car?”
“Uh, yes.” She met his eyes. “Why?”
He shook his head in mock distress. “Because I spent fifteen years of detective work developing a theory about vehicles and their drivers.”
“And?”
“And you just blew it.”
Mattie grinned, intrigued. “How’s that?”
Jack traced his thumb over his jawline. “In my opinion, most people are basically uncomfortable in their own skin.”
She felt her eyes go round with surprise. All this time Mattie had thought it was just her.
“That being the case, my theory is that people feel the need to wrap themselves in a shell. And that shell is a vehicle. People therefore choose a vehicle based on who they feel they are inside.”
Mattie looked at the Crown Vic. It was plain, ugly as sin, and its paint was crackling like the makeup of an old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.
But when she looked up at Jack, she found his gaze trailing over her bare legs. She watched in amazement as he paused at her breasts before meeting her eyes. She shivered.
“You, Mattie Harold—” he lowered his head to whisper in her ear “are not a beat-up Crown Vic.” He sighed and little shivers danced across her bare shoulders. “You’re a red Mustang. Convertible.”
CHAPTER 3
Erica felt like an alien as she pushed the buggy through the supercenter. Thousands of products were crammed from floor to ceiling, and her head ached from trying to take it all in. After working in countries where a twist tie or a hair barrette caused fascination, the commercial explosion was overwhelming. The words jumped out at her, screaming “Buy me!” in English and Español, their brand names underscored with “New!”, “Improved!” and, her favorite, “As seen on TV!” Well, guess what, oh wise advertising execs, she hadn’t watched television in about a decade.
So take that demographic and process it.
And the people. God bless America, but she wanted to run screaming from the crowd. There were people from all walks of life, from senior citizens to pierced teenagers, but the majority appeared to be exhausted-looking women with a fistful of coupons and at least five kids in tow. Was it just her, or did every kid in the place have a runny nose, a bad attitude and the tendency to stare at her as she passed by? She’d like to think it was the sight of an adult with her arm in a cast, but Erica suspected there was more. They sensed she’d never been in a supercenter, smelled her fear.
And she was scared. Back-against-the-wall, shaking-in-her-boots, boogeyman scared.
Erica took a deep breath. She’d assessed the store’s layout as she’d once assessed the danger of a guerilla-controlled
