CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ROMY RANG THE DOORBELL, and a few seconds later, heard a “Coooomiiiing,” from somewhere inside.
It was hard to believe that this house—or was mansion the correct word for Russian Hill?—was Matt’s. To say it was a departure from his usual student-like accommodation was a whopping understatement.
An inside door slammed. A closer “Gotta find the keys” was called out, followed by an even closer, much louder “Fuck!”
Okay, it was definitely Matt’s place.
She ran a neatening hand over her hair while she waited for him. Unbuttoned her overcoat. Brushed at the flared skirt of her new red dress.
Stupid, really. Matt never noticed what her hair looked like or what she was wearing. He saved such observations for women he wanted to have sex with—and Romy had come to terms with not being one of those women ten years ago.
Still, her natural inclination was to look immaculate-but-fashionable for business discussions, and the deal she’d made with Matt on the phone two weeks ago was definitely in that category, despite the chaos of that crazy call. Serious enough to warrant a flight from London to San Francisco to dot every i and cross every t.
Footsteps on floorboards. A fumble at the lock. Another “Fuck” that had her battling a giggle, because it was so typical of Matt to be impatient with a door that didn’t open fast enough. A click, a swoosh...and there he was.
Six feet three of lean, hard muscle looking rebelliously casual in just-snug-enough jeans and a just-tight-enough T-shirt; hold the footwear because he never wore shoes unless he had to. Good-looking in a boy-next-door-meets-fallen-angel way. Thick waves of red-blond hair, sharply alert green eyes, incongruously olive skin. Tick, tick, tick, tick and tick—Matthew Carter was a prime genetic specimen.
“Good evening, Mr. Carter,” Romy said, tamping down another giggle at the absurdity of assessing Matt’s attributes like he was breeding stock. “I’m here to discuss your sperm.”
Matt gave her a censorious tsk-tsk at odds with the twinkle in his eyes. “I hope you don’t say that to all the boys, Ms. Allen!”
“Only the ones with a really big—Matt!”—as he yanked her over the threshold and into a fierce hug.
“A really big what?” he asked, digging his chin into the top of her head. “Go on, I dare you to say it.”
“Cup, you pervert,” she said, dissolving into laughter even though her bottom lip was suddenly trembling from the emotional toll of being on the cusp of something momentous with him. “A really big cup!”
“Cup?” he scoffed. “More like a bucket! We’re talking serious size and don’t you forget it!” He released her, looking down at her with a grin that promptly faded. “Uh-oh, do not cry! You know you look like a troll when you cry!”
“Trying not to,” she said shakily. “It’s just...you’re just...you’re going to hate me for saying it again, but you really are my—Hey!” as he dragged her in for another hug.
“If you call me your fucking hero one more fucking time I’ll squeeze you hard enough to crack a fucking rib!”
“Okay, okay!” Watery chuckle. “Enough fucking!”
“There’s never enough fucking to suit me, you know that.” And as she chuckled again, “But I mean it, Romy. It’s one hybrid kid. Not like we’re spawning a dynasty of Targaryens to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Except I feel like I’m carrying the iron throne in my briefcase,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Weighs a ton.”
“Briefcase?” He half and half laugh/groaned. “Tonight is going to suck sooo badly.”
“A briefcase which you made me drop. Serve you right if it gouged a hole in your floorboards. And you’re squeezing me hard enough to crack two fucking ribs, by the way.”
He dug his chin into the crown of her head again. “Keep complaining and I’ll bench-press you!”
“You’ll give yourself a hernia.”
“I’ve been working out—I can take you.”
“You haven’t seen my backside lately! It’s expanded. Way bigger than anything you’re used to.”
“I’ll look at it if you want me to, but as an expert in all things posterior I usually start by copping a feel,” he said.
“Hmm, well, I’ve eaten enough to feed an army in the past two days and I’m fit to burst out of my clothes, so maybe just take my word for it. I wouldn’t want to shock you.”
“You always eat enough for an army, so don’t try using that as an excuse for your butt—or for not cooking the paella you promised me, if that’s where you’re heading.”
She choked up again, because paella was a pathetically inadequate thank-you for what he was doing. She searched for words to express her gratitude more eloquently, but she knew he wouldn’t let her say them—he never
