My Stubborn Heart (15 page)

“Is that the best a person can shoot for in a long relationship?”

“It's one of the best things. Of course, there's also a small thing called undying love.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes.” She had to smile. “That.”

Tyler's gaze caught on something behind Kate. “Here's our food,” he said, watching their waitress approach with appetizers balanced on a round tray. The college-aged girl slid their plates in front of them with effortless efficiency.

“You do that so well,” Tyler said to her. “You go to school to learn that?” He grinned at the girl, and she responded with a smile.

“Believe it or not,” she replied, “it just comes naturally.”

“Thank you so much,” he said.

“You're very welcome. Can I get you anything else at the moment?”

“Kate?” Tyler asked.

“No, I'm good. Thanks.”

“We're doing just fine,” he said to her.

The waitress eyed Tyler appreciatively before heading back toward the kitchen.

So far tonight Tyler had used the same combination of flattery and banter that he used on Kate with: Gran, the pair of women friends he'd held the door for as they'd entered the restaurant, the hostess, and their waitress. All the women—no matter their age or situation—had responded predictably, blossoming to him like a flower to a bee.

Tyler, Master Of The First Date. Since the moment he'd arrived tonight to pick her up, Kate hadn't experienced so much as an instant of awkwardness. He hadn't tried to lunge for her door handle at the same time that she was reaching for it. He hadn't attempted to order anything for her. He hadn't left her languishing in uncomfortable silence. Even the restaurant he'd chosen—perfect first-date fodder. Just the right mixture of posh and cozy.

He was impossibly smooth. Maybe the smoothest guy she'd ever gone out with. Which begged the question: Why wasn't she falling for him?

“So what about us?” he asked. He paused over his Caesar salad, and she paused over her French onion soup.

“Us?”

“Yeah. If you had to give us an evaluation, what would you say?”

“Well, we're smiling and we're talking. Two pluses.”

“And let the record show that I'm letting you handle your half of the conversation.”

“Duly noted.”

“So?”

“So I guess I'd say that anything's possible.”

He gazed directly at her, holding her attention. “I like you, Kate.”

Unsure how to reply, she turned her attention to scooping up a spoonful of soup, soft bread, and melted cheese.

“If I promise not to expect anything from you except your company, will you go out with me again?”

Ooh, he was
so
good. He'd phrased that in such a way that it would be pressure-free to accept him and witchy to decline him.

Kate glanced up at his ideal face, surrounded by the ideal surroundings of the restaurant, and wondered why in the world he wanted to date her when he could date any available woman in the county. “Sure,” she said. “Sounds like fun.”

On poker night, Velma showed up early to begin the women-do-all-the-work-while-the-men-sit-and-watch pre-dinner thing.

Kate was alone in the kitchen snacking on Fritos when Velma arrived, bringing with her the smell of chicken spaghetti casserole. Kate quickly moved to help Velma get her two foil-covered nine-by-thirteens into the oven.

That done, Velma unzipped her jacket, revealing yet another shirt punctured with metal studs. The denim fabric had a slightly lopsided longhorn head pounded across the back and what was maybe a cowboy boot pounded through the upper right chest. Black acid-wash jeans fit snug and high around Velma's belly pooch before tapering close to the ankle and disappearing into her fringed boots.

“So,” Kate said, wondering if she'd missed the memo declaring tonight rodeo night, “Morty looked great in the Tommy Bahama shirt.”

“He did.”

“Are you ready to go on a date with him?”

Velma reached into the Fritos bag and helped herself to a few.

“How about I let Morty know that you're willing,” Kate said coaxingly. “Then he can call you and set something up.”

“There's one final thing that really bothers me about that man.”

Kate didn't show the slightest outward reaction, though inwardly her patience pulled thin. “Which is?”

“His car.”

His car?
“He drives what? An Oldsmobile?”

“Yes, and I hate that old-man car.”

Kate gawked at her, incredulous.

“I'd understand, of course, if that were all he had. But Morty has a 1957 Cadillac convertible. Gorgeous. Black with silver trim. He bought it in the early sixties and he's had it ever since. How long ago would that be now?”

“Forty-five years? Fifty?”

“He's had a Cadillac convertible for
fifty years
and he never drives it!”

“Where is the car?”

“He keeps it in a special storage garage. He washes it and waxes it and makes sure it's running perfectly, but he never backs the thing out. Imagine!” Her penciled eyebrows drew downward with irritation.

“All right. I'll talk to him about it.”

“You can tell him that Velma Armstrong is only going out on a date with him if he picks me up in the Cadillac. He shouldn't bother even
attempting
to pick me up in that shoddy Oldsmobile. Won't go well for him.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Good.”

Was it really possible that Velma—
Velma?
—could be this choosy? Were there so many eligible men beating down her door?

Kate tried to imagine herself requiring every prospective guy she met to undergo a hair, clothing, and car makeover before she'd date them. She'd never go out again! So how was it that this crotchety seventy-something managed it?

“I know exactly what you're thinking, Kate.” Velma pushed her glasses to the top of her nose, then zeroed in on Kate with squinted eyes. “Now, listen to me and listen well. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Women who've made peace with living alone,” she started, counting off one finger, “and women with healthy self-confidence . . .” She counted off a second finger, then cocked her head at Kate. “Are you getting this?”

Kate nodded. “Women who've made peace with living alone and women who have a healthy self-confidence . . .”

“Can always,
but always
, afford to be picky.”

To win at poker one needed to be both good and lucky. Kate had been good tonight, but she hadn't been lucky. Matt had beaten her with a flush for a big pot. Later, William had beaten her with pocket aces. She'd had to work hard to build her short stack of chips into a respectable pile. And now, finally, she had a straight. She was about to put the hurt on Morty, William, and Matt.

“The girls,” all of whom had already been put out of the game, were chatting happily together on the window seat while the serious players battled it out.

It was Morty's turn, but he appeared to be frozen in vengeful contemplation of his iced-tea glass.

“Morty?” Kate said gently.

He startled, then absently threw in a couple of chips.

Kate frowned. For some reason, Velma's stipulation that Morty liberate his Cadillac from storage, a demand that had seemed to Kate to be the easiest demand of the bunch, had thrown Morty into a tailspin. When she'd pulled him aside earlier and told him, he'd immediately gone into fight mode, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunching up defensively. He'd spent the evening since vacillating between brooding silences and hateful stares at Velma.

It made for an awkward atmosphere not helped, of course, by Matt and the current state of her friendship with him.

Kate checked her cards again, then feigned indecision over whether or not to fold. Finally, seemingly grudgingly, she threw in some chips.

Since their fight, Matt had changed his ways. He was no longer rude and distant toward her. Now he was polite and distant instead. She talked with him, and he talked back.

He was circumspect. Careful. Respectful.

She'd decided that maybe she'd preferred his rudeness. It had seemed more . . . real. Now, no matter how hard she tried to put herself in his line of vision, he never quite met her eyes. When they'd finish a conversation, she'd be left troubled, staring at him and trying to figure out what on earth was going on inside his head. Which was of no use. She hadn't a clue. And the shield he kept firmly between them certainly wasn't going to let her find out.

Kate told herself to be satisfied. He was giving them as much of himself as he could.

So why did her chest ache every time she looked at him?

She glanced across the table and caught him staring at her. He instantly averted his gaze.

Strange. Kate tilted her head, studying him.

The hand he'd rested on top of his cards tightened into a fist until she could see the veins standing out.

William played. Matt played. Still, she watched him, stubbornly waiting, trying to understand—

His lids flicked up and he looked right at her, his eyes burning with emotion.

An electric current snapped between them, raising the hair on Kate's arms and causing her heart to jolt. She broke the connection by looking quickly down, flustered. What had just happened? What had she just seen?

She knew exactly what she'd seen. Attraction. But as she went on to put Morty out of the game and win the hand, as they divvied up the winnings and said their good-byes, Matt treated her exactly the way he'd treated her all week. With detached politeness.

Kate began to doubt what she'd seen, to question what had passed between them in those few heated seconds. I mean, seriously. What was she expecting? That Matt was developing the hots for her?

Pigs would sooner fly.

The following morning introduced itself as the most flawless early November Saturday morning in the history of Pennsylvania. Seventy-two degrees, sunny, with just a whisper of breeze. So gorgeous that Kate decided to bypass the yoga studio in favor of a power walk through the neighborhood. She'd been at it about twenty minutes and was following one of the rolling streets, just cresting a hill, when she saw him.

Matt, jogging toward her with an iPod strapped to his bicep. He had on long navy basketball shorts and running shoes, but had taken off his shirt somewhere along the way and was running with it balled in his hand. His lean, hard, muscular chest glimmered with sweat.

She nearly had a heart attack, right there on the side of the road. Her feet stumbled, stopped dumbly. She had to force herself to resume walking out of abject fear that he'd look up and catch her ogling him.

When Matt finally did glance up and spot her, he jerked to a complete halt. For a moment, it looked to Kate like he might turn around and run in the opposite direction. But no, he just stood there, his chest pumping in and out, waiting and watching her as she drew closer. Her own iPod, which she'd clipped to the V-neck of her workout top, chose that moment to launch into ABBA's “Take a Chance on Me.”

She almost never saw Matt on Saturdays and Sundays. It jolted her to run into him on the weekend, outside the boundary of Chapel Bluff,
and
—heaven help her—shirtless.

She stopped in front of him. He pulled out his ear buds and she pulled out hers. ABBA cut away, leaving them surrounded by nothing but the murmuring of trees and drops of sunlight.

“Hi,” Kate said. It was incredibly hard not to gape at his chest. To attempt to keep her attention on his face.

“Hi.”

“Looks like we had the same idea.”

“Yeah.” He was still breathing hard. His brown hair was completely drenched.

“Except you look like you're working way harder than me. What have you run? Twenty, twenty-five miles this morning?”

His lips twitched slightly. “Only four.”

“I'll be stunned if I've made it a half mile yet.”

He was doing that thing where he didn't look exactly into her eyes. But he wasn't looking past her this time, either. His attention slid down her throat and along her shoulder.

“What's that?” He nodded toward her hand.

“Oh.” She lifted it to show him. “My inhaler. I have asthma, so I keep it close by when I exercise, just in case.” She shifted in her running shoes, groped mentally for something to say. All that glistening skin! “So what are you listening to?”

“Oh. Ah . . .” He twisted his arm, glanced distractedly at his iPod. “I think ‘Wanted Dead or Alive' was on when you walked up. You?”

“ABBA. I went to see a traveling production of
Mamma Mia
when it came through Dallas, then went right out and bought the soundtrack.”

TMI, Kate! Quit babbling. TMI!

A car drove along the street and they both watched it pass, grateful for the diversion. Okay, so that heavy look he'd given her last night hadn't been a complete delusion. There
was
something new between them. An awareness. A tension. It was probably mostly on her side, affecting her emotions. But there had been a shift. She could feel it acutely.

“Is your house near here?” she asked.

“Yeah. It's back down this way and then to the left.” He turned to gesture, describing where he lived. With his attention elsewhere, Kate snuck a furtive peek at his nearby shoulder, arm, chest. There were a few faint, pale scars on his upper body. No doubt from the hockey.

They only made him hotter.

She peeled her attention away in the nick of time, nodding at him when he finished as if she'd been listening the whole time.

She gave him a chance to invite her to his house for a breather, a glass of water, a make-out session. But he offered none of the above.

“Well, I don't want to keep you,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of your jog.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“I'm glad I ran into you.” It was true. Seeing him shirtless and sweaty was like a shot in the arm. She now felt like she had the hormone power to walk for miles.

She smiled at him and his focus caught on her mouth for a second.

“See you Monday,” she said.

“Okay.” And with that he nodded to her then ran past, launching into the upward slope of the hill with impressive speed.

She pivoted slowly to watch him.

If you change your mind, I'm the first in line . . .

It was only after he'd disappeared from sight that she realized the refrain from “Take a Chance on Me” had sprung from her own heart. Her ear buds were still dangling from her fingers.

She had to remind herself for the one thousandth time that he was only ever going to be her friend. She couldn't let herself go all mushy over him. She just absolutely couldn't afford it. It would be fruitless pain heaped onto a heart already vulnerable and battered from bad ex-boyfriends. The next time she fell in love it was going to be with a good, Christian, ordinary-looking guy. It was not, not, not going to be with Matt Jarreau.