Expecting His Child. Tessa Radley
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“Fine,” she replied coolly. “Have a safe trip.” Yeah, she was pissed. Matt rubbed his forehead, smoothing out the frown lines.
“I will.”
He hung up, his good mood now laced with irritation. He glanced through his emails, forwarding a few, saving some, deleting the rest, before finally pushing away from the desk with a sigh.
This would not do. With a firm set to his jaw, he reached for his phone and dialed.
* * *
“Dinner again?” AJ glanced at the clock on the wall above the dining table—twelve-fifteen—then at a muted Dr. Phil on the massive TV screen. She stretched her legs, placing them carefully on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles, then leaned back into the couch. “You really don’t have to, you know.”
“Wear something for the water.”
“What, a bikini?”
“No.” She heard the amusement in his voice. “Something for an ocean breeze. I’ll send a car for you at five.”
She hung up and tossed her phone onto the couch cushion. Everything still pulsed from last night, a dull ache that had her staring at the ceiling with a goofy, self-satisfied grin.
He was wooing her. Why?
She rolled her neck, wincing as she felt the muscles pop and stretch. Because that’s what he did. Along with his passionate intensity, this attentive treatment was part of his charm. For all his faults, she had to admit being the sole focus of Matt’s attention when they were together was incredibly flattering, not to mention a massive ego boost.
Amazing he was still single, despite his breakneck work ethic.
She scrolled through her phone messages, answering Emily’s, deleting a couple of spam. “Maybe he likes being single,” she said aloud to the TV. Dr. Phil nodded sagely. “Maybe he’s just not interested in marriage.” No, that wasn’t right—what about Katrina? “Maybe she ruined it all for him.” Hmm. Yes, that sounded plausible. The woman looked as if she could give a guy ice burns in all sorts of awkward places.
“Or maybe...” She deleted a few more texts. “He’s just shut it all down.” Despite his declaration to the contrary, she’d seen his expression twist into a brief flash of grief and regret when he’d mentioned his brother. Her stomach clenched. Matthew Cooper with emotional baggage? That was a new one. He didn’t seem the type to regret anything; he simply plowed through life, single-minded in his focus. He was a man of science, of medicine. Of cold hard facts. The kind of driven, ambitious guy the movies and TV portrayed with eerie accuracy. Yet he was also a guy with hidden depths, who believed in something as ephemeral as fate.
Huh. So they did have one thing in common, besides the sex thing—past hurts equaled an avoidance of attachment.
She didn’t have a chance to think more on that because the very last text caught her attention.
Miss you. C U tonight?
Huh. Jesse had texted her at one-thirty last night. “Not a chance in hell,” she murmured as she typed in her reply.
No. I don’t date married guys.
She sent the text, then glanced back at the TV. Dr. Phil was talking to two teens and it was apparent they both had very different opinions about raising their child.
“Good ol’ Dr. Phil,” she said, swinging her legs to the carpet. “Where were you when my parental unit needed your sensible advice? Not that she would’ve taken it, mind you.”
Her phone pinged.
2morrow then?
Ass. She scowled at the Android smiley, but the little green face merely grinned back at her.
Only if Nirvana get back together.
Resisting the urge to hurl her phone to the table—not good, considering it was made of glass—she instead gently placed it on the edge and stood. Jesse James Danson. Oh, how he’d loved playing up his outlaw persona, charming her with his wit and boyish smile one afternoon at her stall. And she’d been sucked in all right, recklessly promising to hand deliver her painting to what turned out to be his single guy apartment in Mermaid Beach. Her delivery had turned into coffee, then a week or two of phone tag, then suggestive texts, then finally, a month later, he’d coaxed her into bed.
She grabbed her phone and turned off the ringer for good measure. She wouldn’t give that guy any more of her time. She had a date to get ready for.
* * *
The sleek white Commodore arrived dead on five, pulling up in front of the apartment as afternoon light bled into early evening. The uniformed driver got out and opened her door with a smile.
“How are you this evening, ma’am?”
“I’m good.” She smiled and slid into the soft bucket seat, her stomach somewhere in the region of her throat. Nerves again? After last night? How could that be? Yet the butterflies, the absent tapping of her toe, the familiar song under her breath all pointed to one thing.
She buckled up as the driver got in and met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “To the Quay, is it?”
“I think so. Sorry, what’s your name?”
“It’s Kim, ma’am.”
“Hi, Kim. I’m AJ. And please, no ‘ma’am.’”
He smiled and nodded as he pulled away from the curb and switched on the stereo.
AJ watched the traffic as they made their way along Parramatta Road, the University of Sydney on her right, the former Grace Bros. building, which now housed the shiny Broadway shopping center, on the left. The last time she’d been in Sydney, she’d been working in a Pitt Street Mall coffee shop and house sharing with two surfers, a German backpacker and a sex phone worker. Yet as memorable as that time was, the music coming through the car speakers overshadowed it. The songs curled softly into her brain and took her further back, to the times when she’d been crazy, full of youthful recklessness and eager for seduction by a wicked smile and a pair of serious brown eyes.
When the third song came on she sucked in a breath and leaned forward. “Is this your CD?”
“No. Mister Cooper supplied it.”
“Oh.”
“You want me to turn it off?”
“No, it’s fine.” She tried to focus on the peak-hour traffic outside but it was no good. “I don’t believe it,” she muttered as “Sway” by Bic Runga finished and Collective Soul’s “Run” began. It was the same playlist her boss at Arabelle’s had piped through their system that summer ten years ago, playing it over and over until her coworker Maz had laughingly threatened to strike unless he played something— anything!—else. AJ ticked off the songs, drowning in the past as the car cruised down George Street: “How Will I Know” by Jessica Sanchez, “With or Without You” by U2, “Put Your Arms Around Me” by Texas and, yes, even Cliff Richard’s “Miss You Nights.”
Her sudden grin was reflected back at her in the car window. Her boss had been a huge Cliff Richard fan. And Matt had remembered.
He couldn’t have known that that CD had become her soundtrack of misery, every single song either speaking of lost love, unfulfilled desires or new passion—“Heart & Shoulder” by Heather Nova, “Here We Are” by Gloria Estefan, “Always the Last To Know” by Del Amitri.
She smoothed back her hair and put those thoughts from her mind. Instead, she tried to focus on how much she’d enjoyed working those twelve months at Arabelle’s, the casual camaraderie the staff had shared, the fun they’d had spending all their days off at the beach, then partying all night.
Melancholy