7 Days and 7 Nights (15 page)

16

Dawg Rollins pushed open the door of the Magnolia Diner and stepped inside. At 5:00 P.M., the place bulged with early birds wolfing down enough fried food to clog the arteries of every man, woman, and child in Georgia. Standing in the entrance, he breathed in the familiar smells of down-home cooking and scanned the restaurant for JoBeth.

“Hey, Dawg.” Noreen Pitts, who'd been waitressing longer than he'd been alive, tucked a pencil behind her ear and a stray gray curl back into its bun. “Counter or booth?”

“Put me back in JoBeth's section, Noreen.”

“I don't know, Dawg. Ina made chocolate meringue pie for dessert tonight. That's almost impossible to get out of your clothes.”

“I'm willing to risk it. Just give me that booth in the corner there, okay?”

He moved forward with determination, dragging the small gray-haired woman along in his wake until they reached the booth he'd requested. When she didn't move, he lifted a menu out of her hands, sat down on the seat, and slid his rear end across the red vinyl bench.

“Thanks, Noreen. I appreciate it.”

“I hope you feel that way when JoBeth gets finished with you.” She shook her head. “I don't know what's gotten into that girl, but she sure has taken to speaking her mind.”

“Hasn't she though?”

JoBeth had never been what you'd call a shrinking violet, but she'd never been the kind of woman to throw a pie in a man's face, either. Even when her parents' illnesses and demands had dragged down on her, she'd been upbeat, always trying to look on the bright side of things.

He took a minute to read over the menu, though he'd eaten at the Magnolia a thousand times. When he looked up, JoBeth stood in front of his table with her order pad out and her professional smile in place. Her normally warm gray eyes looked a bit on the frosty side.

“What can I get for you?”

“All I really want is some conversation, JoBeth.”

“You can't tie up a table talking.” She nodded over her shoulder toward the entrance, where several customers milled around. “People are lined up waiting to get seated.”

“I just wanted to tell you about the thing with Emmylou. You see I was only trying to—”

“It's no concern of mine who you spend your time with or why. Order or give up the table, Dawg.”

“All right, then. I'll start with a glass of sweet tea.”

“And?” Her pencil still poised above her pad, JoBeth waited expectantly.

“You told me I had to order, so I ordered. Is there a minimum?” He sent her an innocent look.

She tucked the pencil back behind her ear and reached for his menu, but he refused to give it up.

“I think I'll hold on to this. I'm going to be here awhile and I may want to order something else.”

“Fine.” She turned and strode the few steps to the nearest station, grabbed up a pitcher, and returned to pour him the tea.

Dawg watched her pour the amber-colored liquid. “You know, now that I think of it, maybe I will have a little something to eat. What do you have on special today?”

JoBeth's lips pressed together in an impossibly thin line, and Dawg wondered how she'd squeeze the words out from between them. “We have fried chicken, country fried steak, and liver and onions. They all come with mashed potatoes and gravy plus your choice of two vegetables.”

JoBeth slipped her pencil back out from behind her ear and held it poised above her pad. “What'll it be?”

“I guess I'll have a small house salad to start. Oh, and some corn bread. I may order a meal a little later.”

“Fine.” JoBeth turned on her heel and left. He watched her work her tables, taking full advantage of the chance to observe her in action. She was small and compact with lots of interesting curves that he'd spent long hours exploring. He watched her flash her sassy smile at the elderly McCauleys and heard her laughter float back across the diner as she took someone else's order. She had so much life and enthusiasm—but evidently no desire to share either with him at the moment.

Dawg took a long sip of his tea and reflected that his whole life had turned damned empty since she'd moved out. There wasn't a thing he could think of that felt the same.

JoBeth placed his salad in front of him and slid the basket of corn bread onto the middle of the table. A bowl of butter pats clattered next to it. In a minute she'd be gone.

“Nicky and the other boys all asked me to say hello to you,” he got out in a rush.

“Oh.” She'd already turned to leave, but stopped at the mention of the inner-city baseball team he coached. “Did you have practice?”

“Yeah. We had the batting cage for an hour and then we played a practice game against Ron Parker's team yesterday afternoon.”

“How'd that turn out?”

“They creamed us. Stomped us into the dirt.”

JoBeth smiled. The fact that she so obviously didn't want to made it that much sweeter. “Did Jamal get a hit?”

“Almost. I just can't convince the kid to swing unless the pitch is exactly where he wants it.”

She smiled again and her eyes warmed by several degrees. “Bet he's sorry his coach played for the Falcons instead of the Braves. Did you take that knee pad I bought you so you could get down into his strike zone?”

Dawg congratulated himself on finding the one topic guaranteed to snag JoBeth's interest. As unofficial team mom and number one fan, JoBeth had rarely missed a Fuller Park Tornadoes game.

“The boy has about a one-foot strike zone. He's like you, JoBeth, small and scrappy. I like that in a woman.”

“Hmmph. You didn't seem to have a problem with big and blonde the other night.” The thawing process screeched to a halt and JoBeth whirled to leave.

Dawg's knees might have been shot, but there was nothing wrong with his reflexes. His hand snaked out to wrap around her wrist and twirl her back to face him. “You know I was only trying to make you jealous.”

She cocked her head and waited for him to continue.

“Of course, I know you didn't fall for it. You did leave both of us alive.”

JoBeth tapped a foot in a sign of impatience, but he knew he had her full attention.

“Aw hell, JoBeth. I'm not interested in Emmylou or anyone else. You do know that, don't you?”

“Hmmph,” was all she said, but he could tell she was pleased. She snatched her hand away and headed for a nearby table, but her movements were noticeably looser and her shoulders didn't seem so stiff.

He reached for a warm piece of corn bread, broke it open, and drenched it with butter. As he munched on his salad, he propped the menu in front of him and began to study the possibilities. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten much today. If he was going to hold on to his table until closing time, he had a hell of a lot of food ahead of him.

Matt moved around the kitchen preparing for the birthday feast while Olivia lounged on the sofa. She'd grumped around for a good hour or so after her show, but finally joined him for a triple-header of
All My
Children
,
One Life to Live
, and
General Hospital,
thereby giving ABC a nonrecorded ratings boost of significant proportions.

“I like Oprah.”

“Hmm?” Matt looked up from the duck breast medallions he was preparing, to find Olivia contemplating him from the couch.

“I used to make fun of daytime television. I never really had the time for it, and most of the talk show hosts are really just there to entertain, you know?”

“Which bothers you.”

She ignored his dig and continued rhapsodizing. “But she has heart. You can tell she really wants to help people and change their lives for the better.”

“Like you.”

She looked surprised at the compliment, as if he could have been observing her all this time and not been aware that she was genuinely motivated to help.

“Well . . . yes.”

“I'm sure there're openings in Oprah's fan club. Maybe you should consider joining.”

“Be serious.”

“No, I won't. You're serious enough for the both of us. Besides, it's your birthday. You're required to have fun.”

Matt pulled the white asparagus out of the refrigerator and began rinsing them. “If you could do anything you chose today, what would it be?”

He saw her gaze stray to the front door.

“Other than leave.”

“Well, that certainly narrows the possibilities.”

He leered at her, and waggled his eyebrows for good measure. “There are lots of things we could do here.”

“Right. And how many of them don't involve taking our clothes off?”

“Oh. Well. If you're going to be picky.”

Olivia speared him with a look and then turned her attention back to Oprah. Watching her, Matt was pleased to see evidence of the success of his relaxation campaign. Where before she would have been sitting upright, her back barely touching the back of the sofa, she now lounged on the couch with the remote in her hand. Though she didn't yet use it enough to satisfy him, she no longer treated it like a foreign object. And that wasn't the only change he'd initiated.

He'd influenced her dress code, too. At the beginning of the week, she'd been painfully starched and perfectly turned out. Today, her blonde hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and the feet that poked out under the faded jeans were bare—except for the shocking-pink toenails. Her T-shirt proclaimed, “Liv Lives Live on WTLK,” and fit tight enough to outline her shapely breasts very nicely.

Matt ran his eyes along the luscious curves, remembering the heft and feel of them in his hands, until his body began to react to the images.

He worked in silence for a while, intrigued by Oprah's interview with a father who stayed home with quadruplets while his wife went out to work—a premise that zapped his erection in a matter of seconds. As he listened, he caught himself wondering whether quadruplets shared the same kind of bond that twins did, or if it somehow lessened when divided among a greater number of siblings.

His own connection with his twin, Adam, had been so strong that the severing of it had crippled him for years. Even now the hollow spot deep at his center remained, and he expended considerable energy protecting the vulnerable core.

Only Olivia refused to leave his memories and guilt undisturbed, and the more she prodded and pushed, the greater the possibility that she'd discover the emptiness yawning inside him—something he'd never allowed another soul to see.

He was beginning to question whether he could tempt Olivia, put her off kilter, and take advantage of her confusion, without damaging himself. This softening he felt toward her worried him, and so did his audience's potential reaction; Olivia's wasn't the only image the consultant would put under a microscope.

Matt peeled potatoes and put them on to boil. A few minutes later, Olivia clicked off the television and wandered into the kitchen, ambling toward him at a leisurely pace he'd never seen her use before.

Matt smiled to himself. Given a few more days, he'd have her sleeping until noon and wandering around the apartment in her jammies—preferably the sheep ones that covered everything and drove him right toward the edge of sanity.

She took a seat on a barstool directly across from him. Without asking, he opened a bottle of the Veuve Cliquot he'd had delivered and poured them each a glass.

“Happy birthday, Olivia. I hope the next thirty are even better than the first.”

She snorted inelegantly, but lifted her glass of champagne to clink against his. “To my advanced age. May it make me wiser in all things.” She looked him in the eye. “May I learn from my mistakes . . . and know better than to repeat them.”

“I think I'll just stick to ‘Happy birthday.' ” Matt raised the glass to his lips and took a long sip. Olivia did the same. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

Her glass halted midway to her lips. “I'm considering something really different—like hanging around and killing time.”

“Why not take a nap? You're going to need your strength to consume the meal I'm putting together.”

“A nap?”

“Um-hmm. With a nice long soak in the tub afterward.”

“Matt, I told you I—”

“You can have the bath all to yourself. You can even leave your clothes on if you insist.” He smiled. “Of course, it's a lot more relaxing and you get a whole lot cleaner naked.”

She laughed then, her eyes taking on the richness of cut green velvet. His laugh joined hers as his mind formed a picture of Olivia squishing out of the bath, with bubbles dripping from her clothes. Then there was an awkward silence while he pictured her stepping out of that same tub completely naked with tiny droplets of water clinging to her. . . .

“Matt? Are you okay?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Sure.” He cleared his throat and lifted the champagne to top off their glasses. “I was just thinking about some things I need to go over with Ben. I want to prep for my show before we sit down for dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Why don't you go ahead and take an hour's snooze, Livvy? I'll have your bath drawn and waiting for you at six-thirty so you can be nice and relaxed for your birthday dinner.”

She stood and rested one hand on the back of the barstool. “You're going to
draw
my bath?”

“But of course,
ma chérie,
” he replied in his best French accent, which degenerated into a campier version of Inspector Clouseau. “It wheel be my great pleasure.”

Continuing the imitation, he put his palm under Olivia's to cup her hand so that he could drop a kiss on the outside of her wrist.

“Until six-thirty,
ma petite
. At which time I will be chomping on zee bit.”

17

Olivia knew deep shit when she soaked in it. It might be disguised as hot water frothing with perfume-scented bubbles, but it smelled like trouble all the same. Incredibly, she'd slept for more than the allotted hour and would probably be sleeping now if not for Matt.

He'd banged on her bedroom door until she finally forced herself out of bed to open it, and then with a finesse that spoke of too much experience, he'd led her to the bathroom and presented her with the promised bubble bath.

So here she sat, her hair piled on top of her head, soaking her naked self, nibbling on fresh strawberries and sipping a fresh glass of champagne. She'd never felt more pampered or more suspicious in her life.

Olivia swirled a hand through the water, idly watching the bubbles slide across her skin. They parted and reunited around her, while the warm water caressed her to the bone. She knew Matt was up to something, something undoubtedly fueled by her food donation and votes jump after this morning's show, but it was hard to keep up one's guard when one felt as wonderfully lethargic as she did right now.

The juice of an especially plump strawberry trickled down the corner of her mouth, and Olivia licked it off with her tongue, enjoying the sweet stickiness.

She trailed the washcloth lightly over her body, down one leg and up her belly to pass across a hardening nipple as she imagined sharing the steamy tub with Matt. Weightless, she floated in the warmth, her body tingling. Slowly, she drew the cloth over her breasts and felt an accompanying ache begin to build deep within her belly.

Closing her eyes, she sank deeper under the water, drew her knees up, and skimmed the washcloth slowly up between her thighs. The water-weighted cloth pressed against her, and she gave herself up to the sensation, imagining Matt in the tub with her. . . .

A light rap sounded at the door.

“Livvy, how are you coming?”

Olivia dropped the washcloth and sat up in the tub. “I'm good.”

She imagined her audience's reaction if she were to open the bathroom door, reach an arm out, and drag Matt inside so that she could have her way with him.

“Do you want some more champagne? I could top your glass off if you'd like.”

She wanted to yell, “Fill her up,” and knew she wouldn't be referring to her glass. Lying here naked with Matt a mere doorknob-turn away was doing funny things to her insides. And her brain. This was not good. “Um, no thanks. I'll be out soon.”

With water cascading down her body, she stood and wrapped herself in a towel.

“I'm completely shriveled,” she hollered.

When he didn't respond, Olivia released the drain lever with one toe and stepped out of the tub. Opening the bathroom door, she peeked out to make sure the coast was clear, and finding the hallway empty, she tip-toed the few steps to her room.

She dressed quickly but with care—repinning her hair into a smoother French twist and applying both eyeliner and mascara along with a swipe of blush high on both cheekbones. Then she painted her lips poppy pink and stepped into a fitted black halter dress.

In the middle of reaching into her underwear drawer, her gaze swung to the nightstand, and before she could really think it out, she was pulling out the Victoria's Secret bag so that she could shimmy into the black satin thong.
Uh-oh.

Dropping the hem of the dress back into place, she stopped to study her reflection in the mirror. Outwardly, nothing seemed different. On the outside, she looked like the calm and collected Dr. Olivia Moore; but inside, under the black satin thong, she felt sexy and wanton and someone else entirely—a dangerous dichotomy unlikely to work to her advantage.

Olivia frowned at her thirty-year-old reflection. Subdued and decorous would see her through the evening far more safely than wild and uninhibited, and if she knew what was good for her, Matt would never suspect what she wore beneath the folds of her dress.

At his first glimpse of her, Matt's eyes lit up, and he gave an appreciative whistle. “Wow. There must have been something pretty potent in those bath bubbles.”

Olivia blushed as she remembered just how potent those bubbles had been. “It felt great, Matt. I never would have thought of it on my own.”

He looked surprised by the admission, but then smiled, obviously pleased. “Here, have some more champagne while I go shower and change. I seem to smell a little more like dinner than I intended.” He sent her a cheeky glance and an exaggerated wink. “Wouldn't want you to get confused about what to chomp down on first.”

She smiled back and tried not to enjoy the way he was looking at her.
Subdued and decorous
, she repeated to herself as the soft fabric of her dress swished against the bare flesh of her behind. Her lips twitched up at the thought. “Go. Is there something I can stir or turn while you're gone?”

“Nope. But you can put some music on if you'd like. I'll be back in a flash.”

“Good. I'm starving. And I'm not sure how long I can control myself.”
Wasn't that the truth
?

“Fair enough. If I'm not back before the timer goes off, the hors d'oeuvres are all yours.”

Olivia sipped champagne and wandered around the room. With a small wave to the Webcam, she knelt down next to the CD player and rifled through the CDs Matt had brought with him, surprised to discover how closely his taste mirrored hers.

The black balloon bouquets and “Over the Hill” sign still drew her gaze, but with a little effort she managed to focus on the flower arrangements instead. Matt had moved one of them to the center of the kitchen table, which he'd set for two.

She spent the rest of her time pacing and trying not to picture Matt naked in the next room, rubbing soap all over his hard-muscled body. Or showering it off under the pulsing stream of hot water. Or skimming the towel over every inch of his awesome body.
Oops
.

Olivia stopped in front of the small mirror on the foyer wall and glared at her reflection. “Okay, you. Repeat after me,” she commanded. “Do not touch the chef under any circumstances. Do not get any closer to him than absolutely necessary. And whatever you do, don't drink too much.”

Olivia picked up her wineglass and took another long, soothing sip. Her nerves vibrated just under her skin, and the only thing that seemed to interrupt the hum was the ingestion of wine—a very temporary fix that required constant repetition and put a great big hole in her plan to keep her distance.

So far she'd maintained the maximum clearance possible given the shortage of space, but she'd caught the amused look on Matt's face enough times now to suspect he knew just how hard she was working to keep it that way. Worse, it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember just why maintaining that distance was so important.

Somewhere along the way, they'd finished the second bottle of champagne and started on the burgundy Matt had insisted would complement the upcoming meal. Smoothing the hem of her dress over her knees, she sat up straighter on her barstool and made a stab at conversation. “Is this spanakopita?”

Matt picked up one of the triangles of puffed pastry and popped it into his mouth. “Umm-hmm. The Greek deli near the station sent them over as a birthday treat for you. Actually, a lot of our advertisers are wanting in on your thirtieth birthday.”

“I can't tell you what aging before a national audience does for a woman's ego.”

“Just think of yourself as a fine wine, Olivia. You're becoming richer, more full-bodied.”

Funny, how his voice could go all hot and sexy without any warning like that. Olivia lifted her wineglass, drained it in one long swallow, and felt the resulting warmth seep through her.

“And?” she demanded.

“And what?”

She tried to figure out why he was being so charming, but her brain didn't seem to be up to the task. The warmth infused her and began to seep outward to her limbs.

“No cracks? No jokes about my age? Just ‘You're like a fine wine'?”

“Me? Make jokes about your age?” He smiled. “I happen to think the wine analogy fits. You were cute at twenty-one, Olivia, but you wear thirty very well.” His gaze swept over her, and her flesh reacted as if it were his fingers that trailed across it.

Looking for a distraction, Olivia picked up the bottle of wine sitting on the counter and poured herself another glass.

Spellbound, she watched his large, capable hands arrange the duck breast medallions on the plate. His fingers were long and supple, and for a moment she allowed herself to remember the feel of them skimming over her skin, urging her on to places she'd never been before or since. She took a gulp of wine and watched him place whipped garlic potatoes and blanched white asparagus next to the duck.

“Wow,” she said. “I feel like I'm in a five-star restaurant.”

“Only zee best for zee birthday girl.” He winked and nodded her toward the table. “If you'll bring the wine and our glasses, we can get started.”

Olivia picked up the half-empty bottle in one hand and her own mysteriously empty glass in the other. She felt warm and wonderful and increasingly comfortable with the glow that enveloped her. Being thirty felt considerably less traumatic than it had that morning.

She unfolded the napkin, laid it in her lap, and scooted her chair in closer to the table. When she looked up, her wineglass was once again full, and Matt was passing a basket of rolls in her direction.

“
Bon appétit
.” His dark eyes were warm. Very warm.

Since her mouth was dry, Olivia took a small sip of wine to facilitate swallowing, and when he continued to study her, she took another.

“
Bon appétit
to you, too,” she managed.

Dragging her gaze from his, Olivia turned her attention to her plate. Her knife sliced easily through the duck's butter-soft breast, and she lifted the first forkful to her mouth while Matt watched. The exquisite mingling of port wine sauce and smoky duck flooded over her tongue to tease her taste buds, and she forgot all about Matt for a moment while she lost herself in the sensation.

“Mmmm.” Eyes closed, Olivia savored the perfectly blended flavors, enjoying the taste that lingered in her mouth even after she swallowed. “God, that's good.”

She opened her eyes to see him light up at the compliment, and she couldn't help noticing how the candlelight added depth and shadow to the already arresting planes and angles of his face.

“Glad you like it. I've always been partial to duck, though it can be a bit tricky.”

“Well, you've certainly mastered this one.” She took another sip of wine and continued to meet his gaze full-on. His eyes were like two tumblers of whiskey, amber brown and ready to drown in. She felt a delicious tightening deep in her belly that had nothing to do with digestion, and she felt her hazy glow expand in size to encompass them both.

They ate in silence for a few moments, but the silence was mostly companionable, if you didn't count the depth charges going off in her stomach.

Matt lifted his wineglass and took a drink. His didn't seem to be going empty anywhere near as often as hers was, and she wondered idly if his glow was keeping pace with hers.

“So what happened with you and Joe?” he asked.

“James.”

“What?”

“His name was, I mean his name is, James.” She eyed her wineglass and the untouched tumbler of ice water sitting next to it, torn.

“Okay, so what happened with James?”

Olivia reached for the wine. “I've been living with you for five days now, Matt; I know you read the newspapers. Surely you know the whole sordid tale.”

“I tend to read news, not gossip columns. Why don't you tell me what happened?”

She took a sip of wine and finished the last of her potato before dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “It wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Just your usual unwelcome brush with infidelity.”

She watched him watch her and was surprised to find no smirk on his face or laughter in his eyes.

“So everything was great and then, boom, out of the blue he's sleeping with someone else?”

Funny that no one had ever asked her that question before. Even she had avoided looking too closely at what had come before the unavoidable knowledge of the affair. Good old dependable unexciting James, chosen because he seemed the direct antithesis of both her father and Matt, had turned out to be so not what she had expected.

“No, I just wasn't paying attention.” Because she'd been so busy burying herself in work and trying not to admit that supposedly safe and solid added up to dull and boring. “I'm a therapist. I help other people find answers, but I seem stupendously unable to do the same for myself.”

She took another swig of wine and told herself that the warmth in Matt's eyes was also wine induced. Still, she felt something stir between them. “It would appear I'm somehow not enough for the men in my life.”

“Ah, Livvy. You're more than enough for any man. You've just had the misfortune to attract selfish oafs who can't leave you alone even when they know they should.”

“Hmmph.” A lethargy invaded her limbs and she couldn't seem to tear her gaze from his face. It was a fine face, good and true and strong. And at the moment it was completely focused on her. “My mother hasn't been enough for my father for almost thirty years now, which makes me think it might be hereditary.”

She blinked and looked at her wineglass, aghast at the truths slipping out of her mouth, and unable to comprehend how her glass could be empty again. She reached for the bottle, intent on maintaining the warm, hazy glow that had wrapped so snugly around them, but Matt put a hand on top of hers.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, Olivia, but maybe you should take it a little easier on the wine.”

She tingled at his touch. “You think I've had too much to drink?”