Ann Evans - That Man Matthews

Anxious not to lose the momentum of such life-altering actions, she took a fellow teacher’s advice and sent an application and letters of recommendation to a small private school in Oregon. It seemed a daring change, so much so that Joan couldn’t sleep for two nights after she’d mailed the letter.

By the weekend she was feeling disheartened. Every summer she had worked a temporary job. It helped financially and kept her busy during the months until school started again. Since moving out of Todd’s place had been expensive, extra money in the bank would be especially helpful if she had to relocate. But the classifieds in Friday’s paper indicated pitifully few summer jobs available, and by Saturday afternoon, a dozen job applications had yielded nothing promising.

Her job search over for the day, Joan went up the stairs of her apartment building slowly, her feet aching, her hair beginning to tumble down her neck. She retrieved her mail from the box, sighing over a couple of bills. If she couldn’t find temporary employment, how long before her mailbox was stuffed with demands printed in increasingly irate colors? How long before even her tiny efficiency became unaffordable? Her head filled with gloomy thoughts, she fumbled to insert the key into her front door.

The lock was stubborn, as usual, the notches bent out of alignment by some previous tenant. She wiggled and shook the key, but the lock held tight. Shoving strands of hair out of her eyes, she tried to remove the key, but it refused to budge.

Today’s failure coupled with this new irritation curdled Joan’s frustration into anger. She glared at her key ring, dangling impotently from the lock. Nothing seemed to be going right lately. Not even a dime-store lock would cooperate.

Rattling the knob, she gave the door a hard kick that only succeeded in squashing the toe of her high-heeled shoe. “Open up, damn you. What do you think you’re guarding? Fort Knox?”

The words bounced off the empty corridor walls. An open display of anger wasn’t her style. She tilted her head back, concentrating on calming her breathing.

Stalactites of peeling paint hung from the ceiling, held in place by a network of cobwebs. Farther down the corridor one of the hall lights wasn’t working. She hated this place. Moving so quickly out of the home she’d made with Todd had been a mistake, a sacrifice of common sense for the sake of foolish pride.

“If you break it off in there, I’m pretty sure you’ll have to call a locksmith. And on the weekend, it’s likely to cost a small fortune.”

She jumped at the sound of the male voice behind her. The folded newspaper and handful of mail slid from her grasp to land in a haphazard mound at her feet.

She turned to see William Cody Matthews seated on the steps that rose to the next floor. With daylight sliding toward extinction, shadows lay heavy in the corridor. His features were cast in an odd half-light, and partially hidden by the newel post, he looked like a prisoner behind bars.

The first thing she noticed was that he was dressed very differently from the man she’d met nearly two weeks ago. The flamboyant Texas garb had been replaced by jeans and a sport shirt—the trappings of an average Joe. Well, not so average, she amended. He still wore that ridiculous belt buckle. Still had those great eyes, the blue gone almost to sapphire in the dismal light of the hallway.

Every nerve went electric at finding him here. She’d never expected to see him again, and she wasn’t sure it was wise to be alone with him now. Her mind raced as she wondered what her next move should be.

She could see he’d caught her thoughts. He tilted a look of clear blue toward her, his eyes warm and engaging. “I was beginning to think you’d never come home.”

If his affable attitude was meant to soothe her distress, it was a dismal failure. Her heartbeat quickened as he rose from the stairway, coming toward her with the easy confidence of a man completely in command of his surroundings. He nudged her aside so that he could reach the key still imprisoned in the lock.

“Let me try.”

He worked the key slowly out of the lock, then began to reinsert it with all the finesse of a master locksmith. Twisting the metal this way and that, he slid back the bolt in no time. Instead of opening the door, Cody Matthews removed the key, then leaned against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You know, old locks are like women. You have to go slow.”

Her pulse stuttered. “Mr. Matthews—”

“It’s like this,” he continued, without acknowledging she had spoken. “You made the same mistake with this lock that I made with you. You tried force. Tried to make it behave the way you think it should, when what you really need to do is get a better feel for it. Find out what makes it work.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Matthews?”

“I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

The thought was unthinkable. “Certainly not.” She extended her palm. “My keys, please.”

She half expected him to refuse. Instead, he let them drop into her hand. She felt oddly relieved when his fingers found no excuse to touch hers. Before she could react, he bent to retrieve the paper and mail at her feet. The classifieds were on top. She noticed with resentment that he didn’t bother to hide his interest in the ads she’d circled, leaving her with all her camouflage blown.

“Looks like you’ve had a busy day. Any success?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He shrugged, seeming to take no offense. “No, it isn’t, but I think I might be able to help you, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re full of lots of ideas that you think will help me. Unfortunately I’m not interested in any of them.” A sudden thought made her look at him sharply. “How did you find me?”

“I was at the school yesterday afternoon, but I guess I missed you. A teacher friend of yours told me where you live.” He glanced around the corridor, frowning a little. “She said you’d just moved here recently, but I have to admit, I don’t see this place as quite your style.”

Her patience snapped. “I think you should leave.”

He smiled at her, seemingly unaffected by the sharpness of her voice. “But then you’d miss the opportunity.”

“What opportunity?”

“The chance to see a jackass apologize.”

She wasn’t expecting that. Was it just her imagination, or was he not quite the same obnoxious man she’d met in the Alexandria Hotel? Still too bold. Still provoking. But the crudity had vanished. Of course, he could just be a very good actor…Through the intricacies of her own flaring sensations, she realized the mistake of engaging in any further conversation.

“I don’t think—”

“Miss Paxton, I don’t apologize well or very often—”

“Really? I would expect you spend most of your life apologizing for your behavior.”

She read the accuracy of that dart on his face. He scowled, and then unexpectedly he laughed. For a moment his features seemed incapable of forged feelings, then he shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t make this easy for me.”

“I can’t think of any reason why I should. Can you?”

“Not a one. I was an ornery SOB the day we met, and you have every reason not to believe a word I say, but I’m honestly sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” He expelled a heavy breath, ran a distracted hand across the back of his neck and pinned her with an earnest glance. “How about we start over? If you’re too nervous to invite me in, we can go someplace neutral, have a cup of coffee. Crow’s a lot easier to swallow if you have something to wash it down with.”

“You don’t make me nervous,” she said quickly, then chided herself for feeling the need to protest.