Carole Buck - Annie Says I Do

“I understand exactly what you mean,” Matt interrupted, resolutely steering his thoughts away from the past. “And bad idea or not, I’ll bet I can come up with a better one between now and 7:30 p.m. tomorrow when I pick you up.”

* * *

In Annie’s considered opinion, Matt did.

Come up with a better idea than going to the movies, that is.

“How in heaven’s name did you get a reservation here?” she asked him after they’d been seated at an elegantly appointed table for two in one of Atlanta’s most popular restaurants. “This place has been booked solid since the day it opened.”

Matt shrugged, his expression bland. “Connections.”

“Connections?” Annie picked up the intricately folded linen napkin from the plate in front of her and spread it across her lap.

“You know the computer course I’m teaching at Georgia Tech?”

She nodded.

“The father of one of my students happens to own this place.”

“Ah.”

“I promised the kid a good grade if he got me a table tonight.”

For a split second Annie thought he was serious. Then she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Oh, honestly, Matt,” she chided, starting to laugh.

A moment later an immaculately attired waiter approached their table. He presented them with a pair of handwritten menus, then politely inquired whether they’d like anything from the bar while they considered the evening’s culinary offerings.

“So what do you think?” Matt asked after the man had taken their beverage orders and moved away. He leaned forward, his expression intent. “Would a woman like coming here on a first date?”

Deep down, Annie realized he hadn’t intended the question quite the way it came out. Unfortunately, this realization didn’t prevent his words from flicking her on an unexpectedly tender spot.

“Well, gee,” she returned, her tone like acid-laced honey. “How would I know what a woman would like?”

Matt looked at her, clearly startled. Then he grimaced. “Oh, Lord. Annie, I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

She dismissed the apology with a gesture. “I know it’s difficult for you, Matt,” she told him. “But this practice date scheme of yours isn’t going to work unless you can start thinking of me—at least occasionally—as having a gender.”

Matt remained silent for a long time, staring into her face. Then the nature of his scrutiny changed. His gaze began to slide downward. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

From her eyes to her lips.

From her lips to her breasts.

By the time he’d completed his leisurely visual inventory and brought his gaze back up to meet hers, Annie’s body was tingling as though it had been infused with electrified champagne. Her breathing was swift and shallow.

“If there’s going to be a problem with our practice dates,” Matt drawled, his voice several notes deeper than usual. “It won’t be due to me forgetting you’re female.”

* * *

That was the first of a series of remarks that left Annie increasingly off-balance as the evening unfolded. It wasn’t until they were midway through their main course that she realized exactly what was going on.

Matt was flirting with her!

His approach wasn’t sweep-her-off-her-feet bold. Nor was it seduce-her-down-the-garden-path subtle. It was...well, Annie wasn’t certain how to describe it except to say that it was pretty darned effective!

But it doesn’t mean anything, she reminded herself firmly, reaching for the glass of Chablis she’d ordered to go with her meal. This is practice, not personal. Matt’s acting the way he thinks a single guy is supposed to behave on a first date. And you’re supposed to be critiquing him.

Annie took a sip of her white wine. All right. Fine. She’d do what she was supposed to do.

Critique Number One.

Um...

Er...

She couldn’t. She just couldn’t! Matt was her best buddy. Their relationship was unique. She couldn’t treat him like a...a—

Like a what? she demanded of herself. Like a man? Like an attractive, eligible man who’s invited you out to dinner?

Annie’s earlier admonition came echoing back.

I know it’s difficult for you, Matt, she’d said. But this practice date scheme of yours isn’t going to work unless you can start thinking of me—at least occasionally—as having a gender.

Et tu, Annie, she thought.

The success of this exercise wasn’t solely dependent on Matt’s perception of her. Her perception of him was an integral ingredient, as well. Therefore, it was incumbent upon her to—

Hold on.

Just a few moments ago, when she’d been trying to define what it was that she couldn’t treat Matt like, hadn’t she used the adjective “attractive”?

Why, yes. Yes, she had.

And the use of that word had been unthinking. Automatic. Instinctive. Hadn’t it?

Oh, absolutely.

Well? Didn’t that prove she wasn’t entirely oblivious to Matt’s, uh, gender?

Something deep inside Annie shifted. It was the psychological equivalent of a movement by one of the earth’s tectonic plates. Not enough to trigger a major quake, but sufficient to touch off a palpable emotional tremor.

She set down her wineglass very carefully. Then, with equal deliberation, she began to take stock of the man sitting opposite her.

His hands drew her attention first. Men’s hands often did. Many of her female friends talked about noticing a man’s eyes or butt—depending on the direction of his approach—first. She tended to begin by checking out hands.

Matt’s were well-shaped, with flexible fingers and closely pared nails. There was a feathery dusting of light brown hairs on the backs of them.

They were trustworthy hands. Obviously strong, yet endowed with a disciplined economy of movement that seemed to promise that this strength would never be misused.

What would it be like to be touched by those hands? Annie wondered suddenly. Not in friendship or in fun. That sort of contact held no mystery for her. But touched in the intimately erotic way a man—

She slammed the brakes on this train of thought. Not that she was terribly shocked by the direction it had taken. She was an experienced adult, after all, not an unfledged innocent. Still, there was such a thing as going too far, too fast—especially for someone whose only objective was to help her best buddy get a social life.

Shifting in her seat, Annie transferred her gaze from Matt’s hands to his face.

His mouth.

Quirkily made, yet compellingly male. Bracketed by grooves that were deeper than those found on most thirty-one-year-old males.

His nose.

Ferrule-straight, but just slightly off center. A potent counterbalance to his angular cheekbones and stubborn jaw. While the idiosyncratic combination of features didn’t add up to matinee idol handsomeness, it had an undeniable appeal.

His eyes.

Deep set beneath level brows, with a web of finely etched lines radiating from the outer corners. A changeable blue-gray in color, they exuded integrity and intelligence.

Matthew Douglas Powell wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever been out with. And yet, the adjective “attractive” very definitely—

“Annie?”

She started so violently she nearly knocked over her wineglass “Y-yes?”

Matt regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. “Do I have a piece of spinach stuck between my teeth?”

“Spinach?” Annie darted a bewildered glance at his plate. How could there be spinach stuck between his teeth? He’d ordered lamb chops with asparagus!

“You’ve been staring at me.”

“Oh.” She scrambled for a way to explain her behavior. Telling the truth didn’t strike her as a viable option. “I, uh, did...uh, you get your hair cut?”