Carole Buck - Annie Says I Do

“I got a trim this afternoon.” Matt frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong with the way it looks?”

“No.” Annie shook her head. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“How would you react if someone asked you if you’d done something to your hair?”

“That’s different.”

Matt lifted his brows. “How?”

“Women are supposed to be paranoid about their hair.”

“But men aren’t?”

Annie hesitated, conscious that this exchange was veering into absurdity. “Uh, no,” she finally said.

“Try telling that to some poor guy who’s afraid he’s going bald.”

“That’s certainly not anything you have to be concerned about,” Annie observed, eyeing Matt’s sandy blond thatch of hair.

“Not yet, anyway.”

The caveat surprised her. “Are you saying you’re worried about losing your hair?”

“Well, it doesn’t prey on my mind twenty-four hours a day,” Matt responded dryly. “But, yeah. I do feel a nasty little twinge on the mornings I notice there seem to be a few extra strands clinging to the bottom of the bathroom sink.”

Annie fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. Strange, she reflected. She’d never imagined that Matt might be insecure about his appearance.

Other men, sure. She’d dated men so anxious about their faces and physiques that they couldn’t pass a polished surface without doing an assessment. But Matt? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him glance in a mirror!

Yes, he’d been self-conscious about his looks during adolescence. Who hadn’t been? Besides, he’d seemed to overcome his geeky self-image after he’d shot up eight inches and fallen in love with Lisa Davis. Annie simply couldn’t picture him brooding over his hairline.

“I don’t suppose harboring deep-seated anxieties about baldness is something a contemporary single guy should admit to on a first date,” Matt commented, clearly fishing for feedback.

“Well, that depends,” Annie replied judiciously. “The nineties-style male is expected to be sensitive enough to share his vulnerabilities.”

“Oh?”

“Of course, if he’s too sensitive—” she flashed an ironic smile “—nineties-style females will think he’s a wimp.”

“Lord.” Matt shook his head and speared a stalk of asparagus with his fork. “Why do you women have to make life so complicated?”

A spark in his blue-gray eyes told Annie she was being baited. She opened her mouth to bite, but was forestalled by a thoroughly unwelcome greeting.

“Why, Annie Martin! Darlin’, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Annie didn’t have to look to determine the source of this interruption. The Southern-fried, sugar-coated voice could belong to only one person. Her name was Melinda—”Call me Honeychile”—Reeves and she was an ex-beauty queen whose favorite title was “Mrs.” Although Melinda had a comfortable income thanks to multiple monthly alimony checks, she occasionally earned a little extra spending money by modeling. That’s how Annie had met her.

“Hello, Melinda,” she greeted the magnolia-skinned blonde. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m just back from the cutest l’il ole island in the Caribbean.” Melinda patted her platinum-pale tresses. “What about you, sweetie?”

Annie glanced across the table at Matt. While he wasn’t exhibiting the lost-his-brains-and-thinking-with-his-gonads response Melinda evoked from most men, it was clear as crystal that he wasn’t oblivious to the blonde’s physical assets.

“I’m just fine, thank you,” she said, trying not to grind her teeth. “I don’t think you know my, uh, friend, Matt Powell. Matt, this is Melinda Reeves.”

Matt rose to his feet in a seamless movement and extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Reeves.”

“My, my, my,” Melinda responded, accepting the proffered appendage. “I do so admire a man with good manners. Call me Honeychile, Mr. Powell. E’vybody does.”

Annie darted another look at her “date.” While an encounter with someone of Melinda’s ilk probably was necessary for any man seeking to familiarize himself with the singles’ scene, she couldn’t help wishing that this meeting had come later—a lot later—in Matt’s orientation process.

“Call me Matt, ah, Honeychile,” he suggested, reclaiming his hand.

“Why, thank you.” Melinda preened a little. “I most definitely will.” She preened a little more. “Well, I really must be goin’. I’m meetin’ one of my ex’s for dinner. Nice to see you again, Annie. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

Annie made a gesture that was a cross between a bye-bye and a brush-off. The other woman responded with a languid waggle of her long-nailed fingers then sashayed away on four-inch stiletto heels.

“Interesting,” Matt commented, reseating himself.

“Don’t even think about it.” The words were out before Annie had time to consider their implications—much less to prevent herself from uttering them.

“Excuse me?”

Oh, well, Annie thought with a mental grimace. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, Matt had asked to be enlightened about the contemporary male-female thing. It wasn’t as though she was butting in with unsolicited advice.

“Melinda ‘Honeychile’ Reeves is the kind of woman who treats men like kites,” she said flatly.

“Kites?”

Annie gestured. “She gives them just enough string to let them think they’re flying free. Then she yanks on the string, hauls them in, and hangs them on a hook someplace until she’s ready to play again.”

Matt rubbed his jaw. “And here I thought she seemed sort of sweet.”

He was teasing her. Annie knew he was teasing her. She also knew she probably deserved it. Even so...

“You have a lot to learn about women, Mr. Powell,” she informed him.

Matt smiled. Slowly. Sexily. From somewhere deep inside Annie came to the realization that he hadn’t so much as bared a bicuspid at the blond and busty Melinda.

“That’s why I’m out with you, Ms. Martin,” he said.

* * *

“A strike? ” Annie yelled through cupped hands. “Are you crazy? Get a pair of glasses! That was a ball! ”

“Gee, Annie,” Matt said through a bite of hot dog. “Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”

Annie turned in her seat and nailed him with a disdainful look. “People who didn’t start cheering for the Atlanta Braves until they won the pennant have no right to criticize people who were rooting for them when they were the worst team in the league.”

Matt took a moment to chew and swallow, then another moment to take a gulp of beer. Annie’s passion for the Braves had always amused him. She was so sane and sensible about everything else. Except, perhaps, for the enduring crush she had on Fred Astaire. But that was an interest she confided only to her closest friends. Her devotion to the Braves, she flaunted like a flag.

Going to this game had been Annie’s idea. She’d extended the invitation six nights before, when he’d brought her home from their inaugural practice date. While she hadn’t specifically said the outing should be categorized as their second date, he’d decided to treat it as such.

Within certain limits, of course. Although modern male-female etiquette might dictate otherwise, he had no intention of passing up a chance to twit his best buddy about her unswerving support for her favorite team.

“That pitch was in, Annie,” he said, fighting back a grin.

She responded with a singularly indelicate noise. “Traitor.”

“Better that than a blind loyalist.”

“Just because you—” Annie broke off, the crack of a wooden bat connecting solidly with a leather-covered ball diverting her attention back to the brightly illuminated field below them. She surged to her feet shouting. “Go for it! Go for it! ”