You don’t drink anymore. Do you?” she asked.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “But you do. And after that dinner you definitely need something with a kick.”
“Roast beef,” Maggie shook her head. “I can’t believe my mother served roast beef to a vegetarian. Why didn’t you let me say something?”
He pulled her out of the car. “Because people tend to feel embarrassed and rejected when you don’t take what they offer for dinner. I took the plate and didn’t hurt your mom’s feelings.” Still holding her hand, he led her across the parking lot and into the dimly lit bar. “But I didn’t eat the meat. It’s an old trick I learned in California. Cut it up and move it around the plate and no one notices that you didn’t eat it. Everyone’s happy.”
Maggie hadn’t been inside Sparky’s in close to seven years, but the place hadn’t changed. It was dark and it smelled like a frat-house basement.
Matt pulled two stools out from the bar, then stepped back so Maggie could climb up. He sat next to her, pulling his stool so close that his thigh brushed hers. He caught the bartender’s eye. “Coupla drafts.”
The touch of his leg against hers was making her crazy. Matt had never been careful with her personal space, constantly draping an arm around her, often coming up behind her to massage her shoulders or braid her hair.
His casual, friendly touch had always been part of the package. True, Maggie had heard tell that a friendly backrub had at times led to far more friendly activities, but she had never been subject to his amorous advances.
Or had she? Maybe she’d been too naive to realize....
He leaned against the bar and his shoulder grazed hers and she nearly jumped off the stool.
The bartender slid two foaming mugs of beer in front of them, and she gratefully took a long swallow. And risked a look at Matt.
His elbows rested on the bar and his T-shirt was pulled tight across his strong back. He was watching her, his face shadowy in the weak light, his eyes reflecting the yellow of a neon sign. It made him look otherworldly and alien, reminding her that he was in some ways a stranger, after all that time away.
Ten years ago, she never would’ve dreamed of kissing Matthew Stone. Tonight, she was having trouble thinking about anything else.
Maggie remembered her own words, spoken only minutes before to Stevie, realizing how impossible her advice had been. There was simply no way on earth she’d ever be able to turn to Matt and tell him that she was falling in love with him.
But she was.
But she couldn’t. What would Angie say if she knew? What would Matt say?
She stared morosely into her beer, taking another sip and feeling its coolness and accompanying warmth course through her.
Matt drew lines in the frost on the outside of his glass of beer. His glass of beer? What was a guy who’d been in a detox center three years ago doing with a glass of beer?
“You’re not going to drink that, are you?” she asked.
“No.” Matt laughed. “I’m not an alcoholic, despite what you heard from Dan Fowler today. I don’t drink because I choose not to, not because I can’t.”
He met her gaze steadily, and she felt herself blush. “I’m sorry.”
What had happened to him three years ago? She wished he would talk about it, but he didn’t. And she was afraid to push.
He reached over and pushed her empty glass toward the bartender, then slid the full glass in front of her. “I ordered this for you. Let’s go play pool.”
“I thought we were going to talk business.”
“I’d rather play pool. We can talk business tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said. “I’m having dinner with Brock.”
Matt let his opinion of Brock show on his face. “Why do you waste your time with him?”
“I’m not,” she said. “I mean, I won’t be anymore.”
There was a flare of something in his eyes. Satisfaction. And something else. “Good. Because he’s...” Matt laughed. “Don’t get me started. I can’t believe you’ve been dating him for, what is it? Six months?”
“Five months,” she corrected him. “And we’ve never actually...dated.” At least not according to Van’s definition.
Matt knew what she was saying. “Wow,” he said. “That’s... Wow.” He laughed. “So okay. If his being fabulous in bed wasn’t the reason you were with him... Why the hell did you go out with him more than once?”
Maggie closed her eyes. “Because he wanted to be with me,” she told him. “Because nice men don’t exactly fall out of the sky. Because I hoped he’d grow on me. Because I want a family. I want babies. Did I tell you that Angie is pregnant?”
She looked at him, expecting to see disbelief on Matt’s face. Angie. Pregnant. Instead, he was looking at the floor, real sadness in his eyes.
Was it possible he still loved her?
Maggie touched his arm. “Are you okay? I mean, I know it must be a shock. Angie always swore that she’d never have kids, but...”
Now he looked perplexed. “What did you say about Angie? I think I missed something.”
“She and Freddy are going to have a baby,” Maggie repeated.
“No kidding? That’s great.”
Okay, now she was the one who was confused. If it hadn’t been the news about Angie, what had made him look so unhappy?
“Angie’s going to be a really cool mom,” Matt said. “Although I can’t picture her changing a diaper.”
She finished her second beer and, almost magically, another appeared. She narrowed her eyes at Matt. “Are you trying to get me too drunk to talk business? Another beer and we’ll have to play pool. I won’t be coherent.”
“I’m trying to get you relaxed,” he admitted. “You’re wound pretty tight.”
He slid off his seat and, standing behind her, he slipped his hands under her hair and began massaging the muscles in her neck and shoulders.
God, it felt good. Too good. Maggie felt herself get even more tense.
“Man, you have to loosen up. Is this what being a high-powered attorney does to you?”
No, it was what he did to her. She closed her eyes, letting his fingers work their magic, letting herself pretend that they were in an alternate time line—one where Matt was more than just a friend.
Matt could see Maggie’s face in the bar mirror. Under his hands, her shoulders were starting to relax. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly.
Oh, brother. That was just too inviting. He was dying to kiss her the way he’d kissed her that morning at the audition. She’d actually commended him on his fine acting job, unaware that he hadn’t been acting at all.
He was praying that they’d both get the leads so that he’d be able to kiss her that way again and again. And again.
It was an odd blend of torment and delight. Delight that she could kiss him and make his heart pound and his blood rush. Torment that she could seem so unaffected by it herself.
And, oh, my God, she’d never slept with Brock.
“We should talk about work. What time do you want to start tomorrow?” Maggie murmured, her eyes still closed.
“What time is your dinner with Brock?” he countered.
“We made plans to meet at six,” she said.
“Then