Annie Says I Do

Matt frowned at the idea of the broadcaster. Although he’d refrained from mentioning it to Annie, there was something about Barnes that bugged him. Maybe it was his hair. It always looked so preternaturally perfect on TV. Matt figured the guy probably could report from the middle of a hurricane—wearing one of his trademark tan trenchcoats, of course—without mussing a strand. His hairspray bill had to be higher than the gross national product of—

“Matt?” It was Annie.

He blinked, wondering what he’d missed. “Uh, yeah?”

“I just told you that tomorrow night is fine with me.”

“Oh.” He raked a hand back through his hair. “That’s great.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Is something wrong?” Annie finally asked.

“No.” The denial was quick. “Everything’s fine.”

“You sound...odd.”

“Sorry.” Although Matt wasn’t certain an apology was necessary, he felt impelled to offer one. “I, uh, guess I’m surprised you’re not busy tomorrow night. What with it being Friday. Plus, I’m calling at the last minute—”

“Calling at the last minute is phoning from your car on the way over to a woman’s house.”

Matt straightened in his chair. “Guys actually do that?”

“Not to me, they don’t.” Annie’s voice was crisp and confident. “At least, not more than once.”

“You let them know who’s boss, huh?”

“Let’s just say I make it clear that I’m not so desperate for a date I’ll let myself be treated like a takeout pizza. I require a lot more than fifteen minutes advance notice before I’m ready for pick up. I respect myself. I expect other people to do the same.”

It occurred to Matt that he’d just heard a good summary of Hannah Elaine Martin’s philosophy of life. He wondered fleetingly how many of the women with whom people kept trying to fix him up shaxttitude. He also wondered whether there was a quick way of culling those who did from those who didn’t.

“Never let it be said that Matt Powell can’t take a hint,” he declared, easing back in his chair. “So. Respectfully, would you like to go to a movie with me tomorrow night?”

“A movie? On a first date?”

“Don’t men and women do that anymore?”

“Of course they do. It’s just that, uh...”

“Yes?”

“Look, Matt...were you serious when you said you wanted me to critique your, er, single guy technique?”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed without missing a beat. “Let me have it, Annie. What’s wrong with my idea?”

“Think about it. What happens when a man and a woman go to the movies?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No, you idiot. It’s not a trick question.”

Matt chuckled. “Okay. Just checking. Mmm. Let me see. What happens when a man and a woman go to the movies? Well, first they drive to one of those multiscreen theaters, line up, and buy a pair of overpriced tickets. Then they go inside and buy overpriced refreshments at the concession stand. Then they head into the theater, search out a pair of decent seats, and crawl over a bunch of people in order to get to them. As soon as they settle in, a couple with a crying baby plunks down in front of them. Then a trio of talkative little old ladies takes up residence in the seats directly behind them. Shortly after that, a gang of teenagers files in. Eventually the lights go down, the movie comes on, and the man and woman watch it. If it’s funny, they both laugh. If it’s sad, they both get choked up—although the man pretends he isn’t. If it’s scary and the woman grabs the man, he probably uses that as an opportunity to cop a—”

“Matthew.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Don’t contemporary single guys cop feels?”

“Not unless they want to be accused of sexual harassment.”

“Oh.”

“Modern men are expected to ask permission before they start groping.”

“You mean, ‘May I please put my hand on your—’”

“Let’s get back to the movies,” Annie cut in decisively. “Is talking on your list of things a man and woman do when they go to one?”

“Talking? No. Of course—” Matt stopped, grasping the point she was trying to make. “Oh. I get it.”

“A first date is supposed to be an opportunity for two people to get to know each other,” Annie stressed. “It’s difficult for them to take advantage of that opportunity when they’re sitting in the dark, staring at a big screen, scarfing down empty calories from the refreshment counter.”

Unbidden, Matt’s mind flashed back to his first date with Lisa. He’d taken her to a movie. The evening had pretty much conformed to the pattern Annie had just described. Given the shakiness of his adolescent social skills, this had been perfectly fine with him. It had been hard enough to muster the words he’d needed to ask Lisa if she’d like to go out with him. There was no way he could have carried on an extended conversation with her during the date itself.

As for the business of copping a feel...well, the closest he’d come to that had been the heady half second when his hand had brushed Lisa’s as he’d passed her a paper napkin. He’d damned near swooned at the contact.

Matt glanced toward the right corner of his desk, his gaze settling on a silver-framed photograph of his late wife. The romantic-looking portrait had been taken a week before their wedding. He kept a copy of the same picture tucked away in his wallet.

Rubbing the base of his left ring finger with the ball of his thumb, Matt registered the absence of the wide gold band he’d worn for nearly five years. He’d buried the band along with the woman who’d given it to him.

Lisa, he thought painfully. Oh, sweetheart...

“I’m not saying going to a movie is a bad idea,” Annie went on, sounding as though she felt the need to backpedal. “I mean—”

“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?”

“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!”

Thousands of other fans were screaming variations on the same imperative. A few seconds later the stadium erupted in a thunderous cheer as one of the Braves slid into home plate in a cloud of dust.

“All right!” Matt exclaimed as the umpire signaled the runner was safe. While he wasn’t a Braves fanatic, he wasn’t immune to the thrill of a home team score.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Annie exulted, raising her arms in triumph.

“And the Braves take the lead in the bottom of the seventh,” an announcer boomed through the stadium’s public address system as the scoreboard lit up with a razzle-dazzle display of computerized images.

“Whew.” Annie sank back down into her seat, removing her official Braves baseball cap and swatting a lock of chin-length brown hair off her cheek. She turned toward Matt. “Can I have a sip of your beer?”

“Sure.”

She took more than a sip from the condensation-fogged plastic cup he handed her. Matt watched as she did so, his gaze tracking the working of her slender throat then drifting downward.

Like himself, Annie had been a late bloomer. But just as he’d finally shot up, she’d eventually filled out. She’d never been in the cup-floweth-over category, he decided as he studied her modest T-shirted curves, but she definitely looked as though she could pass the enough-for-a-handful test.

“Thanks,” she said, returning the beverage container with a dimple-flushing smile. “I needed that.”

If she’d noticed his assessment of her shape, she gave no indication of it. While Matt supposed he should be grateful for this, he found her seeming obliviousness irritated him. Had this been a “real” date—had he been, say, that TV newsman with the helmet of cement-sprayed hair—he was damned sure she would have registered being ogled!

Then again...maybe not. Annie had less vanity than just about any female he knew. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen her fuss over her appearance.

Was it possible she didn’t think such fussing was worth it? Matt asked himself suddenly. Was it possible she didn’t know how appealing she was?

So what if her features were too asymmetrical to meet the standards of so-called classic beauty? So what if they were too strong to be classified as “cute”? There were qualities in Annie’s face—the generosity of her mouth and the warmth of her big brown eyes to name just two—that caught a man’s interest and held it. Surely she must have discovered that!

And then there were those long, slim legs of hers. No one could persuade Matt that Annie didn’t know what kind of assets they were! Just look at the way the skimpy white shorts she had on showed them off.