Читать книгу That Kind Of Girl - Kim Mckade - Страница 10

Becca flipped the stick of graphite between her fingers and used the wide edge to shade the bell of the wedding dress on her sketch pad. Her brow furrowed as much in consternation as concentration, she tried to ignore the voice that echoed spitefully through her head.

Haven’t changed a bit to me.

She closed her eyes and blew a gust of breath at her bangs. Of course, he was right. Oh, she’d worked hard to change her outward appearance. And at the risk of sounding vain, she’d made some major improvements. But then, there had been a lot to improve upon.

Trust Colt to see right through the new hairstyle, the hours spent at the makeup counter at the department store learning how to make the most of her “natural attributes,” the constant inner reminder to hold her chin up, to look people in the eye, to speak clearly.

Trust Colt to see immediately what she had forgotten. That she was really, underneath it all, still the same old Becca Danvers.

Who had she thought she was kidding? Certainly not herself, though she’d tried hard enough. She’d tried this morning, when she pulled her special-occasion-only suit out of the closet, telling herself there was no sense in owning a power suit if it never saw the light of day. And again this afternoon, when she stopped by Dottie’s Nails & More for the second manicure of her life. And even this afternoon when she’d actually looked herself in the eye in the rearview mirror and said, “I believe I’ll just stop by and see if Colt Bonner needs anything.” As if she hadn’t been planning it from the moment she saw him pull up in front of his house.

She’d deserved what she got, too, she decided as she dropped the graphite stick on the tray in disgust. She tucked her feet up on the stool and examined the red scrape on her shin. Her power suit was back in the closet where it would be until the next open house at school. Her demolished Silky Sheer Precious Ivories were wadded in the wastebasket. She’d come home, humiliated, and changed into flannel boxers and a white tank top.

She gathered her hair into a ponytail and wound it on top of her head, jabbing a pencil into the mass to hold it in place. It had been a long time since she’d felt like such a fool. But then, it had been a long time since she’d tried to be something she wasn’t.

She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, the cold air chilling her bare toes. At least she no longer had to waste hours of her life, imagining ridiculous scenes of how Colt would react when he saw her again. At least she no longer had to wake up at night visualizing something out of a movie—Colt taking one look at her, being instantly bedazzled and setting out in pursuit of her like a man possessed.

He’d seen her—and been terrifically underwhelmed. And in her power suit and manicure, no less!

She pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and told herself again that it served her right. What was she expecting? That when Colt realized it was she standing there, he would confess that he’d traveled the world in an attempt to get her out of his mind, that he couldn’t forget the taste of her, the feel of her? And that now that he’d come to her again, he would never let her go?

Come on.

She frowned and poured a big glass of tea. Okay, so maybe that was a little over the top, even for her. But would it have killed him to say she looked nice?

But she had learned the lesson years ago and, except for this one crucial day when, apparently, she was hell-bent on humiliating herself, she’d lived by the wisdom of it.

She bent and made a face at her reflection in the chrome toaster. “Accept who you are,” she said firmly. “Accept what you are.”

“What was it trying to be? A can opener?”

Becca shrieked, jerked and spun. She splashed frigid iced tea all over herself at the same moment she saw Colt standing at her open kitchen window.

She tried to draw breath to speak, but all she could manage was a series of shallow gasps and then a noise that came out sounding like “Uhhuhhh.”

“Sorry. Did I scare you?”

She nodded, openmouthed.

“I only meant to surprise you.”

“Yes, well…you did that, too.” She finally got some air into her lungs and stepped up to the screen.

“Cold, huh?”

To his credit, Colt did make an attempt to hide the grin that crept up his cheeks.

She nodded again. “What are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember?”

“Yes, and I—I also remember you declined.”

“I reconsidered. Is the offer still open?”

“Of course it is.”

“Um, Becca?”

She cocked a brow.

“That was really cold tea, wasn’t it.”

“Yes.” Hadn’t he already asked that? She looked down and wished this time for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her white tank top—now virtually transparent—tented out under the hard buds of her nipples.

She grabbed at the shirt with both hands and pulled it away far enough that he could probably see down the neck as well. “I’ll just—I’ll just go change.” She backed away, picturing how she must look with her pencil-eraser nipples, scraped shin and gaping mouth. Quite lovely, to be sure. She kept backing, and bumped into the doorjamb.

“That’d probably be a good idea,” he said.

“The front door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a second.”

In her bedroom she stripped down to her underwear, wondering what had changed his mind. Certainly it hadn’t been her cool, sophisticated poise. And he’d told her to her face that her looks hadn’t made an impression. That left the power suit and the Precious Ivories. Or maybe it was the ingenious way she had of falling through his porch that won him over.

One day back in town and the man already had her mind twisted in knots. She didn’t know what to think about that kiss. In fact, every time her mind even barely brushed up against the thought of it, she got even more confused. So she told herself she just wouldn’t think about it. Which, of course, she recognized as a lie as soon as she thought it. She hadn’t forgotten their last kiss, and that had been twelve years ago. She could still feel his hands and lips on hers, without even trying. The kiss today hadn’t shared that same unharnessed passion, but it did share the same barrier-shaking intimacy.

She walked into the adjoining bath and wiped off her midriff with a warm washcloth. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and her hand slowed, then stopped. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes as bright as if she had a raging fever.

Why was she doing this to herself? What was it going to take for her to learn?

She’d worked hard to build her self-esteem. It had taken years of conscious effort for her to accept herself, to even like herself. It had not been easy; she had a lifetime of feeling like a freak to wipe away. But she’d done it. And now she was champing at the bit to let it be brushed aside by a few careless remarks and a kiss that obviously meant nothing to Colt.

She put her palms on the counter and faced her reflection sternly. It was time to be perfectly honest. The truth was, she’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Colt. Okay, a big soft spot. A ridiculous crush, in fact. And maybe a part of her had always wondered whether if she looked different, and acted differently, he would see her differently. Less as the weirdo girl who lived down the road and made up stories to tell him when they were kids. Less as the bookish wallflower in high school, and more as…well, as more.

But the fact was—aside from falling through his porch and splashing iced tea all over herself—she hadn’t done anything overwhelmingly embarrassing. At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him—again. And if there was a God in the sky, Colt would not remember that night and she could go on pretending it had never happened.

The only real injury today had been to her pride, and she was an old hat at rebuilding that. So there was no reason she could not go out there as Colt’s old friend, have dinner with him, catch up on old times, and act like a normal person. If she stopped behaving like an imbecile right this second.

Whatever had changed Colt’s mind about dinner, it surely involved little more than an empty stomach. And if she had any brains at all—which she knew she did; they were in there somewhere—she would go out there and quit reading something into every little move he made. She would relax and enjoy herself.

Just to prove to them both that she really didn’t care if Colt found her attractive or not, she left her hair piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She dragged on baggy sweatpants, topped off with a T-shirt that announced “Math is Power.” Then she faced her reflection again and nodded. Now, there was a woman who was truly comfortable with herself, in all her nerdiness.

When she went back to the kitchen, though, he wasn’t there to test her indifference. Neither was he in the living room. She slumped against the arm of the sofa and made a face. She scared him off already. This had to be a new record for her—

“This is really good. Did you do it?”

She grinned. He was in her office.

He stood in front of the mural she’d painted on the south wall, his thumbs in his back pockets.

“Yes, I did it.”

“It’s great. When I came in I thought it was a real window.”

“Yes, well, the light is dim. Of course, if it were a real window, the light would not be dim,” she said inanely. She flipped the light switch and moved to stand beside him, noting the way his hair, still damp from his shower, curled at the back of his neck.

“This is incredible. You’ve caught it all, just as if there was a window here.” He reached up to trace a blunt finger over the telephone pole beside the dirt road, the tumbleweeds built up along the barbed-wire fence.

“Thank you.”

“It’s great.” He turned to face her. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“If you were just going to paint what’s really there— I mean, it’s really good and everything—but if you were just going to paint what you would see if there was a window there, why not just put in a window?”

“I turned out to be a lot handier with a paintbrush than I am with a saw.”

“You could get someone else to do it. I’d do it, if you want. It’d take about half a day—”

“I don’t want. Why would I want you to destroy my mural? It took me months to finish. And besides,” she said with a sniff, “this is far superior to an actual window. It never needs cleaning. It won’t let in dust, no matter how hard the wind blows. And if I ever get the urge to move, all I have to do is drag out the brushes and paints.”

“But seriously, Becca, you could have the real thing.”

“And look at this—” Ignoring him, she stepped up to point out the giant mulberry tree. “This is the tree that grows beside the elementary school. You remember that tree, out at the west edge of the playground?”

“Sure, I remember. I stared at it all the way through the third grade, wishing I was out in that tree instead of inside trying to figure out fractions.”

“I used to sit under it and read all through recess.”

“I remember. You sat on this root right here, the big one that grew up through the sidewalk.”

She looked at him and blinked. Told herself there was nothing touching or heartwarming about his remembering her in elementary school. They had, after all, been friends. Just friends. “Yes, well…” She scratched under her ear. “I wanted it in my window here. So I put it here.”

“You could plant a mulberry tree, you know. You could have a real tree and a real window.”

“Not a tree that’s thirty feet tall and has branches thick enough to swing from and roots big enough to sit on.”

“Well, not for a while.”

“Admit it. My window is superior.”

Colt shook his head. “If you say so.” He looked up at the stand of mesquites that bordered the quarry in the distance. “But doesn’t it bother you that it’s just…just pretend?”

She faced him and smiled. For the first time since he’d pulled up to his house, she didn’t have to tell herself she was glad to see her old friend. She didn’t have to remind herself that she cared for him as the person she’d grown up with, had once been close to. She didn’t have to remind herself, because she just was.

“No,” she said simply. “It’s real enough for me.”

“But I’m telling you, in a matter of hours—”

“Still the same old Colt. Always ready to rip everything apart and put it back together again.”

He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Well, I suppose I come by the urge to knock holes in things honestly enough. But you have no room to talk, you know. You haven’t changed that much, either.”

She focused on the bird’s nest she’d added in the crutch of the telephone pole, and told herself she didn’t care. “I know,” she said quietly.

“Oh, don’t get mad. I’m not talking about your looks. Sure, you look a lot better with your hair all—” He made a vague motion in the general direction of her head. “All up and out of your face. At least people can see how pretty your face is now. And you dress better, that’s for damn sure. But I’m talking about the way you always felt just fine living in your little fantasy world. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, you just pretended like you did. Or pretended like you didn’t want it.” He shook his head and stepped back. “That always confused the hell out of me.”

Since she couldn’t have spoken coherently to save her soul, Becca just stared at him.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the drawing on her easel. “Your idea of the perfect pretend couple?”

Becca cleared her throat and blinked, moving around to face the easel. “Not hardly,” she said. “This is a drawing I’m doing for Dunleavy’s Department Store ads.” She picked up the graphite stick and fiddled a little with the guy’s tux. “They’re far from perfect.”

Colt grunted. “The guy looks like a real wuss.”

“Oh, he is.” She motioned to the bride with her chin. “She’s got him completely whipped.”

“Probably reads his horoscope daily and has his remote controls color-coded. His chin is weak.”

Becca grabbed her eraser. Within a few minutes the groom’s chin could have broken granite. “That’s better. But still, he’s not quite…” She picked up her thinner pencil and sharpened it. A few strokes later, the groom had a thin scar threading below his eye.

“Bar fight?” Colt asked.

“An unfortunate accident with the weed trimmer. He keeps an immaculate lawn, you know. Won an award from the neighborhood association.”

She glanced at Colt and saw that he was grinning. A real grin—not the one he dragged out that was supposed to make people think everything was okay.

She tapped the pencil against her chin. “I know what’s missing.” She stepped up to block Colt’s view and spent a few moments working on the groom’s hair. With a satisfied sigh she stepped back. “One lock of hair, falling rakishly over his forehead.”

“Rakishly?”

“It’s a word. There now. The perfect groom.”

“And that’s the standard? Rakish hair?”

“Of course. A lock of hair falling rakishly over the forehead signals the perfect balance of vulnerability and masculinity. Very sexy, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t really do anything for me. Sorry. What are we going to do about her?”

Becca sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do, unfortunately. The dress is far too frou-frou my taste. But since the dress is the whole reason for the ad, it’s got to stay— I’m going to start dinner. Hungry?”

“Always. What are we having?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Your hesitation has cost you one of my world-famous lasagnas, I’m afraid. I don’t have time now. But I’ll dig up something.”

“Are these yours, too?” He motioned to canvases stacked against the wall.

She nodded.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Actually, the idea held the same level of appeal as if he’d asked to look through her underwear drawer. But since she couldn’t think of a logical reason to tell him no, she simply nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Colt watched her go, chewing the inside of his lip. He still couldn’t decide if it had been a good idea to come over here tonight. The live wire of anger still fizzled in him. He’d even argued with her over her painting on the wall, though she hadn’t seemed to mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything, really.

But then, that was Becca. Everything pretty much rolled off her back, always had. He was still a little disappointed she hadn’t made it out of Aloma. Not surprised, but a little disappointed, for her. He figured that night twelve years ago was the only time she’d ever allowed herself to admit that she had dreams, that she wanted more than what she had.

He flipped through the stack of canvases, remembering the last night he’d seen her, the night of high school graduation. She’d been desperate to get out of town then, desperate to get away from her mother. Desperate enough to offer herself to him as a way out.

He cleared his throat as that particular memory took its effect on him. On more than one occasion he’d regretted the necessity of telling her no that night. No to taking her with him, and no to taking her to bed. But it didn’t take a genius to know he’d made the right decision. Still, if things had been different…

If things had been different, she wouldn’t have given up and resigned herself to a lonely life in the back of nowhere. And he wouldn’t be here cleaning up after the mess of a drunken bum.

He let the stack of canvases fall back against the wall, sick of his own thoughts. It was the real reason he’d come over, he reminded to himself. He was tired of his own company. And Becca was one hell of an improvement.

She didn’t hear him step up to the kitchen door. She stood at the counter slicing mushrooms, humming softly to herself. Her slender bare feet poked out beneath the shapeless sweats, and she reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen and lay at her neck.

Colt stepped up to her and pulled at the pencil that held her hair up. “What’s this—uh-oh,” he said as her hair came tumbling down. “Sorry.”

Her hair fell, and his hand fisted loosely in it. Becca looked at him over her shoulder, and for a moment their eyes met, and held. Colt rubbed the slippery strands of hair between his fingers, then shifted his hand to cup the back of her neck. The cords of it felt fine and delicate beneath his fingers. Her eyes grew wide—dark green pools that looked bigger now that they weren’t hidden behind glasses. For an intense flash, Colt remembered what it had been like to kiss her, to have her on his lap, offering him everything. His eyes drifted down to her lips and watched them part almost imperceptibly.

Then she drew away, smoothing back her hair. “That’s okay,” she said. She fumbled with it, then finally let it drift loose down her back. She looked at the counter, the piles of chopped vegetables in front of her, anywhere but at him. “I hope omelettes are okay.”

“Anything sounds good to me right now,” he said. “Been a while since I’ve had a decent meal at all.”

He leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. What the hell had that been about?

Becca continued to move around the kitchen, chattering as if the moment hadn’t happened, chopping her vegetables. He hadn’t meant to scare her. But then, he hadn’t really meant to touch her. He had to admit, though, it had felt nice.

The last time he’d seen Becca, she’d been sitting on his lap, kissing him almost past the point of no return. It was hard to look at her now and not think of that night. He had assumed all these years that she wouldn’t remember; she’d been pretty drunk. But the look in her eye had him wondering.

He picked up the hunk of cheddar she’d set out, and the grater in the dish drainer, and began grating cheese into a bowl. “So, I thought you were going to Paris?”

“Who told you that?”

“You did, graduation night. You said you were going to New York to art school, then to Paris, because that was where all artists went.”

Becca made a show of concentrating on the eggs she was beating. She poured them into the hot skillet and tilted the pan to let the eggs spread evenly. “I said a lot of things that night. People do that when they’re drunk. They blather.”

“Sure they do,” he allowed. “And sometimes being drunk makes them relax enough to really speak the truth.”

“I wouldn’t know. That was the first and last time I ever enjoyed that particular experience— Do you like mushrooms?”

He nodded, and she sprinkled them in, along with a bit of chopped ham. She took the bowl of cheese from him and dribbled cheese in, too.

“So, what happened?”

“You know what happened. I didn’t get accepted into the art school. I believe I told you that.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

She looked at him then, and her face went still. “You do remember, don’t you. I was hoping you didn’t.”

“It’s not the kind of night a guy is likely to forget.” He couldn’t help the grin that started to creep up.

She mumbled something and turned back to her omelette, folding it over with a spatula.

“I figured you wouldn’t remember,” he said. “You were pretty wasted.”

“You don’t know women that well, Colt. Our most humiliating moments are the ones we remember most clearly. Wasted or not.”

She slid the omelette onto a plate and returned to work on the next, not looking at him.

“It wasn’t humiliating,” he said. “At least, it shouldn’t have been.”

“Come on, Colt. I acted like a fool.” She faced him, one hand gripping the spatula, the other on her hip. “I practically begged you to take me away with you. And I—I…” She sighed and turned back to the pan. “You know what I did.”

Oh, yeah. He knew.

He stepped up and took the plate she held out to him. He wanted to touch her again, but got the feeling he’d get a fork speared in his hand if he tried. Instead he rooted around until he found the silverware drawer, and carried two forks and knives to the small table in the dining room.

Becca followed with a tray containing her own plate, a smaller one with a stack of toast, two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. Her face was flushed, but he didn’t think it came from standing over a hot omelette pan. He decided the gentlemanly thing would be to change the subject.

“The house looks nice. You’ve done a lot with it.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you do all the work yourself?”

“What I could. I had this window enlarged, and I hired Pete Huckaby to do it. He moved to Aloma after you left, I think. He just finished a few months ago. And there was some plumbing that needed to be redone, which I couldn’t do, of course.”

She tore off a bit of toast, but he noticed she didn’t eat it. She looked around the room.

“It was mostly cosmetic work. Paint and paper, and changing the furnishings. But it makes a lot of difference.”

He forked a bite of omelette and studied her as he chewed, thinking of the “cosmetic work” she’d done to herself. “Yeah, it makes a difference in the appearance. But underneath, it’s still the same house.”

She faced him head-on, and he knew from the steely glint that came into her green eyes that she caught on immediately. He knew, and was impressed when he saw her chin lift.

“Yes, it is. But then, the house was basically a good house, solid and strong. All it needed was cosmetic work and a little attention to make it a home again. So why not take it and make it into the home I always knew it could be?” She lifted one brow and almost defiantly stuffed a forkful of omelette in her mouth.

And for some inexplicable reason, that made him want to jump across the table and kiss her.

Instead, he just grinned and shrugged. “No reason I can think of.” He looked around at the design she’d painted on the dining room wall; deep green vines and morning glory climbing over a trellis. She was right—it did feel more like a home than it ever had when old lady Danvers lived here with all her dark, stuffy furniture.

“So you decided to just paint the house instead of painting the world.”

“I paint,” she said defensively. “I haven’t bowled the art world over with my talent the way I’d planned, but I do paint. And you saw the ads I draw for Dunleavy’s. That actually pays a little.”

“I suppose that’s enough, then.”

She glared at him, then sighed. “Yes, Colt, it’s enough. I didn’t go out and set the world on fire like you did, but it’s fine. I have a good life. And my painting may be more of a hobby than a profession, but it’s still mine.” She closed her eyes for a second, then shook her head and looked at him again. “Nothing works out the way you think it’s going to when you’re eighteen, Colt. At least, it hasn’t for me. But that’s okay. You know, when I think about it, not one thing has changed since that night in your pickup, and yet everything has changed. I’m a different person now, even though I’m still the smart girl who helps everybody with their algebra homework. I just get paid for it now. My life hasn’t changed that much on the surface. I’m still in Aloma, still in the same house, still a—”

She broke off with a sharp intake of breath. She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing. He thought for a second she was choking, but she’d just gone very, very still.

And in that moment the thought followed itself through in his head. He dropped his fork to his plate and gaped at her.

“Becca, don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?”