The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn

“I—” Natalie started. “I remember everything,” she whispered.

“Everything?”

“Every embarrassing minute of it. Up to and including—” She swallowed. “Oh, no.”

Theo nodded sympathetically. “Oh, yes. Up to and including the handsome Matthew Quinn.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Natalie was still trying to calm herself down with a mental barrage of reassurances.

It wasn’t really such a disaster, was it? Actually, this made her day a whole lot easier. She had planned to try to track Matthew Quinn down sometime this afternoon anyhow.

It was just that she had hoped to wait a few hours, until her eyes weren’t quite so bloodshot. She had wanted one more shower, to banish any lingering whiff of stale liquor…or worse.

She had planned to put on her navy-blue suit, and panty hose, and maybe even makeup. She had intended to tightly French-braid her unruly hair. She had desperately wanted to look professional, sober and sane—well, as sane as any Granville ever could.

Instead, she was going to have to meet him like this. In her working jeans, with her head made of glass and her stomach made of Slinky springs.

Oh heck. Maybe it was for the best. This was how she really looked. If she couldn’t persuade Matthew Quinn to help her without the aid of a suit and panty hose, maybe he wasn’t the perfect man after all.

He was sitting in the back, reading the newspaper. Probably looking at the classified ads, she thought. Hunting for a job, no doubt, now that he’d decided he didn’t want the one she was offering.

She continued hanging the ferns on the hooks above the front windows. She tried not to look at him too much—it would be bad for her concentration. But she was relieved to see that he looked the same, even now that she wasn’t viewing him through the rosy fumes of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

He was very tall, well over six feet. Maybe a touch too thin, as if no one fed him right, but still pleasantly powerful, especially those broad, squared-off shoulders.

Healthy, thick brown hair, with a touch of wave that he didn’t bother to subdue. She’d be willing to bet he didn’t own a single can of mousse or hair spray. Call her old fashioned, but she hated a guy who used more hair products than she did. Which, in her case, amounted to one generic brand of combination shampoo and conditioner and a brush. Serious vanity required more time—and more money—than she could spare.

She couldn’t see his eyes from here. But she remembered them. Hazel eyes, with dark, thick lashes. Gorgeous eyes, but more than that. Smart eyes. And best of all, kind eyes.

She didn’t pay much attention to men’s clothes—or women’s either, for that matter—but she sensed that he hadn’t spent a lot of money on his jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Some of the pinup boys around here could take lessons. They spent obscene amounts on their designer outfits, and they didn’t look half as good as Matthew Quinn.

Of course he had the advantage of being naturally sexy as all get-out. She had dreamed about him off and on last night, and, with the whiskey pretty much acting like chloroform on her inhibitions, it had been a fairly X-rated evening.

Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him about that. It would scare him off for sure. And she didn’t intend to act on her fantasies. She was looking for a handyman, not a boyfriend. It was only important because it proved that he truly was special. She didn’t have X-rated dreams very often, which she now realized was rather a shame.

At that moment he glanced up. He seemed to be looking for a waitress, but, even though she was high on a chair hanging the last fern, he spotted her.

For a few long seconds he waited, as if he weren’t sure whether it was polite to admit yesterday had ever happened. So, to put the question to rest, she smiled. And then, slowly, he smiled back.

Gosh. She nearly fell off her chair when her knees threatened to go soft on her. She didn’t want to act like a gushing teenage groupie or anything, but he had a wonderful, summery smile. It was full of sunlight and warmth.

Oh, yes. Drunk or not, her instincts had been so right yesterday. This man was special. He was perfect.

And she wasn’t leaving the Candlelight Café until he agreed to come and work for her.

She climbed down carefully, whisking debris from the front of her jeans. She swiped at her hair, hoping she could dislodge any small green flecks of fern from her curls. And then she made her way to his table.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly aware that every woman should have her own personal scriptwriter. There must be something witty and sophisticated she could say to sweep them past this awkward moment. But her mind remained a stubborn, gawky blank. “How are you?”

“Great,” he said, still smiling. He put the newspaper politely down, giving her his full attention. “How about you?”

He didn’t put any particular emphasis on the question, but she flushed anyhow.

“I feel absolutely gruesome,” she said. Why not be honest? She had a strong feeling that they could be friends, that they would work well together, but not if she started out with a phony facade. “And terribly embarrassed. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. You were wonderful. A real knight in shining armor. And I was a complete mess. Absolutely disgusting. I don’t even think I thanked you properly for saving my life.”

He shook his head. “You were cute and completely charming, not at all disgusting. And you thanked me several times, even though your life was never in the least bit of danger.”

He drank some coffee, raising his eyebrows over the rim. “Actually,” he said, “I got the idea that maybe the rougher stages were yet to come. Maybe your friend Stuart got the worst of it?”

She caught herself smiling. “I’m afraid he might have.” She sighed. “I don’t remember all of it, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to buy him a new pair of shoes.”

“Uh-oh.” But Matthew’s eyes were sparkling, and she could tell he found the whole episode more amusing than appalling. That was a good sign. At least he wasn’t one of those stuffy prigs who put women on pedestals and lost interest if they ever got sick or dirty or tired or bitchy. Or drunk.

Not that she got drunk very often. Yesterday was her first time ever, and it would probably be the last. But in the nursery business you were always dirty. And sometimes, not often, she did catch herself being a little bit bitchy.

Theo appeared at the table. She put a plate of banana-walnut pancakes in front of Matthew, and a large fresh orange juice in front of Natalie.

“I didn’t order anything,” Natalie said, glancing over at her meaningfully.

“I know you didn’t.” Theo crossed her arms. “But you need vitamin C for that hangover.” She turned to Matthew. “And you could use two or three more pounds of meat on those bones. So no arguments from either of you. Just eat up.”

Natalie lifted her glass with a resigned sigh. “You might as well take a bite,” she told Matthew. “Theo won’t budge from that spot until she gets her way.”

Matthew smiled suddenly. “You’re Theo?”

Even the notoriously immune older woman melted a little under the wattage of that smile. She unfolded her arms. “Theodosia Burke. I own the café.”

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Matthew said. “I was sorry to see the flyer about your dog. Have you found him yet?”

“No, not yet.” Obviously pleased by Matthew’s concern, she dug in her crisp white apron and pulled out an extra copy of the picture. “Here. If you’d keep your eyes peeled for him, I’d appreciate it. The fool animal is going deaf. No telling what trouble he might get into.”

Matthew took the flyer. “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “I know you must be worried.”

“Yes. Well. Eat up.” Taking Matthew’s check, Theo slipped it into her apron pocket. “Breakfast’s on the house,” she said gruffly.

She started to move on to the next table, but suddenly she turned back and gave Natalie a steady look. “And just for the record, I don’t think you’re having a Granville moment, whatever Stuart Leith says. I think your judgment is just fine on this one.”

Natalie flushed, hoping Matthew couldn’t decode that little message. For as long as she could remember, Glenners had described her family’s idiosyncrasies as “Granville moments.” When her grandfather had bought a pair of giraffes to lope across the Summer House lawns, it had been a “Granville moment.” The helicopter pad, the dance-hall strumpet installed as the children’s governess, the bootleg whiskey fermenting in the bathtub, all historic Granville moments.

She had grown up on the story of her great-great-grandfather, who had declared war on the city of Firefly Glen and established a cannon on the mountain ledge overlooking the town. Apparently the Glenners had largely ignored it, observing placidly that the old man was clearly having a “Granville moment.”

She studied Matthew’s face to see what he thought of Theo’s cryptic parting comment. But she couldn’t quite read the expression. She didn’t know him well enough, not yet. He merely seemed to be enjoying his pancakes.

Okay, it was now or never. She took a big gulp of the orange juice and launched her attack.

“Anyhow, I did want to apologize. But I also wanted to see if there’s any way I can talk you into accepting the handyman position.”

She saw him look up and prepare to speak, but she rushed on, hoping she could forestall another refusal. “I know it probably seemed like the job from hell yesterday, what with me acting so goofy and the house being such a mess. But I want you to know that I’m really not a lush. In fact, I don’t drink at all. Granvilles never drink. They have no head for alcohol whatsoever.”