The Secret Of Us

All very normal. All very fixable.

Yes, that had to be it, I thought determinedly as I closed my eyes. We would talk and work it out, and everything would be back the way it was supposed to be. We would get married, and I would be Mrs Matthew Noble, and we would have our two-point-five children and a dog and a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs.

It would all be okay. It would all be just fine in the morning, in the cleansing light of day.

Matt just needed to remember how we got here, why we got here. Maybe he just needed to be reminded. Sometimes, in the happy glow of ease, pain is too easily forgotten. All the steps and the struggles that have shaped us become softened by time, and complacency blurs reality to make us believe that any new bump in the road is justification for surrender. As though we have been stripped of our fighting spirit. He needed to be reminded that we were too important to throw away on a whim.

On a napkin.

I shook off the fingers of doubt that were creeping back in, threatening to strangle the faith I was so desperately clinging to.

He would remember. Matt would remember.

Remember how we met, how we fell in love. How much we both wanted this life together.

Tomorrow, he would remember.

Chapter Three (#ulink_8ab79661-02cd-5b1d-b152-e61d456d5de0)

February 2002

“My mother always warned me to watch out for redheads,” a voice behind me said. “They’re dangerous.”

The words were hardly audible above the din of the darkened bar. Music rumbled in the background, competing for everyone’s attention against raucous laughter and a thousand different conversations all shifting shape under the neon glow of lighted beer signs.

I turned from my table companion to see who was speaking and came face to face with the man I wanted to marry. It was that simple and that complicated.

Of course, it wasn’t something I knew right then, in those first moments. Nothing I could have known, and, I think, nothing I would have believed if someone had told me. In those moments, it was simply a meeting between two strangers, a smile exchanged, witty banter volleyed like a tennis ball.

“Are we now,” I said, taking the bait and feeling a stupid smile slip beyond my control to light up my face. Light it up and set it on fire.

All under my flame-colored hair.

Luckily, the handsome face returned my smile, revealing perfect, white teeth. He had a slightly crooked nose, long and narrow, set between eyes the color of melted dark chocolate.

“Very. Hot tempers and all that,” he drawled.

“Ah. And here I thought we were just horribly blush-prone.” No matter that the red hair pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck was compliments of L’Oréal rather than genetics. Most people assumed that it was natural, given my coloring and the authenticity of the shade, and I felt no need to give a perfect stranger such insight into my beauty habits. A lady has to have some secrets, after all.

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention it, but – your face does sort of match your hair.” The more he spoke, the more I wanted him to say. He seemed magical.

“You sure do know how to charm a lady, don’t you?” I said, still blushing profusely and smiling so hard my face hurt. It seemed impossible to stop either one, even though I would have given my right arm at that moment to be able to return my face to a normal shade.

“It’s a God-given gift, what can I say?” he laughed, running long fingers over a small patch of the stubble that shadowed his jaw.

“One of many, I’m sure.” I’d finally managed to lower the wattage of my smile, but I was betting I was still pretty red.

“Definitely. And I can build a Lego castle like nobody’s business.”

I leaned closer, crooking my finger at him so that he would bend down. “I wouldn’t advertise that,” I whispered.

“Noted,” he whispered back, smiling broadly. His eyes were warm and seemed to dance under the overhead lights. “Does that mean you’re not impressed by Lego?” he asked, straightening and pulling a chair up next to mine. His gaze flickered over to my table mates, and he flashed a small smile at them. “Sorry I’m late, guys, traffic was a nightmare.”

Surprise must have registered on my face, because the smile broadened when he looked back at me.

“I guess I’m going to have to do the honors, since this bunch seem to be inept at introductions.” He leaned forward in the chair he was now occupying and extended his hand. “I’m Matt.”

I grasped his proffered hand, realizing that I hadn’t yet recovered from my initial shock at his joining us.

“Eira,” I stammered back.

His grip was cool and strong, the size of his hand making my own seem small and delicate by comparison. A look of confused interest flashed through his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth before the question passed from his brain to his lips.

“Sorry?”

This was definitely not a new response to my name.

“Eira,” I repeated. I smiled patiently, realizing that he was probably embarrassed at his reaction. “Eira,” I said one more time, just to make sure he caught it above the ambient noise of the bar. “E-I-R-A. It rhymes with Tyra.”

“Is that short for something?”

“No, actually. Full name.” I reclaimed my hand reluctantly, feeling a little silly to notice that neither of us had let go. “It’s Norse for help or mercy. And, yes, it’s a real name,” I said, absently smoothing a wrinkle from the lap of my jeans.

“Well, Eira, it sounds to me like you’ve gotten more than your fair share of crap over your name,” Matt said sheepishly.

I cocked my head and smiled with the slightest trace of acidity.

“It shows, then, does it?”

He held up his hand, thumb and index fingertips spaced millimeters apart. “Tiny bit.” He grinned and dropped his hand into his lap.

“So tell me. How do you know this lot?” he asked, indicating the group around us, all of whom now seemed completely unconcerned with our presence.

“I was just about to ask the same of you,” I replied, arching an eyebrow. “But since you asked first, I guess I’ll have to wait.” I reached for the seltzer water in front of me, rolling the skinny red stirring straw between my fingertips as I formulated my reply.

“You want the short story or the long one?”

“I’ll take the Reader’s Digest condensed version for now,” he answered, his eyes leaving my face long enough to catch the attention of our waitress. She gathered her round plastic tray from the corner of the bar where she’d been holding post and began to weave her way through the packed tables dotting the room.

I held my answer until she’d left us to retrieve Matt’s requested bottle of beer.

“Let’s just say we all met through a mutual acquaintance, and I got custody of the friends in the divorce.” I lifted a shoulder and pressed my lips together in a rueful smile.

Matt widened his eyes. “Ah.”

I realized my cryptic answer was a little too cryptic and left too much to speculation. “Not that there was an actual divorce,” I said hurriedly. “Or even a marriage,” I continued, growing more and more flustered by the second.

And redder.