yes, heâd been protecting himself, too. But last night he realized just how much heâd missed her friendship. He wanted that deep connection back in his life. He yearned for it. But she needed time.
Ironically, time was the one thing he didnât have.
Four
M att leaned back in his chair, draining the last of his coffee, doing his best not to flinch as the bitter sludge slid down his throat and sat like a rock in his stomach next to the overcooked chicken. âThat was an amazing meal, Mrs. Douglas. Thanks again for having me over.â
âArenât you sweet.â Emilyâs mother beamed with pride and reached across the table to pat Mattâs hand. âYou know youâre always welcome, dear.â
Beside him Emily, who had been quiet throughout the meal, made a âpfftâ sound. Matt glanced over at her, eyebrow raised, and she looked back, the picture of innocence. More than once during dinner Matt had found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye, intrigued by the subtle changes since heâd last seen her. And some not so subtle. Her hair was the same pale shade of blond, but instead of theshort, boyish cut she used to wear, it now hung halfway down her back in silky waves. Her neck was long and slim, her face thinner, accentuating the high arch of her cheeks and full mouth. Despite her height, which he guessed to be at least five-nine, and the muscle tone that indicated she was no stranger to vigorous exercise, she was distinctly feminine.
And then there were her breasts. Not too big, not too small. Not that he had a right to look, but damn, they were as pretty as the rest of her. He let his gaze wander down to the front of her tank top, where he could barely make out the pattern of a lace cup beneath the white cotton.
At the sudden, intense pull of lust, and a death glare from Emily, he tore his gaze away.
âHey, Matt, Iâll bet you canât get a home-cooked meal like this in California,â Mr. Douglas boomed from the opposite end of the long dining table.
And thank God for that, Matt thought wryly. Mrs. Douglas had a heart of gold, but she still couldnât cook worth a damn. âNo, sir, not even close.â
âOh, Phil.â Emilyâs mother waved a hand at her husband. âDonât be silly. Matt probably has an entire staff of cooks in that fancy house of his. Donât you, Matt?â
âI eat out most of the time,â he admitted. âAnd when Iâm home I like to cook for myself. I only hire kitchen staff when Iâm entertaining.â
Ty lifted an inquisitive brow. âEntertaining?â
Matt knew exactly the kind of entertaining Ty was referring to. But it was rare that he invited a woman home. Most of his relationships were far too superficial and short-lived. âDinner parties mostly or holiday meals.â He turned to Emilyâs mother andgrinned. âIâve yet to find someone who cooks like you do.â
âYou flatter me,â Mrs. Douglas said, her smile radiant. Her face had a taut, stretched look he didnât remember, and he wondered if sheâd had some work done.
Emily cleared her throat and Matt could swear she mumbled something that sounded a lot like âbrownnoser.â He looked over at her but she was sawing at the rock-hard pecan pie.
âWould anyone like a warm-up on their coffee?â Mr. Douglas asked, holding up the carafe.
âThereâs more pie in the kitchen,â his wife added.
âNone for me,â Ty said. He leaned back and stretched his arms high over his head. âIâm stuffed. Iâm gonna go turn on the game.â
Emily stood and began gathering the dishes. âMy turn to clear and load the dishwasher.â
âDonât you even think about it, young lady,â her mother scolded. âWe hand -wash the good china.â
âWonderful,â Emily muttered under her breath, shooting Matt a look of contempt,