When I fail to respond, he laughs, shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he says. “I like those kinds of music, too. But I’ll listen to Radiohead, Garbage, and Drake before I’ll listen to Placido Domingo.”
“Oh, my God, I love Garbage!” I exclaim, nearly throwing my fork down in excitement. “Shirley Ann Manson is one of my biggest inspirations as a vocalist. But if you’re implying that Garbage is a grunge band, I’m going to have to correct you...”
Our conversation becomes easy, flowing, centering on the topic that I know and love best. I haven’t had this dynamic of a music discussion for a long time, even when spending all my time with musicians. Matt is surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject; he says he loves reading musician biographies, and used to play the guitar and piano. “I don’t do much of either anymore,” he says, “but I still have a Les Paul in the garage.”
“You’ll have to show me it sometime!” I say with excitement.
He smiles. “I’d be happy to.”
When we’re finished with the meal, we’re still chatting easily, our plates and glasses empty. I find that Matt makes me laugh almost effortlessly and am pleased to note that I make him laugh, as well. I think I’m funny, but that sentiment isn’t always shared by others, as my humor is often labeled ‘sassy.’ Matt, however, seems to appreciate it, and even dishes it back at me.
“You’re quite the music expert,” he says.
“Yeah, well, it’s been my whole life for a long time,” I reply. “I bet you’re quite the legal expert.”
He winces. “Ouch. Was that supposed to sound like an insult?”
I grin. “Maybe a little.”
“I’ll remember that,” he says, and there’s a hint of flirtation in his words. I challenge myself to hold his gaze, and I do until we’re both smiling cheekily at each other. I feel a blush coming on and finally look away. How is anyone allowed to be as hot as he is?
When we’ve cleared our plates and cleaned the kitchen, I can’t suppress a yawn. “You’ve had quite a day,” Matt observes. “You want to head to bed?”
With you? I almost say, and then remember that I was glad to have the spare bedroom. “Yeah, I probably should,” I admit. “But thank you for the dinner and the conversation. This was really nice.”
He touches my arm lightly. The same electricity that passed between us in the airport sizzles once again as his skin brushes mine. “It was,” he agrees. “My bedroom is upstairs. Wake me up if you need anything. Goodnight, Jenna.”
With that, he heads up the stairs, leaving me to wander to my bed in a daze. I wash my face, change into my pajamas, turn off the lights, and lie down. Go figure: the mattress is infinitely more comfortable than mine back home.
As I’m about to fall asleep, I mutter to myself, “Don’t get too cozy, Jen. We don’t know if this is going to last.” But as I drift off, I realize that a part of me sincerely hopes it does.Chapter SixJennaWhen I wake up and head into the kitchen, I see a note on the counter. Working until 5. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Look forward to seeing you later. M. My heart performs a little flip-flop at that last part. I’m pleasantly surprised that I’m looking forward to seeing Matt later, too.
I make myself some coffee and scramble a few eggs for breakfast, even though it’s nearing 11 o’clock. I tend to sleep late--it’s a bad habit developed from partying and performing into the wee hours of the morning. Matt has probably already been gone for a few hours. Something tells me he’s an early riser. He probably even works out before he goes to work. He’s undoubtedly one of those people who has his shit together.
I giggle to myself when recalling our conversation the night before. It still tickles me that he listens to normal music, not just old men playing the piano or wailing opera in a foreign language. I can’t help but wonder what other surprises he has in store. There’s certainly more to Mr. Matt Mistletoe than meets the eye.
After I’ve finished my breakfast and put the dishes in the dishwasher, I’m at a loss, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. What am I supposed to do now? Even though Matt and I are getting along well, he’s still a near-stranger, and I’m alone in his house. But he did say something about having a modest library last night, so I decide to investigate.
I wander around the house and eventually happen upon the library. It’s a large room that also evidently serves as a study. His law school degree is framed on his desk, along with a sleek laptop and a coffee mug full of pens. The walls are covered in bookshelves, and a leather recliner sits in the corner of the room. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, wondering if any of them will interest me. I’m surprised to find not just law volumes and nonfiction, but a variety of genres--mysteries, sci-fi, even some romance novels. I can’t resist a grin. Maybe those were a donation from his mom.