Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(72)

My mouth dropped open at his claim and I shook my head, whispering adamantly, "Stop it!"

"The party? Oh, yes. We got the invitation, but we're not sure if we can make it. Marie has a work conflict that she's been trying to reschedule."

I buried my face in my hands, continuing to shake my head.

"How about I contact you tomorrow with a firm answer? Does that work?"

He paused, as though listening to David on the other end. I peeked through my fingers and found Matt had retrieved his own phone and was entering something into it.

"Yep. I have your number. I'll text you either way. Okay. Yeah. Ha ha," Matt's eyes sharpened on me, "tell me about it. Yep. Okay. Bye."

I pulled my hands from my face and accepted my phone back, glaring at my so-called friend. "You overstepped."

"I pushed. Big difference." He gave me a look that was somehow both apologetic and unrepentant.

"Yes. You did. And you lied."

"Technically I didn't lie. I'm a boy, who is your friend."

"The last time I heard someone say those words, I was thirteen."

His gaze softened. "If you're ever going to find happiness, then you need to get over this guy."

I fought the urge to surrender to uncontrollable laughter. Pot. Meet Kettle. You have everything in common.

"I am over him."




       
         
       
        
"No. You're not. Evading his calls for weeks-no, months!-isn't the way to do it. Avoidance isn't the way. You need to confront things head-on."

"Like you confront things head-on?"

"Yes. Exactly like me. Which brings me to the second part of my proposition."

I braced myself, honestly worried about what it could be.

Something about my expression must've been funny, because Matt laughed. "Don't look so afraid."

"I can't help it. I never know what to expect with you."

"But that keeps things interesting, right?" He gave me a saucy and over-exaggerated wink that had me rolling my eyes.

"Just tell me what it is."

"Okay. I propose that, in return for your help next weekend with Kerry and Marcus . . ."

Matt paused, his eyes holding mine with an unsmiling, unwavering stare. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he almost looked nervous. But before I could consider this as a possibility, he finished his thought on a rush. "I'll go-as your date-to your ex's engagement party."





18





Cyc

A "thinking" artificial intelligence project that attempts to assemble a comprehensive ontology and knowledge base of everyday common sense knowledge, with the goal of enabling AI applications to perform human-like reasoning.

Source: Cycorp



I turned Matt down.

He told me to reconsider, both his offer to escort me to David's party and my trip to New York to engage a professional dry humper.

And that's where we left it because I had a conference call to prepare for.

At least, I thought that was where we left it.

But then Friday morning, as I was waiting outside the gate for my flight to New York, who should I see but Matt Simmons.

Walking toward me.

With an effervescent smile, entirely too effervescent for 6:00 AM.

Wearing black dress pants, a sky-blue button-down shirt, and Converse.

I glared at him, irritated with myself for noticing how breathtakingly hot he looked.

The days apart since our last interaction had been good. Positive. I'd felt better about him, about us. Maybe it was possible to salvage our friendship. Maybe I really could roll back the crazy, suppress the urges, and recalibrate my expectations to platonic.

But seeing him now, feeling the involuntary but familiar surge of bittersweet anticipation, pissed me off.

He was holding a drink tray with two coffees and grasping a paper sleeve with some sort of pastry, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. His stride was easy, confident. And his hair was crazy, unbrushed, like he'd run out of time getting ready this morning. I loved his crazy hair. 

As my gaze devoured the sight of him, I felt a pang of despair.

Despair because I was beyond attracted to him. I was so far beyond platonic, I'd jumped head first into the deep, dark waters of desire. Yet, thanks to witnessing his snogfest down the hall from Fiona and Greg's apartment, I was also at peace with the fact that he was never going to return my feelings, not in any meaningful way.

Even if what Abram had said was true, that Matt didn't feel worthy of me-and I wasn't convinced this idea held any merit-it changed nothing. Matt wasn't a car that needed to be fixed. He wasn't a robot needing reprogramming; he was a person. He was ultimately responsible for fixing himself, and only if he wanted to.