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I stare at him. “Are you kidding?”
“No, why?”
We sit down, facing each other across the beautiful spread he’s made. The salmon is perfectly cooked, complemented by the crispy potatoes and fresh, green asparagus. Everything looks especially good now that I’ve also consumed a glass and a half of wine.
“I don’t know,” I demur as I put some food on my plate, trying to resist the urge to fill it to the brim. I’m starving. “You just don’t strike me as an ‘alternative, grunge, R&B’ type. You’re more of a ‘stuck up suit’ type.”
The grin Matt flashes at me is a little wicked. “Stuck up suit? I’ve never heard of that term before. Why, you think I’m an ‘opera, piano, and smooth jazz’ type instead?”
I don’t say anything, choosing to take a giant bite of potatoes instead. That’s exactly what I was thinking.
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 he 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 a 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.
6
Jenna
When 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. Looking 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 him 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.
