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Matt says the word with the correct French pronunciation. I glance at him in surprise, then snap the photo. “Have you been to France?”
The corner of his mouth tips up, and he gives me a sly side-glance. “You sound surprised. You think small-town luthiers don’t travel?”
“I—no.” But that’s exactly what I thought. Matt seems like a rural guy. His bike is dusty, as if it’s been ridden on dirt roads. His house is modest, and he drives a Subaru. His clothing is generic—I looked up the brand on the coat I accidentally stole from him, and it’s from Costco. I suck in a breath. “I forgot—I still have your coat.”
He eyes me for a second, seemingly baffled by the change in subject. “Yeah, you do. You can keep it for now.” He holds out an arm—he’s wearing a worn leather jacket over his jeans and T-shirt. “Although I’d like to get it back eventually—I’ll need it next winter.”
I snicker. “I think I can get it back to you before next winter.” I tap my phone and hand it to him. “Give me your number. So I can arrange a time to drop it off.”
He doesn’t take the phone. “Oh, you can leave it on the porch any time. This is Rotheberg. No one’s going to take—oh.” He breaks off and his cheeks go pink. Then he grabs the device, ducking his head as he enters his number. I reach for it, but he hits the call button, waiting until his own phone rings before handing it back. The move comes straight from the single man’s guide to modern dating and seems out of character. His personality veers between bumbling single dad and hot player faster than I can process.
He hands me the phone with a grin and a patently fake leer. “Learned that from my daughter.”
Oh, yeah, the college-aged daughter. It’s easy to forget he’s got a kid who’s only ten years younger than me. That’s not too unusual in my world. The older guys with more disposable income are always looking for younger women.
But Matt is different. He’s not a slick Hollywood actor trying to reclaim his glory years or retain his young audience. Those guys want to date younger women to stay relevant. Matt doesn’t care about impressing the eighteen- to twenty-four-year-old demographic.
Of course, he’s a fan. He probably thinks I am that girl he sees on the screen. That’s what the critics always say—I play one character: myself. The sweet little blonde next door. The girl who bakes brownies and takes romantic walks in the park, and yes, ice skates.
Side note: I had to learn to skate because EVERY Christmas movie on the Romance Channel involves an ice-skating scene, and that’s my bread and butter.
But I’m not that girl. If I bake brownies, they’re from a box—who has time to do that stuff from scratch? And I prefer skiing to ice skating.
Of course, Matt and I already took a romantic walk in the park. Maybe I am that girl. Do I want to be?
Ignoring another text—this one from my mom rather than Maddie—I tuck the phone in my pocket and give Matt a quick once-over. He isn’t a wealthy actor or producer. He might like to brag to his friends that he dated an actress, but he isn’t going to use me to build his brand. He’s a nice guy in a nice town—someone I’d like to spend more time with.
And he has great abs.
“Hey, if you aren’t busy tonight…”
His head pops up. “I’m not.”
I bite my lip. I’m supposed to keep this thing secret, but Matt already knows about it. “Would you like to come to the wedding with me? My dad may be the groom, but I don’t really know most of these people. It would be a lot more fun if I had someone to hang with.”
He glances over his shoulder at the chapel. “I’m no expert on these things, but aren’t you supposed to RSVP weeks in advance? Will there even be a seat for me?”
I wave that off. “I know of at least three people who said they’re coming but definitely aren’t, so there will be plenty of room. Hollywood types are unbelievably fickle. Besides, the bride already gave me heck for not having a plus-one—it was upsetting her seating chart.”
“She’s going to be even more upset if you bring one after you said you weren’t going to.”
“Perfect.”
“I take it you don’t care for the bride.”
I snort. “Do you know who he’s marrying this time?”
Matt shakes his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t followed the celebrity gossip on Nick Holmes.”
“I knew I liked you.” I grin. “She’s second runner-up for this year’s Miss Oregon pageant.”
“Eva had a friend in that pageant.” His eyes go wide as his brain makes the connection. “Your dad is what, sixty?”
I look away. “Seventy. Don’t tell anyone—he likes to pretend it’s a secret. But yeah, he’s marrying a girl younger than his daughter. Almost as young as his other daughter.” I take pity on his confused look. “My sister Madison is twenty-one.”
“And you want to bring an older man to the wedding to prove a point?”
“No!” I wave both hands. “No, I’m inviting you because I like you. Besides, you’re not that much older than me.”
