Back in Service. Isabel Sharpe

      “Well!” She glanced pointedly at her watch and lifted a hand in cheery farewell. “I’m due to meet someone for a drink. Great to see you, Chris, and to meet you, Zoe.”

      Not waiting for answers, she turned and headed for her red Kia Sportage parked in the lot behind the theater, her cheeks hot, mind whirling. So. Finally, it had happened. She’d seen Chris Hamilton.

      For the first couple of years after graduation she’d imagined bumping into him, fantasized about it, actually. How after one glance into her eyes, he’d tell her he’d made a terrible mistake letting her go, that he couldn’t live without her, that he loved her desperately and always would and blah blah blah blah.

      More years had gone by, six in total by now, and she’d stopped worrying about seeing him. Stopped worrying she’d fall apart, beg him to take her back, stopped worrying about the pain she was sure only he could bring. Because she was over it, thank you very much. There’d been other men since, and no, she was not comparing.

      The only really awful part was that after all her efforts, after she’d reached a real understanding of the forces that drove their passion, analyzed that passion to death and accepted not only that it was over, but that its being over was for the best, tonight it turned out Chris Hamilton in the flesh was still dangerously attractive to her. Whatever had pulled them together, in spite of the utter stupidity of professor and student hooking up, that power was still there.

      “Matty.”

      Crap. Matty closed her eyes, considered pretending she hadn’t heard him, but he wouldn’t buy it. Probably because it was ridiculous.

      She whirled to face him. He stopped short, watching her warily. Damn him, why hadn’t he put on weight or wrinkled or just turned ugly, for heaven’s sake? He looked fabulous. Six feet of good-looking that knew how to do the sheet tango better than anyone she—

      No, she was not comparing.

      “What do you want, Chris?” Matty bit her lip, shocked at how bitter and angry she sounded. So much for putting her feelings safely behind her.

      “I want to see you. I want— I just want to see you.”

      “Ha!” The syllable came out without her permission, a mixture of shock, horror and a tiny explosion of pleasure. “How does Zoe feel about that?”

      He put his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. Stomach still flat. Thighs still long and muscular under casual pants. Darn him.

      “Zoe is a colleague.”

      “Oh, so you’re doing those now, too?”

      “Low, Matty.” The bastard spoke calmly. She could not get to him with insults.

      Matty checked herself. She should not want to get to him at all.

      “Sorry. You know me. If it’s in my brain, it comes out my mouth.” She inhaled slowly to settle herself. “I just don’t think getting together is a good idea.”

      “But...how is that possible?” He looked genuinely confused. “I only have good ideas.”

      Her laughter was reluctant. Charm as well as sex appeal. Chris had it all, the slime bucket. “No, thank you.”

      He took a step toward her.

      Turn around. Turn around and walk away now.

      “You look great, Matty.” His gentleness enveloped her. Too much intimacy. “I like your hair long.”

      “Yeah, thanks.” She was not going to tell him how fabulous he looked.

      “You doing okay?”

      “Yes! Fine! Great!” Her voice cracked. He’d notice. He was good at that. And what woman wasn’t a sucker for a man who noticed? It’s just that she hadn’t noticed six years ago, that while she had fallen madly in love with him, he was only interested in what lay between her legs. “I’m getting theater work pretty regularly, and I have a side business in real estate that’s picking up.”

      “Good. Good for you.” His brows drew down. He pursed his lips, the way he did when he had something uncomfortable to say. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

      Me, too. She stood silent, hands in her jacket pocket clutching her car keys.

      “Well.” He touched his forehead as if he were tipping his hat and turned away, a gesture at once so familiar and dear to her that tears threatened. Six years ago, Matty. For God’s sake.

      She walked rapidly toward her car, breaking into a run when her steps weren’t getting her there fast enough.

      Damn it. Damn it. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she let him affect her so deeply?

      She unlocked the car, wrenched open the door and hurled herself inside, started the engine and peeled out of her parking space.

      Santa Monica Pier, here I come. She was going to go there alone and drink herself into a stupor, how pathetic was that?

      Very! And it was exactly what she was in the mood for. A long parade of drinks, surrounded by happy partyers and the wild, wavy ocean. She’d sit by herself, looking mysterious and sultry, indulging memories she hadn’t allowed herself to call up for years, brooding and wallowing in emotional agony.

      Then she’d sleep soundly in the apartment she shared with her best friend and be fine tomorrow. Chris would again be safely part of her past and she could really move on this time, having gotten this first post-relationship encounter over with and ending up unscathed.

      An hour later, she was standing at the pier’s end, inhaling deeply, pulling her jacket around her for warmth against the stiff, salty wind. Of course she was much too sensible to get drunk. One beer and the crush of bodies around her had gotten annoying, the noise not conducive to proper misery. Her big scene, like most, played better in fantasy than in real life.

      But she loved it out here, staring at the black sea, a whole world under there, not one single resident of which had gotten his or her heart crushed by Chris Hamilton.

      They’d met in class her senior year. He was teaching a seminar on music and culture in Paris around the turn of the twentieth century. She’d thought he was hot from the first day. In fact, she and her girlfriends—including a new friend named Clarisse—had giggled and oohed and aahed and had a great time dissecting his every word, gesture and look. As crushes went, hers seemed particularly intense, but so what? He was a professor. She was a student. And never the twain shall sleep together.

      They’d gotten to know each other through a shared love of all things French, had talked earnestly after class one day, then another, had gone out for croissants and café au lait. Then lunch at a French restaurant he particularly enjoyed...

      Later they’d admit that they’d known what was happening, but since they hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything about it, the attraction was harmless. What counted were the ideas they shared, their similar views and tastes and humor.

      Ironically, the crossing of the line had happened because of Clarisse’s first “suicide attempt,” a low-risk grab for attention after a guy dumped her.

      Eventually, Matty had realized Clarisse suffered from pretty serious mental issues. Compulsive lying, sociopathic tendencies and a deep need to screw her friends’ boyfriends. But at the time, Matty had been terrified and extremely upset. Who wouldn’t be? The woman had tried to take her own life!

      Matty had called nine-one-one and ridden with Clarisse to the hospital. When she’d heard Clarisse was going to survive—of course she was—Matty had finally broken down, tears that wouldn’t stop. Walking home to her dorm, she’d run into Chris, returning from a Pomona orchestra concert. One look at her face and he’d invited her out for coffee. She hadn’t wanted to be out in public looking like hell. No problem, he’d drive her to his apartment, where he’d set up the spare bedroom if she wanted to stay over. They’d shared a bottle of wine. Talked until very, very