“What the hell is that?”
“It’s what they call an entry-level lobbyist. I became an expert in international trade policy because Heartland exports a shit-ton of tractors and other large farm implements. It was a fun job but it didn’t pay all that well, if you really want to know. I lived in a house with five roommates, all of whom were slobs.”
“Ah, so you’ve grown up and decided that lawyers make more money, huh?”
He shrugged. “No. Heartland closed its DC office and I lost my job. So I came back here and joined the family business, so to speak. I’m doing pro bono work for the moment.”
“Pro bono work? Really? You must be working with Arwen, then.”
He nodded.
“So tell me about some of your cases.”
She seemed genuinely interested, which sort of blew his mind. Usually his dates were interested in talking about stupid YouTube videos or whatever was trending on Twitter or Facebook. Courtney didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who wasted time on stupid social media. She was interesting. And interested in him. And beautiful to look at too.
Maybe he should thank Brandon for the bet. Whether he got her into bed or not, this evening was turning out better than expected.
Courtney glanced at her watch, surprised to discover that dinner with Matt had lasted more than an hour and a half. The warm, late-May sun had slipped behind the building, casting Winchester’s old town into twilight shadow, where trees permanently wrapped in white Christmas lights provided a festive, midsummer atmosphere.
Matt’s choice of the Union Jack had surprised Courtney because it wasn’t a very romantic restaurant. There were no white tablecloths here, no fancy sauces or high-priced menu items, although you could get bangers and mash if you were so inclined.
Hook-up Artists like Matt Lyndon operated under a set of rules that almost never varied. A Hook-up Artist would make a move on a woman, and once he confirmed her interest, he’d go for the dinner invitation. If she said yes, he would always interpret that as a prelude to sex. He’d pick the most expensive restaurant he could afford and then proceed to spend way more money than was absolutely necessary in order to make his date think he valued her.
Then he would mess with his date’s mind. He’d pick the one thing she felt most insecure about and compliment it. He might sneak in a few pet names like “darling” or “sweetheart” or “baby.” He’d ask questions and give all the appearance of being genuinely interested, but the next morning, after he’d left her bed, she’d suddenly come to her senses and realize that none of his questions had been about her. Not really. They’d been about surface stuff like her favorite color or recording artist.
Matt Lyndon had done none of those things. He’d invited her out to a moderately priced burger joint, had not used one term of endearment, and had spent a lot of time exposing his own insecurities with a great deal of good humor.
Right at the moment, they were sharing a piece of apple pie, and he was regaling her with a story about his experience arguing in a moot court competition.
“So, after giving my less-than-articulate oral argument,” Matt said with an adorable smile, “I returned to my seat while my co-counsel wrapped up our case. Unfortunately, one of the casters on my chair had mysteriously come out of its slot, and when I leaned back, I was unceremoniously dumped on my ass.”
He paused a moment to polish off the last bite of pie. “Needless to say, we didn’t win that moot court competition, and I had to endure a lecture from Judge Chapman about decorum, which I’m sure my father heard about, since the moot court judge is a law school buddy of his.” Matt sighed deeply and mournfully. “So you can imagine how I’m feeling at the moment about the prospect of having to argue anything before the Twenty-Sixth Judicial Circuit of Virginia, where Chapman is still a judge.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said, and really meant it.
“Yeah, I hope. To tell you the truth, I only went out for moot court competition because I knew I would never make Law Review, unlike my dear cousins, David and Andrew, who preceded me at UVA.”
He leaned forward, bracing his head on his fists. “Tell me, Courtney, did you ever take a pratfall in front of someone you wanted to impress?”
Damn. Matt Lyndon had game. He was pretending to be the Nice Guy Not, all interested in getting to know her insecurities while simultaneously telling her stories that showed him to be a humble guy with a sense of humor. She wasn’t fooled. She made a note of the judge’s name. She had a connection to that judge that Matt probably didn’t even realize. As for his question, she sure wasn’t going to expose any weaknesses that he could use against her at some future time.
Her most embarrassing moments had occurred in high school. And since she was probably ten years older than Matt and they’d gone to different high schools, she felt no need to expose her own stupidity for his enjoyment. Maybe if he were genuinely interested in her instead of trying to win a bet, she might reveal the nightmare of her teen years. But Matthew Lyndon didn’t need to hear about the geek girl she’d once been.
And besides, although she truly had enjoyed this dinner, she could never forget the
