Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

Harrison.
K ATIE WOULD never forget the very first time she saw Matt Harrison. It was in her small, comfortable office at the publishing house, and she had been looking forward to the meeting for days. She had loved Songs of a Housepainter, which seemed to her like the most memorable short stories, quite magical, condensed into powerful, very moving poems. He wrote about everyday life--tending a garden, painting a house, burying a beloved dog, having a child--but his choiceof words distilled life so perfectly. She was still amazed that she had discovered his work.
And then he walked through the door of her office, and she was even more amazed. No, make that entranced. The most primitive parts of her brain and nervous system locked on to the image before her--the poet, the man. Katie felt her heart skip a beat, and she thought, My, my. Careful, careful.
He was taller than she was--she guessed about six foot two. He had a good nose and strong-looking chin, and everything about his face held together extremely well, like one of his poems. His hair was longish, sandy brown, clean and lustrous. He had a deep workingman's tan. He smiled at something, hopefully not her height or her gawkiness or the goofy look on her face--but she liked him, anyway. What was there not to like?
They had dinner that night, and he gallantly let her buy. He did insist on picking up the tab for a couple of glasses of expensive port a little later. Then they went to a jazz club on the Upper West Side, on a “school night” as Katie called her work nights. He finally dropped her off at her apartment at three in the morning, apologized profusely and sincerely, gave her the sweetest kiss on the cheek, and then off he went in a cab.
Katie stood on the front steps and was finally able to catch her breath, maybe for the first time since he had walked through the door of her office. She tried to remember . . . was Matthew Harrison married?
He was back in her office the following morning--to work--but the two of them skedaddled off to lunch at noon and didn't return for the rest of the day. They went museum hopping, and he certainly knew his art. He didn't show off, but he easily knew as much as Katie did. She kept thinking--who is this guy? And why am I allowing myself to feel the way I'm feeling?
And then--why am I not trying to feel like this all the time?
He came up to her place that night, and she continued to be astonished that any of this was happening. Katie was infamous with her friends for not sleeping around, for being too romantic, and way too old-fashioned about sex; but here she was with this good-looking, undeniably sexy, housepainter-poet from Martha's Vineyard, and she couldn't not be with him. He never, ever hustled her--in fact, he seemed almost as surprised about being in her apartment as she was that he was there.
“Hummuna, hummuna,” Katie said, and they both laughed nervously.
“My sentiments exactly,” Matt said.
They went to bed for the first time on that rainy night, and he made her notice the music of the raindrops as they fell on her street, the rooftop, and even the trees outside her apartment. It was beautiful, it was music; but soon they had forgotten the patter of the rain, and everything else, except for the urgent touch of each other.
He was so natural and easy and good in bed that it scared Katie a little. It was as if he had known her for a long time. He knew how to hold her, how and where to touch her, how to wait, and then when to let everything on the inside explode. She loved the way he touched her, the gentle way he kissed her lips, her cheeks, the hollow of her throat, her back, breasts--well, everywhere.
“You're absolutely ravishing, and you don't know it, do you?” he whispered to her, then smiled. “You have the most delicate body. Your eyes are gorgeous. And I love your braid.”
“You and my mother,” Katie said. She loosened the braid and let her long hair cascade over her shoulders.
“Hmmm. I love