Just where he wanted her.
“Hi,” he drawled, brushing back some of her blond hair. “Miss me?”
The smile on her face made his sternum ache. “Yes, I did.”
“I smell dinner?”
“Lasagna. Just homemade—I didn’t know whether you would …” As she let that fade, she put her hand on his face, shaking her head. “God, every time I see you…”
“What.”
“I just forget what you look like. Until you’re in front of me.”
“Good or bad.”
For a moment, her expression changed as if she were taken somewhere else in her head. But then she shook things and seemed to refocus. “Good, very good.”
Duke did some touching of his own, running his fingertips down her neck. “Do you think we’ll make it through dinner this time?”
Man, he was amazing, Cait thought as she absorbed the sight and feel of her lover. To think her memories seemed vivid? They so didn’t compare to the real thing.
Wait, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he.
Something about making it to dinner?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly as erotic flashbacks made her feel dizzy. Still, talking like civilized people for half an hour was probably a good short-term goal. Then they could … “Ah, let me show you around—not that there’s much to show.”
That awkwardness, the discordant, off-kilter stuff that she’d felt at the diner after the boathouse hookup, came back—and made her wonder about having him to her home.
He was, after all, still a stranger, technically.
Too late now, though.
Before she got a chance to lead any kind of tour, Duke glanced over her head with a remote expression. “Nice place. But I like the looks of its owner even more.”
“You haven’t seen anything.” She flushed. “I mean, of my home.”
He shrugged. “This place could be the Taj Mahal and I’d think the same thing.”
She pivoted away so the blush that hit her face wasn’t quite so obvious. At least the sexual connection was still alive and well between them. “So … this is the living room.”
She stopped the narration there or she was liable to point out such exotic features as the couch, the TV, the lamp on the side table … the frickin’ rug.
“And I work in here.”
Moving onward to the porch, she pulled a Vanna White, turning in a circle and feeling like an idiot. But at least she didn’t have to apologize for the shape things were in. She’d spent the last two hours cleaning everything from floor to attic—although that had been more because she was nervous than any sort of mess.
“Great light in here,” he murmured, putting his hands in his pockets and wandering over to the display of pages on the tables.
As he inspected each drawing, Cait crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight back and forth. The sight of this tall, broad man in black clothes standing over her work made her feel like she was in a funhouse, everything going wonky on her. He was not at all like Thom … or G.B. No, he was latent power and raw sex, a bonfire upright in a pair of black combat boots.
She wanted him.
Holy hell, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him again.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing without touching.
She walked over, smoothing her loose skirt and feeling her panty hose ride up. She’d worn a bra tonight—because she’d wanted him to take it off her with his teeth—but the reality was, she wished she didn’t have any makeup on, and was in sweats.
Long day. Very long.
She still hadn’t heard from G.B. And the time she’d spent in that church was lingering with her, hanging like a weight around her neck for no valid reason she could think of.
It was really good to see Duke, though. Just his presence reprioritized things, at least for the next couple of hours: There was nothing she could do right now about G.B. or Sissy’s funeral, and that was true whether or not she was alone. And what she and this man were likely to get up to? What a way to pass the night.
“It’s a book I’m working on,” she said, kicking herself back to attention.
“Nice dog.”
“I love Labs—I grew up with one. Are you a dog person?”
“Never had pets.” He continued to go down her storyboarding table, taking his time—and that made her feel a little more comfortable. Maybe they’d have things to talk about after all. “Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”
Cait shrugged. “I just was one. Kind of like someone who’s good with math or science—I came out this way.”
“These are really good.”
“I teach, too.”
“Where?”
“At Union, actually.” As he glanced over his shoulder, she shrugged. “I didn’t get very far, did I.”
“You went from student to professor.” He turned back to her work. “That’s a hell of a distance.”
There was a strange note in his voice, but before she could follow up, the buzzer went off in the kitchen.
“’Scuse me.”
She could feel his eyes tracking her as she headed for the lasagna, and that itch to get him good and naked nearly made her derail the whole save-dinner-from-burning thing: After all, there was a couch in her living room with plenty of leg room—and that was a huge step up from boat cushions or linoleum.
Grabbing an oven mitt, she popped open the stove and leaned back so she didn’t melt her eye makeup off.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” she whispered as she took the pan out.
“That looks perfect,” he said next to her.
The sound of his voice made her jump, but she recovered quick. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“That would be a lie.”
As she put the lasagna on a mat on the table she’d set, she did a quick survey. Yup, everything was in place—
“Wine. I forgot to offer you wine.”
“I’ll get it. Have a seat.”
“It’s just the bottle over there on the counter.”
She picked the chair in the corner so she could watch him, and yup, that was a good plan. First thing he did was take off his jacket and hang it on the pegs by her back door—those arms. Dear Lord, those arms. And then luckily, he had to turn away to open that Italian red: As he took the old-fashioned uncorker-thingy and screwed it down into the bottle’s head, the bunching and releasing of his biceps and triceps made her thank God for the necessity of manual labor. And his back was just as spectacular, the expanse of his shoulders flaring out wide on top before his torso narrowed in tight at his hips.
And his … lower assets … were sheer perfection in those jeans.
Bruce Springsteen’s ancient album cover had a case of the middle-aged sags compared to Duke.
As he came over with the bottle, she picked up the spatula she’d laid out and got busy cutting squares through the melted mozzarella.
“You want some, too, yes?” he said.
“Please.”
As they served each other, she felt a little more relaxed. And then when he took a bite and was all about the mmmmmmmmm? She might as well have been Julia frickin’ Child.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, sipping her wine. “I—oh, no, I put out hors d’oeuvres and forgot.”
Just another example of her game. Yup. Real player over here.
He glanced over at the crackers and cheese by the toaster. “I’m a main-event kind of guy.”
As his eyes swung back, they traveled down her body—and she had to rearrange herself in the chair. “Especially with you,” he tacked on.
In spite of the fact that it had taken her an hour to make the dinner and forty minutes to cook it, she was suddenly ready to push her plate away and finish the tour of the second floor in her bed.
“Can I admit to something embarrassing?” she blurted.