J. Ward - Possession

Flushing, Cait looked away. She didn’t know what to do with comments like that, and the fact that Teresa was with them made her feel even more awkward.

When another couple of women came by to chat with him, she checked her watch. As much as she was enjoying this—

“So, you look like you’re getting ready to head off.” As she glanced over, G.B. smiled at her—and wow, his dark eyes were pretty. Were they brown? Blue? “Do you have anyone waiting at home for you?”

Cait’s brows rose. He wasn’t suggesting that—

“She doesn’t even have a cat,” Teresa interjected. “Or a goldfish.”

“Oh?” G.B. smiled again. “So no one, huh.”

Cait started to feel truly antsy. “Well, I’m allergic to cats.”

“Me, too.” G.B. took a long drink of his tea and then resettled with the base of the mug balanced on his knee. “Is it okay for me to ask for your number?”

As G.B. waited for Cait as in C-A-I-T to respond, he was more than happy to pass the time looking over at her.

The blond hair was hella ’tractive, and that smooth skin—his hands just wanted to touch her again. That shake of theirs had been way too short, and he’d been racking his brain ever since to find another socially acceptable reason to make some sustainable contact. Not that this was Regency England, but come on—he didn’t want her to think he was a letch.

He really wanted to go out with her.

The second he’d gotten on the stage, he’d seen her in the crowd, sure as if she had been sitting under a spotlight: long and tall, simply dressed, really good hair. Nothing bar harlot about her, and she was listening to him like she was interested—but not with that rapt thing that most of the women sported.

This one was going to be different. He could feel it.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” he tacked on, since she seemed to be on the fence about the whole phone call thing.

“I—ah …” Cait jerked upright in her seat and then shot a hard look at her friend.

“Of course you can call her,” the dark-haired woman said. “Here’s her number.”

As the buddy took out a pen and scribbled on a napkin, he was more than happy to take what was offered. But he looked first to Cait—he wasn’t touching those digits unless she was okay with it.

“You sure about this?” he asked her.

The fact that she seemed shocked that he’d call her made him want to get on his knees and beg her—just so she would feel like a queen.

Abruptly, she straightened her shoulders like she’d given herself a pep talk, and met him right in the eye. “I’d love to hear from you.”

Yes , he thought with triumph. The day hadn’t started off all that well—what with someone messing with his guitar while he’d been voicing a commercial for Petco, and then him fighting a northbound traffic jam coming out of Manhattan. But this blond woman with her even-toned voice and her expressive hands and that delicious reserve had turned it all around.

“Well, I think I’d better get going,” she said as she bent to the side and picked up her purse.

“It’s Friday night,” her friend pointed out.

“I’m under deadline.”

“What are you working on?” G.B. asked, hoping to keep her around a little longer.

“It’s a book for five- to eight-year-olds—about a chocolate Lab who worries about things. I have to admit, it’s been one of my favorite projects. The puppy’s adorable, if I do say so myself.”

“I’d love to see your work sometime. Seems only fair after you’ve heard me sing.”

She got to her feet, and she was even taller than he’d thought—and that was just more good news. “I can’t imagine you’d be interested in that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, I’m interested.” His eyes drifted down to her mouth … and then went farther, to the pale column of her throat. “I’m sure you do beautiful lines.”

God knew she was made of them—at least according to his peripheral vision, which was working just fine, thank you very much. And he knew better than to go any farther with the gawking than that. Whereas some women might be flattered by him going all obvi with the check-out stuff, she was not one of them.

And yup, that was a really nice change of pace.

Although … that being said, he wasn’t exactly sure he was looking for a long-term relationship with anything other than his singing. Then again, he’d been “dating” the same kind of groupie for how many years? Maybe it was time for quality instead of quantity.

As Cait smiled at him, he felt a shot of lust go right through him. Yes, he really did want her…

“You’re a charmer, you know that?” she drawled.

“That’s been mentioned before—maybe once or twice. Is it such a bad thing, in your opinion?”

“Of course not.”

Liar, he thought.

Leaning forward, he wanted to take her hand, but didn’t. “Just so you know, it is possible to be both charming and honest.”

“Of course it is.”

She was still lying. And didn’t that make him want to prove her wrong. “I will call you, by the way.”

“Of course you will.”

G.B. smiled again as she put the strap of her purse up on her shoulder. “You’ve made my night, you know,” he told her.

Cait actually rolled her eyes—and though her friend looked mortified, he loved it. This was not your average woman, easily seduced by a song and a stare.

“I’m serious about that,” he said. “You really did.”

“Well.” There was a pause. “You’ve cheered me up also, how about that.”

“Answer my call and I’ll see if I can keep the trend going.”

“It’s a deal.”

And a date, he thought.

With a couple of words to her friend and a casual wave over her shoulder, she was gone, weaving in and out of the little tables, passing by the bar, disappearing through the front door.

G.B. carefully folded up the napkin and put it in the front pocket of his shirt. Then he smiled at her friend. “She’s pretty special.”

The dark-haired woman nodded. “Yeah, she is. And this is really good timing for her.”

He stared at the exit she’d used. After a moment, he murmured, “Me, too.”

“—godforsaken, miserable piece of shit!”

As Jim faced off at the stove from hell, he thought about giving the cast-iron nightmare a swift kick in the oven door—but with the way things were going, he’d either break that little glass window or his foot.

Which would be the perfect fucking nightcap to an absolutely magical fucking evening.

All he wanted was a couple of eggs—scrambled, over easy, fried, he didn’t give a good goddamn. He couldn’t remember the last time or thing he’d eaten, and when Ad had made a food run to Hannaford earlier in the day, the guy had had the brains to pick up some Eggland’s Best.

It wasn’t like he was after truffles or twelve kinds of fancy, culinary crap.

Eggs. Just eggs.

Except like everything else, he couldn’t make it frickin’ happen: The only thing the burners on the cooktop seemed to do was burp gas; the pan he found looked like it had been forged by hand in the Middle Ages; and he wasn’t sure, but he thought that the refrigerator was doing the death rattle of something about to meet its maker.

Which in this case was … General Electric, going by the logo on its off-kilter door.

Giving up, he sat down at the table and lit a cigarette, figuring the nicotine might perk his immortal ass up. At the very least, holding the Marlboro would give his right hand something to do other than make a fist and test the structural integrity of the walls.