Her rule was a simple one: Move in and stay put as long as she could.
Goddamn Jim. If only he hadn’t found where she’d been hiding out before this.
Great water pressure in those pipes. And Carrara everywhere.
As it was, she was stuck with a relatively anemic spray, white clinical tile, and a urinal next to the sink.
No wonder she’d been so desperate for a hotel stay.
But the good news was, the water was hot, and the soap was her favorite from Fragonard—apricot and clementine. Getting out, she grabbed one of her Porthault towels and wound her hair up tight; then she wrapped a second one around her body.
Given her imminent get-together, she waltzed over to her wardrobe and chose carefully. Short, tight skirt from Louis Vuitton’s resort collection. A Missoni blouse that was a second skin with plenty of downward draft. No hose, no bra, no panties. Same pair of Loubous she’d worn to yoga.
Devina laid everything out on her big bed, and then went to do hair and makeup at her vanity. She took her time … and still that summons hung on.
Must be important, and how delicious was that? About time she was paid some proper respect.
Dressed and ready to go, she went over to her mirror and stepped through. After a whirl of transportation, she stood at the base of her well, staring up at the viscous walls and the groaning, restless masses trapped within them.
Straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair, she went over to her stained and battered worktable … and called the angel Adrian down to her.
As he appeared before her, he was just as big as he had always been, his shoulders the kind of thing that offered plenty of acreage to claw at, his heavy arms as thick and muscled under his T-shirt as a prizefighter’s, his hips anchoring a c**k that she knew well, and had missed.
The best part? He was icy-cold angry, his good eye and his milky one both narrowed and spitting out hatred, his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
Ohhhhh, yeah. After a night of lying chastely with Jim, she was sexually frustrated in the extreme. This was just what she needed to tame the burn down.
“Why, hello,” she drawled with a smile. “Pining for me again?”
Chapter Twenty-five
“This is … incredible.”
Cait actually had to look over at the plastic box her sandwich had come in. “I mean, I really can’t believe this came out of a vending machine and was—”
“Premade, right?” G.B. sat down across the little stainless-steel table and nodded. “It defies the laws of cold storage.”
“I feel like it should be served in a fancy restaurant.” She wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. “I didn’t have a lot of hope, to be honest.”
“I will never steer you wrong.” G.B. peeled off the aluminum top of his. “I got the ham—what did you choose again?”
“Turkey. I didn’t want to gamble with all the mayonnaise on the chicken salad—but after this? I probably would. I think this is real chutney in here.” She turned her sandwich his way. “Really.”
G.B. nodded as he bit into his own. “Almost all of the cast went out to eat, but that’s a little rich for my blood—besides, with this? Why bother.” While chewing, he cracked open a little bag of Cape Cod potato chips. “Share these with me?”
Cait shook her head and put her hand in front of her mouth. “I watch my weight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re perfect.”
“I don’t know about that—and I’m not psycho or anything, just a little dusting around the edges, as I call it. No snacking, no extras like rolls or chips or cookies, and I’m careful on the alcohol and the soda. A little gym time and I do okay.”
She was chattering on about nothing, mostly because she still felt awkward from that embrace onstage—for no good reason. He’d been so wonderful, hugging her close, doing that male thing that made you feel like someone had your back. And afterward? He’d made a real effort to be charming and a little silly, as if he knew she needed that to pull out of her mood—
Ah, hell … it wasn’t about the embracing.
She was going out with Duke again tonight.
That was the problem.
“Is there a sketch pad in there?” he asked, nodding to the vacant chair next to her.
She glanced down at her big purse. “Yup. It may be a cliché, but I take one with me everywhere.”
“Makes sense. I’m the same way—I have a lyric notebook. I keep it in my bag always—sleep with it, too. My friends who aren’t in the biz think I’m crazy—I’m always taking it out, scribbling, toying with words.”
“Been there, done that, except it’s pictures for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by accountants and lawyers—it’s nice to be with someone who gets it.”
“Simpatico,” he said with a smile.
As they chatted along, they were alone in the square room, sitting among the vending machines, a coffeemaker and a refrigerator with a PT STAFF ONLY (THIS MEANS YOU, CHUCK) sign on its door. The three other tables were empty, although the smell of fresh java and popcorn lingered in the air as if someone had used things very recently.
“So, being in Rent’s a pretty big deal,” she said.
“Yeah, I mean, this isn’t Broadway, but I’m happy to have steady work for about eight weeks. And it’ll be the first time I’m onstage doing any acting along with the singing. I’m pretty pumped about that.”
“How long do you rehearse for?”
“The next two weeks straight, till about six at night. Which is good, because I can keep my gig schedule.” He finished off his sandwich and the chips. “I dunno, I’m getting tired of the multitasking, keeping all these balls in the air.”
“I know what that feels like. Before I got my teaching position? I was working four different jobs as I submitted illustrations for projects, did my own artwork, and generally prayed that I’d be able to keep a roof over my head.”
He eased back, his handsome face relaxed, his beautiful hands wiping themselves on a napkin. “So, you don’t have parental help?”
Cait laughed. “Absolutely not. My mom and dad don’t come from anything, and any extra money goes to the church.”
“Religious types?”
“Like you read about—literally.”
“So you’re not close to them.”
She wiped her own palms, and then tucked the wad of napkin into her empty, sandwich-shaped container. “Yes and no. I mean, they’re still my parents, you know? So I love them. They’re just hard to talk to about anything other than their beliefs—and they leave the country a lot to go on missionary trips. So that’s kind of isolating. Plus there’s some residual damage.”