God, what a night.
And it was interesting. No matter what happened in the future between them, Duke had taught her something significant. While she was with him down at the boathouse, she had lost track of everything for a little bit—and not just in terms of her work on the book or her classes or her bills. That internal monologue of criticism had actually shut up for once, and its absence had been more instructive than its commentary. She had simply existed in the moment when they’d been together, pulled free from her upbringing for a long breath of air … and it had been marvelous.
Of course, the tape that played in her head had come back online, especially during the awkwardness at the diner. But at least that transient experience had proved she could turn it off.
She needed to do that more often, preferably not with anyone else’s help…
It was entirely possible that that freedom was what “living” really meant.
Could it be that the vocabulary of a day or a night, what she did, where she went, who she was with, what color her hair or clothes were, was not the dispositive thing, not what would get her what she was after? Rather, it was her own internal approach to it all that made the difference.
Duh, she thought.
She just hadn’t put it together until now.
And she did have Duke to thank for the revelation, even though he had no clue what he’d given her aside from the best sex she’d ever had.
Staring across her room, images of him were as vivid and three-dimensional as the moments that inspired her memories, and it didn’t take long before she was out of bed, and going for her closet. Sometimes the only way to calm her brain down was to draw whatever was in it.
And reliving those eyes, that mouth, the jaw, she had touched? No big sacrifice.
Turning the overhead light on, she found the big bag she used during the day slumped in its cubby, sure as if it were asleep. Rummaging through the Altoids, tissue packs, sunscreen, sunglasses, old-fashioned address book, recent copy of Arts Magazine, hard pencil case, she found…
That her sketchbook wasn’t in there.
Where the hell had she left it?
A quick trip downstairs proved that it wasn’t in the kitchen, and she even went out into her car and checked under the seats.
On one level, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. There hadn’t been anything in it other than rough sketches, outlines, doodles, and notes on current projects, but the content wasn’t the issue. Something of hers was out in the world on its little lonesome, unprotected—she felt as though she’d left her SUV unlocked downtown after dark.
Heading back to her bedroom, she shook her head. Maybe she needed to get a dog to reprioritize things properly.
Or … a child.
Her steps faltered and she stopped halfway to the second floor. She couldn’t possibly have just thought that. Nope. She wasn’t having children—that had never been part of her goals. Ever.
And okay, if she had had that passing brain spasm? It was clearly the result of the hormone overload she’d been enjoying for the last forty-eight hours.
She was not the maternal type. That had been something true as a bedrock ever since she’d had a mature thought about anything.
In fact, that resolution had been part of the reason Thom’s call so many months ago had hit her so hard: He had always agreed with her. No kids—it made life simpler and less expensive. Nicer and more tidy. They were going to be two professionals living in a home with white carpets and lots of glass.
The spic-and-span version of a picket fence.
Cait restarted her ascent, her mind churning. Having sex on boat cushions in a semi-private place was not “nice,” and neither was what she’d done the night before at that club on the floor. And making out by her parked car in the cold because she didn’t want to leave the man she’d just made love with was definitely not “tidy.”
And yet here she was, counting down the hours until she could become undone all over again.
Maybe the last six months at the gym and the various other self-improvements had been a case of laying a new kind of groundwork for her life. And if you went by the truism that timing was everything … a Duke, not a Thom, was what she needed.
It was entirely possible that nice-and-tidy wasn’t what she was after anymore.
Her phone started to ring just as she was resettling against her pillows. With a lunge, she all but cleared her bedside table to get at the thing, a smile breaking out not just over her face, but deep within her chest. “Hello?”
Talk about perfect timing…
“Hey, Cait.”
She sat upright in a rush. “G.B. Oh, hi.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
Yes. “No. Not really.”
Crap.
“Sorry to call so late. But I’ve left you two messages, and when you didn’t get back to me, I got worried—you know, after what happened to you in the parking garage.”
“Oh, yeah, no. I mean, I’m fine.” She pushed her hair back and pulled the lapels of her pj top closer. “I just didn’t get your voice mails.”
It hadn’t even dawned on her to check her phone.
“Hot date or something?” As Cait struggled to answer that one, he cursed softly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a horrifically long day, and I’m probably over-reacting. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Home safe, as a matter of fact.” She frowned. “What went wrong today?”
“Everything, but I didn’t call to bitch to you, honest. I really was concerned.”
“That’s kind of you—except now I’m the one who’s worried.”
There was a pause. “It’s good to hear your voice, how about that?”
“Did rehearsals not go well?”
“The director was being a dick, ’scuse my French. And there was some weird stuff with other staff people. The good news is, tomorrow is a new day, and—”
A beep cut in. Someone else was calling.
“Hey, G.B., give me a sec—hold on.” She hit hold call and answer. “Hello?”
“Tell me you made it home all right.”
Cait closed her eyes at the sound of that deep, husky voice. “I did.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Cotton PJs.”
“Are you going to make me beg for you to take them off?”
Cait bit her lip, eyes closing as her head fell back. “No…”
Her body was instantly ready again, needing that connection it had found with this man on her phone—