Possession (Fallen Angels #5)(94)
Author: J.R. Ward

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.

He cocked a brow. “This is really Stouffer’s?”

She shook her head. “No. I honestly did make it.”

“It would have been okay if you hadn’t. You don’t need to impress me like that.”

Cait dropped her eyes to her plate. “You’re sweet.”

“Not really. So what’s your ‘something’?”

“You’re the first man to set foot in this house.” As his head whipped up, she put her palm out. “No, no, it’s not weird or anything. I mean, of course, there’ve been workmen. Like the electrician when I—never mind. You’re just the first one I’ve, you know, invited in. For … a date.”

Duke lowered his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Sorry,” she said slowly. “Did I cross a boundary or something?”

“No.”

Liar, she thought as she pushed at her food. Damn it, she should have just kept things light and easy. Except that wasn’t really her. Gym body or not, she wasn’t into casual sex and it was hard to pretend she was.

“I’m …” When he didn’t finish, she grimaced and wanted a do-over, starting at the front door. Or at least when she’d come in here to tackle the lasagna.

“I’ll be honest, too, then.” He wiped his mouth a second time, as if he needed something to do with his hands. “I don’t deserve the honor.”

The statement was factual, and he didn’t dwell on it—he just went back to eating.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

He shrugged, and then nodded at her plate. “You don’t like this?”

“Why?” she repeated.

It was a while before he answered. “As you know, I didn’t graduate from Union. Looking around your house, I’m guessing that the men you usually go for finish things.”

Again, he clearly wasn’t in search of sympathy, or subtly manipulating her into an ego stroke: His voice was as level as if he had been discussing the weather.

As she thought of Thom and his career in finance, Duke cocked a brow at her. “Am I wrong?”

“I don’t have a long list of men.”