Shit. Did she recognize him? Is our cover blown? Hell, maybe we should have stayed in the compound for dinner.
But that wouldn’t have made this little trip feel like we were something real. Then again, maybe this is the reality of a life we’d have. Always hiding behind walls to stay out of the eye of the paparazzi and fans.
From the way she wobbles on her stool, I’m guessing she might be too wasted to place him. His gray baseball cap covers his hair, and his head is turned in profile. Maybe she’s European and won’t recognize him? I’m not sure how big Cav is over there, but I’m desperately clinging to the hope that we’re not going to be outed. On an island this small, we really have nowhere else to hide besides the house. Gossip would spread in hours to every resident of this place.
I watch for a few more moments, nervousness twisting a knot into my stomach as she talks and laughs. Her blond friend joins the conversation, practically falling off her bar stool to get closer to him.
The knot in my stomach soon morphs into something other than nervousness. They’re surrounding him, each with a hand on his arm and one offering up her drink to him. Cav waves it away but the brunette insists, nearly impaling him with the straw. He relents and grabs the glass, sips from the side, and nods in approval.
Another minute and a half of watching these women put their hands on him—his biceps, his shoulder, his fucking abs—has me accepting a simple fact. I’m jealous.
I don’t get jealous. I can’t think of a time in the last two years with Tristan that I ever saw him with another woman and wondered what the fuck is he doing? But Cav isn’t Tristan. Cav is in a league of his own, the kind of league where men have arms that women, like the blonde, want to wrap their hands around.
I turn away, not wanting to see any more because, frankly, I’m disgusted with how I feel. The knot in my stomach sloshes around the Panty Rippers I drank, and suddenly I don’t give a shit about the drinks. I want some food, and I want to get out of here so I can analyze what the hell is going wrong with my brain. Jealous? That’s not me.
And over Cav, someone I know for a fact has half of the American female population drooling over him? Someone who is only permanent as long as we stay in this little fantasy we’ve constructed?
Seriously, Greer? Get over it. I don’t have any right to be jealous, but my gut reaction doesn’t lie. I don’t want to see another woman’s hands on my man.
My man? Maybe for however long Creighton decides we need to lay low. Because who knows what’s going to happen when I get summoned back to New York. I’m not placing any bets on where this is going.
Stop, I order my brain. I’ve got tonight and a limited number of days with Cav. I’m not going to waste them feeling like a jealous shrew.
As soon as I give myself that mental slap to the face, Cav returns with our drinks.
I opted for the fresh mango margarita, chancing the jump from rum to tequila in my semi-buzzed bravery. Cav has a bottle of Belikin, the beer of Belize, or so all the signs I’ve seen proclaim. I tell myself I’m not going to say anything about the women at the bar, but the words come out anyway, and I sound just as bitchy as I did in my head.
“Make some new friends?”
Cav frowns as he pulls off the napkin that’s wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle and tucked inside the top. “New friends?”
“At the bar? Did they recognize you? Do we need to vacate the premises and prepare for a paparazzi invasion?”
He laughs and takes a swig. I glance over my shoulder to the bar and find the two women watching him drink.
Uh. No, ladies. Not yours.
When Cav sets the beer back on the table between us, he says, “We’re good. No worries. They were just being typical barflies.”
Who he let paw at him?
“Well, they seemed pretty friendly.”
He takes another drink and nods to my margarita. “Aren’t you going to try it?”
I reach for the straw paper and toss it away, sucking back a healthy swig of the thick drink. It’s like a mango smoothie that happens to have booze, and it’s delicious. The sweetness helps take the edge off the sour feelings in the pit of my stomach.
“Greer, what’s wrong?”
Oh, great. Now I’m clearly telegraphing the fact that I’ve been smacked with the jealous girlfriend stick. Except I’m not his girlfriend. So I do what most women would in my position. I lie.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” The sharpness of my tone gives me away instantly. Epic fail, Greer.
Cav’s hazel eyes study me and he shakes his head. “Bullshit.” He pitches his voice lower, and it carries a distinct air of authority. “Spill, woman. Something’s up.”
Do I continue to lie, or do I come clean and get over this ridiculous flare of jealousy?