“Word.”
He moves over to an impressive bar set up on one side of the room, and I follow. I’m not sure if I should have another drink. For the entire cab ride over here, I’ve felt ... off. Dizzy and feverish. It’s not my usual reaction to alcohol, which tends to mellow me out. Maybe I’m getting sick.
Even now as I watch Max slide behind the bar, I find myself staring and not blinking. I’m wired but it feels too intense.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
I look over the bottles lined up on the scuffed wood. Screw it. I’ll have one more drink. Maybe it will help with the tension in my muscles. I feel like I have so much pent-up energy, I could run a marathon. “Can you do a G and T?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I even have ice.” As he goes about mixing our drinks, he glances over at me. “So, you didn’t seem too heartbroken about missing the Stoners tonight.”
“My sister was the fan. I was just tagging along. Live gigs really aren’t my thing.”
He brings my drink around and stands closer than I expect. He leans on the bar, and I don’t miss how extraordinary his arms are. Again, my attention is drawn to his tatts. I didn’t think I had a thing for ink on men, but he may very well change my mind. Also, his chest is spectacular in that T-shirt. And although I’ve never had a strong opinion on belts, the one he’s wearing, which is drawing my line of sight to his crotch like a magnet, is disturbingly hot.
See? This is another symptom of my current wrongness: noticing everything about him; wanting to touch everything. I’m craving to run my fingers over his skin; crumple the fabric of his T-Shirt in my fist; press my forehead against the cool metal of his belt buckle.
“Well,” he says, either ignoring how hard I’m staring or not noticing. “I’m glad you tagged along. And I’m glad I picked you.” He takes a step forward, and it makes the air between us way too thick. “And above all, I’m very glad you’re here now.”
I grip the edge of the bar to keep my hand from acting out. “I have the impression you wouldn’t be starved for company even if I wasn’t.”
“Maybe not, but out of all of the lottery tickets in the world, there are very few jackpots.”
“You think I’m a jackpot?”
“I think you’re all the jackpots.”
Warmth runs through me, and okay, I’ll admit it. I get why he’s so popular. I doubted him being able to take a contrived situation like a rock star romancing a fan and make it convincing, but his commitment is extraordinary. He has me believing every word he’s saying, and I really don’t want to. I can only imagine how he affects women who are into all of this romantic crap. I guess I can understand that it’s nice to feel less insignificant for a while.
“What’s it like to have all those women lusting after you?” I ask, studying his face. I’m talking about his clients, but it works in Caleb’s context as well. “Does it ever get old? Having them project their fantasies onto you.”
He keeps his eyes on me, but there’s tension in his jaw. “We all need fantasies now and then. Sometimes believing our lives can be different is the only thing that keeps us going.”
“And what fantasies keep you going?”
For a second he just stares at me, and for the first time since I met Max, I see his rock-solid composure slip.
“Discussing my fantasies right now isn’t a good idea. I’m trying hard to be a gentleman tonight, and telling you everything I’m thinking would ruin that.” He sips his beer. “How about you? Care to confess your current fantasies?”
He expects me to come up with a coherent answer when I can barely focus on anything that’s not him? I search for something vaguely intelligent. “I fantasize about ... being a successful journalist.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
He moves closer. “You’d like to be a successful journalist, sure, but that’s not what you fantasize about. Fantasies are what we desire, whether we like it or not.” He puts down his drink and places his hand over my eyes. I tense as my whole body flushes. “Now, tell me what you see.”
I take in a sharp breath as I’m bombarded by images.
Him, peeling off my shirt and kissing a line from my jaw to my chest. Him wrapping me in thick, painted arms, groaning in need as he tears off my underwear.
“Tell me,” he whispers.
Him, sweeping the bottles off the bar, so he can lie me down and mount me and have me screaming in pleasure as I come, and come, and come –
I pull his hand away and walk to the other side of the room. This attraction is getting out of control. Apart from Justin Timberlake, I’ve never fantasized about a man in my life, sexually or otherwise. And these fantasies were so powerful, I can feel an echo of his hands on parts of me he’s never touched. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You okay?”
I nod and press my cold glass against my cheek. “Just feeling a little dizzy from the alcohol. I’ll be fine.”
“Come sit on the couch ‘til it passes.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” The last time I sat on a couch with him, I lifted my shirt and showed him my bra. In my current state, I can only imagine what would happen.
He walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge before coming over and replacing the alcohol in my hand with a cold bottle of water. “You may be dehydrated. Sip this until your head clears.”
Ugh. Again with the sweetness. Doesn’t he understand that until he stops with that, my head is never going to clear?
I take a sip of water then put some distance between us by wandering over to look at the piano. I’m still shaky, but it’s easier to cope when he’s not near me.
“It’s a beauty.”
“Take a seat,” he says. “She does more than just look good.”
I put my water on the floor and wipe my hands on my jeans before grazing my fingers over the keys. “I’ve always loved the piano. I’m jealous you can play.”
“Wow,” he says, deadpan. “I’ve never met a woman before who has pianist envy.”
When I groan, he smiles.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I do envy you. I wanted to learn piano when I was a kid, but there always seemed to be more important things to do.”