It was nice to think of anyone at all being proud of her, for that matter. To imagine having someone to tell her news to.
You could tell Nev.
Still spinning, she closed her eyes for a second and let herself fantasize about what it would be like to have him to tell. She could see the indulgent way he’d smile at her. He’d call her Mary Catherine and kiss her. They’d go out to dinner somewhere fancy with too many forks, somewhere they’d eat their salad after the entrée and follow dessert with cognac. He’d make love to her later like a precious thing, and she’d bask in his approval.
The chair slowly spun to a halt, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her computer desk squeezed up against the photocopier, which was squeezed up against the conference table, which was squeezed up against Judith’s tiny compartment of an office only eight feet away. Cath didn’t have a door or a job title or any firm prospects after the exhibit went up in eight weeks.
She’d come a long way, but she had a long way left to go, and Judith’s announcement confirmed what she’d already known. New Cath was on exactly the right course. What had happened with City was 180 degrees in the wrong direction.
She couldn’t go down that road again. If she’d learned anything at all since Mom got cancer, it was that all her instincts were backward. She had to plan out her moves carefully, charting the steps, distrusting her impulses, because her impulses always led her astray. If she wanted a man, that was proof positive she should stay as far away from him as possible.
Especially if she wanted him as badly as she wanted Nev.
Chapter Eight
He was waiting for her on the platform. Cath studied him as she approached, soaking up all the differences the day had made in him. Tiny things she might not have noticed before, when he was simply City. The crease between his eyebrows and the tension in his shoulders told her he was tired. His stubble had grown in—not too much, but enough to soften the line of his jaw and draw her attention to the contrast. In the morning, he could’ve modeled for GQ. By late afternoon, he reminded her more of an overworked prince, fretting about the condition of his subjects. It made her want to smooth her hands over his temples and kiss him.
She should’ve taken an earlier train.
Unsure what the protocol was for this arranged accidental meeting of theirs, she gave him half a smile and an abbreviated wave, then stepped through the open door into the car. The train wouldn’t depart for a few minutes yet, and there were still seats available. Cath took her favorite one—front row, forward-facing, by the window—and he sat beside her.
“I thought you didn’t sit,” she said.
The dimple appeared. “The way I’ve worked it out, this is the closest thing to a first date we’re going to get. On a date, I sit.”
“This isn’t a date. It’s a commute.”
“All right,” he said agreeably. “I’ll just enjoy the seat then.” He settled his briefcase between his feet, clasped his hands in his lap, and relaxed back, closing his eyes.
Cath peered at him suspiciously, worrying the victory had come far too easily, but he stayed still, and after a while she started to feel rude for staring. She reached into her bag for her journal. She couldn’t seem to find a pen, though, no matter how much she rummaged.
“What are you after?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He leaned forward, unzipped his briefcase, and pulled out a Mont Blanc fountain pen. “Would you like to borrow this?”
Yes. “No, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and put the pen away. The train doors slid closed as the garbled announcement came over the loudspeaker. This train terminates at Lewisham. She gave up on the pen hunt and looked out the window.
They hurtled along underground, her bare arm against City’s suit-clad one, their legs in contact from hip to knee. Swaying into each other now and then with the jerky movements of the car along the track. It was hard not to notice the way he spilled over his seat. The sheer size of him. Hard not to think about what his powerful thigh looked like underneath the suit—the scattering of curly blond hair, the muscles so hard and defined they were like iron plates beneath his skin. She’d run her hand along the length of that thigh, feeling his quadriceps bunch as he thrust into her.
The memory made her cheeks hot, and she turned her face and pressed it against the cool glass. Note to self: try not to look at him.
City reached into his briefcase and brought out two bags of chips and three candy bars. “I came bearing gifts. Thought you might be hungry. Do you prefer”—he glanced at the bags—“prawn or salt-and-vinegar crisps? Or if you don’t fancy crisps, I also have these.” He fanned the candy bars out on one broad palm. “I don’t know what you like yet,” he explained, his tone apologetic.
Cath cast her eyes heavenward in an attempt to keep up a good front, but really, how was she supposed to resist a man who came courting with junk food?
Resist the man. You can have the junk food.
She grabbed the prawn crisps and a Wispa bar. “This is a very classy spread. Are you always so charming?”
“Only when I want something very badly.” He smiled.
She tried to let that slide, but it slid down between her breasts, wriggled over her belly, and warmed up the junction of her thighs. She didn’t have a lot of experience being wanted—or courted, for that matter. It was making her woozy.
City took off his tie in that way real men did, arching his head back as he pulled at the knot and unbuttoned his top collar button. Seeing his exposed throat, she couldn’t help but think about the pulse beating there. About pressing her lips to his warm skin, and the expression on his face when he came.