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?
I suck back another long, deep drink. Liquid courage at its finest. Cav watches me, not missing my actions. I release the straw and trace a pattern into the condensation forming on the glass.
“I guess I’m not used to seeing other women’s hands on you in public. You know, outside of a red carpet photo.”
Instantly, I wish I used different words because now he knows I’ve been following his career. If he only knew that he is one of my top guilty Google searches. I haven’t been able to stop myself from typing his name into the search bar at least once every other week or so after he first appeared on the big screen.
That first movie poster on the side of a bus almost caused my death when I stepped into oncoming traffic to get a closer look. Watching the face of the man you put out of your mind—because he disappeared without a good-bye or a fuck-you—roll by on a bus while you’re pausing at a crosswalk isn’t something I recommend.
I made it to my office, my heart pounding and hands shaking, and logged in to my computer and waited for the browser to load. It was a measure of just how flustered I was that I didn’t even think to use my phone. Maybe I knew I needed to see the results on a regular-sized monitor.
Sure enough, there he was. The man who is now watching me across the table, trying to gauge my mood based on my body language and words.
“It’s not a big deal, Greer. The blonde said I looked like I could be some kind of action hero, so I took a minute to kill their dreams and told them that I was a fertilizer salesman from Tulsa. I couldn’t think of anything less interesting than a guy selling shit for a living.”
I choke back a laugh, glad I wasn’t sucking down my drink in earnest at that moment. “That’s your cover story? Fertilizer salesman from Tulsa? Wow.”
This time I do reach for my mango deliciousness, giggling as I sip.
Cav shrugs. “It works. Their hands were gone pretty damn quick after that. Shit isn’t a sexy business.”
“Where did you even get that?”
He lifts his beer to his lips, as if unsure where that random-as-hell answer came from. When he lowers the Belikin to the table, his answer surprises me.