He rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re perfect.”
“I don’t know about that—and I’m not psycho or anything, just a little dusting around the edges, as I call it. No snacking, no extras like rolls or chips or cookies, and I’m careful on the alcohol and the soda. A little gym time and I do okay.”
She was chattering on about nothing, mostly because she still felt awkward from that embrace onstage—for no good reason. He’d been so wonderful, hugging her close, doing that male thing that made you feel like someone had your back. And afterward? He’d made a real effort to be charming and a little silly, as if he knew she needed that to pull out of her mood—
Ah, hell … it wasn’t about the embracing.
She was going out with Duke again tonight.
That was the problem.
“Is there a sketch pad in there?” he asked, nodding to the vacant chair next to her.
She glanced down at her big purse. “Yup. It may be a cliche, but I take one with me everywhere.”
“Makes sense. I’m the same way—I have a lyric notebook. I keep it in my bag always—sleep with it, too. My friends who aren’t in the biz think I’m crazy—I’m always taking it out, scribbling, toying with words.”
“Been there, done that, except it’s pictures for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by accountants and lawyers—it’s nice to be with someone who gets it.”
“Simpatico,” he said with a smile.
As they chatted along, they were alone in the square room, sitting among the vending machines, a coffeemaker and a refrigerator with a PT STAFF ONLY (THIS MEANS YOU, CHUCK) sign on its door. The three other tables were empty, although the smell of fresh java and popcorn lingered in the air as if someone had used things very recently.
“So, being in
“Yeah, I mean, this isn’t Broadway, but I’m happy to have steady work for about eight weeks. And it’ll be the first time I’m onstage doing any acting along with the singing. I’m pretty pumped about that.”
“How long do you rehearse for?”
“The next two weeks straight, till about six at night. Which is good, because I can keep my gig schedule.” He finished off his sandwich and the chips. “I dunno, I’m getting tired of the multitasking, keeping all these balls in the air.”
“I know what that feels like. Before I got my teaching position? I was working four different jobs as I submitted illustrations for projects, did my own artwork, and generally prayed that I’d be able to keep a roof over my head.”
He eased back, his handsome face relaxed, his beautiful hands wiping themselves on a napkin. “So, you don’t have parental help?”
Cait laughed. “Absolutely not. My mom and dad don’t come from anything, and any extra money goes to the church.”
“Religious types?”
“Like you read about—literally.”
“So you’re not close to them.”
She wiped her own palms, and then tucked the wad of napkin into her empty, sandwich-shaped container. “Yes and no. I mean, they’re still my parents, you know? So I love them. They’re just hard to talk to about anything other than their beliefs—and they leave the country a lot to go on missionary trips. So that’s kind of isolating. Plus there’s some residual damage.”
He frowned. “From what.”
“Just all the rhetoric. It’s in my head, and even though I’m an adult and I live a thousand miles away from them, sometimes their judgments are just … all I can hear. And it’s not supportive stuff, if you get my drift.”
“You seem like the sort of daughter anyone would be proud of.”
Cait stared into his steady, kind eyes, and flushed at the compliment. Changing the subject, because she couldn’t handle the approval, she said, “You’re a good listener, anybody ever tell you that?”
“Maybe. But the fact that you think I am? Means something to me.”
“We’re back to the charm thing again, are we?”
G.B. winked at her. “Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She glanced away. “What about you? What’s your story?”
“Sad one, I’m afraid.” At this, he gathered the trash and got up, crossing over and pitching the remnants of their lunch into a thigh-high trash bin. “No clue who my father was and Mom died in childbirth. I was raised in an orphanage, and I made it out of there with a high school diploma. After that? I went to college on a scholarship, and have worked at any opportunity that has come my way ever since.”
“You’ve been on your own for a long time.”
“Taught me a lot. And you know what they say: That which doesn’t kill you gives you material for songs.”
“Still, that must have been a hard way to grow up.”
He shrugged and sat back down. “I’m an optimist, actually. And I believe in making destiny happen. You can’t wait for the world to give you what you want, you’ve got to take it.”
Cait tried to imagine what it would be like to have no family—talk about damage. Her mom and dad might have an agenda, but they did love her in their own ways.
For a moment, she thought of G.B. at the cafe, interacting with his fans, smiling and being so sincere about his gratitude. Lot of love coming at him in that situation.
Made sense that he’d want to fill a childhood void by performing.
“What?” he said with a smile. “You’re looking at me funny.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize … I like your eyes on me. Aw, look, you’re a blusher.” He put his arms on the table and leaned into them. “Be honest. Are you feeling sorry for me?”
“Not at all. But your life makes me respect you more.”
And there was another angle to it. She shouldn’t have been surprised to find that there was a real person behind the singer Teresa was so enamored of—but it had been hard not to put him on a pedestal because of his voice, and imagine that everything had been white-picket-fence for him. Funny, the disillusionment was not a bad thing, not at all. As he talked with her, sat with her, exchanged with her, he was becoming three-dimensional, something so much more than a handsome hypothetical with an awesome talent.
“Will you let me draw you,” she blurted. As soon as she realized what she’d said, she waved her hand. “Sorry, that’s just—”
“Yes,” he said with a slow, intimate smile. “I would love that.”
Cait reached into her purse without looking away from him, and took out her sketch pad.
“Don’t move—wait, you’re frowning.”
“Oh, I was hoping—never mind. This is fine, too.” As his smile came back, he relaxed again in the chair. “I can’t wait to see how you see me.”
Cait’s pencil found her right hand as she flipped to a new page and started fiercely putting lead on paper. Fast strokes, darting across the white expanse, pulling his features out of the flat plane, sculpting his face and shoulders, his glorious hair, his compelling, intense eyes—
“G.B.! What the hell?” A man leaned into the room. “I’ve been looking for you for a half hour. You can’t be late for this kind of stuff.”
G.B. bolted out of his chair and glanced at his watch. “Oh, God, Dave, I’m so sorry—”
“Spare me, okay? Just get your ass up to Rehearsal Three, now. We’ve moved in there because they’re installing new bulbs stage right and the noise is ridiculous.”
As the guy took off, Cait flipped her sketchbook shut and fumbled to get it in her purse. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, he’s tightly wound.” And yet G.B. looked stressed, all that relaxation gone. “I probably should go. I had no idea that so much time had passed.”
Cait got up, and in the process dumped half her purse out. “Damn it. No, no, I’ve got it—you’d better head off—I can find my way out.”
“Are you sure?”
