Her Leading Man Read online

  “Meeting some friends at a bar,” she said as she slipped into her thickest winter coat.

  Ben’s eyes widened and he stuck out his lower lip to give her a puppy dog look that was as pathetic as it was amusing. “Please take me with you.”

  Caitlyn laughed. “Aside from my friend’s husband, it’ll probably just be a bunch of women hanging around talking. You’d be bored out of your mind.”

  Ben looked offended. “It just so happens my favorite people to hang out with are women. Particularly large groups of attractive young women who are drinking their cares away on a frigid winter’s eve.”

  Caitlyn rolled her eyes and started to protest, but he cut her off.

  “As your tenant, you can’t, in all good conscience, leave me alone here in this deathtrap and allow me to freeze to death. It wouldn’t be right.”

  As though on cue, a draft blew through the ancient windowpanes, and Ben burrowed even further into his ridiculous scarf getup.

  “Okay fine.” Caitlyn laughed. “You can come along, but don’t complain to me if you aren’t having any fun.”

  Chapter 4

  Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more fun.

  Watching Caitlyn around her friends was like watching a sea monkey come to life. Gone was that polite but distant roommate he’d gotten used to annoying around the apartment. Her face was flushed from a mixture of warmth and liquor, and her eyes practically sparkled in the firelight as she regaled her friends with a funny story about one of the old ladies who frequents her morning class.

  Caitlyn had been right that it was mostly women—out of the half dozen who’d gathered at the end of the bar, Ben was the only man aside from Meg’s husband, Jake, who was tending bar, and the blonde woman’s roommate, Marc.

  Her friends’ interest in him would have been flattering if he didn’t have a sneaking suspicion they were interrogating him to make sure he wasn’t a sociopath or an axe murderer. Their protectiveness toward Caitlyn was sweet, but their interrogation techniques were far from subtle.

  They took turns, each rotating to sit next to him and pepper him with questions until it started to feel like he was speed dating her friends. He supposed he passed because by their second hour, he was fully integrated into the group’s conversation and they seemed to go out of their way to make sure he was included, even when his views weren’t exactly appreciated.

  The blonde, Tamara, had given them all an update on her landlord’s wicked desire to sell the old, rundown movie theater where she worked. Judging by the chorus of sighs and groans, everyone seemed pretty torn up about this, and it was possible he should have kept his mouth shut. In hindsight, he would have. Oh, who was he kidding? He would have opened his big fat mouth if just to watch Caitlyn’s cheeks get all rosy with anger.

  “It’s easy to see where the owner is coming from, isn’t it?” It was a rhetorical question, and it had all eyes on him…and not in a good way. He turned to his left to see Caitlyn staring up at him in wide-eyed horror like he’d just admitted to being a necrophiliac or something. “What? I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”

  “He’s right,” he heard Tamara mutter beneath her breath before taking a gulp of her drink.

  Caitlyn ignored her and kept her eyes focused on him. “Why are you defending him?”

  “I’m just saying, the owner has a point. It’s his property and most people aren’t in real estate for nostalgia’s sake. They’re in it for a profit. It’s an investment.” He would have continued because, for better or worse, investing was one of his favorite topics. But she cut him off with a hand in his face.

  “So what, historical significance and neighborhood pride mean nothing? It’s only about the money?”

  He was dimly aware that her friends had stopped talking and were watching them. Something in their intensity told him he was treading on sacred ground.

  “Of course not, but love of history can’t be allowed to stand in the way of progress.”

  Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed, and he was suddenly and intensely aware of the short distance that separated them. Their lips, more specifically. At that moment, he would have given just about anything to taste those lips. The chemistry between them was blinding. A sick form of torture in that tiny apartment, knowing she was near but untouchable. At night he’d lie awake imagining he could hear her breathing as she slept in her bed just down the hall. Naked. Well, probably not naked but a man could dream. But he’d kept his distance, despite the painful erection he’d been experiencing for the better part of a week. Aside from the fact that he’d royally offended her that night, she was so clearly not right for him.

  First off, she was as straight-laced as they came. She practically screamed monogamy and children and all that crap—everything he’d sworn off ages ago. Maybe if she was up for a one-nighter…but no. He gave himself a mental shake. She wasn’t that type of girl. Still, sitting there so close to her was killing him. Especially as the alcohol worked its magic, making the logical part of his brain quiet down so the primal section could be heard. And that primal section wanted relief.

  Her lips were close. So close. The need to taste those lips was nearly overwhelming. He could lean in and close the distance so easily. For a moment he thought she felt it too. Her eyes darkened and her lips parted as the air between them grew thick with tension. But then she leaned back a bit and fixed him with a stern glare. “Stop talking before you make me hate you all over again.”

  Ben struggled not to laugh, and he saw her lips twitching as well. He loved tipsy Caitlyn. She was even more fun to tease than couchmate-Caitlyn. And couchmate-Caitlyn was ridiculously fun to tease. And hot. Holy hell, was his couchmate hot. Inexplicable, really, since he rarely saw her in anything other than her comfy, lounging around clothes and bereft of makeup. But somehow she still always looked hot. And touchable. Too damn touchable. The woman could wear a canvas sack and a mud mask on her face and he would be aroused.

  He pulled his mind back before it could go any further. It was hard enough keeping his sanity when he was sitting next to her alone on the couch. He didn’t need to have explicit images parading through his skull.

  What were they talking about? Right. He slapped a hand over his heart as if her words had physically wounded him. “Caitlyn, my sweet, we’ve come so far from that first, dreadful date. I thought we were over all that.”

  A heavy silence hung in the air, and he watched Caitlyn’s eyes widen with a mixture of amusement and—uh oh—horror.

  “Wait a second, this is the date from hell?” For such a tiny woman, the pregnant one had a surprisingly loud voice.

  Caitlyn kept eye contact with him as she winced. He gave her his best apologetic smile, and he caught a flicker of a smile in return. Thank God, she wasn’t really angry.

  Slowly turning to face the others, he stage whispered, “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

  “Obviously,” Caitlyn whispered back, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Her friends’ astonished silence was broken by Marc and the blonde giggling. The pregnant one and the supermodel—her sister, he’d learned—were eying him with varying degrees of curiosity and animosity.

  The knockout with the red hair and green eyes looked far more amused than her sister as she shot him a saucy wink. “I can’t believe this is the guy you were complaining about. He could spill his drink on me any day of the week.”

  Ben had to laugh at her outrageously flirty tone as she eyed him like a piece of candy. She was gorgeous, there was no doubt, but there was something standoffish about her. She was the type of woman he would typically go for—the type that screamed worldly, sophisticated, and just out for a good time. But he hadn’t given her more than a glance since the moment they’d arrived. He’d been too focused on his roommate.

  Holy hell, what was wrong with him? Clearly Olivia had done more of a number on him than he’d thought. That train of thought was cut short as he found himself
the topic of conversation, as though he wasn’t sitting right there.

  “You never mentioned how good looking he was,” Marc said just before his roommate threw a hand over his mouth to stop him from talking any more. He caught her shooting Caitlyn a look of empathetic alarm.

  “That’s not true,” the pregnant one said. “She did say he was hot.”

  He turned in his seat to face Caitlyn, whose face was bright red. “Really,” he drawled. “She said that?”

  The redhead rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t get too excited. She also said you were obnoxious, stuck up, and… What was it, Meg?” She looked to her sister.

  “A buffoon,” Meg said.

  Ben tapped a finger to his chin, pretending to think that over. “All true, I’m afraid.”

  Marc had managed to unpeel the blonde’s hand from his mouth and chimed in. “Even if he is all those things, he’s still better than Robert.”

  Robert? Who the hell was Robert? The name brought on an irrational but primitive wave of possessiveness.

  And apparently he wasn’t the only one who had a reaction to the name. At the mention of Robert, he noticed that all four women turned to glare at Marc while his roommate swatted his shoulder roughly. Marc held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m just saying….”

  “And on that note,” Caitlyn said a little too loudly as she shot up out of her seat, “we’re out of here.”

  Ben had to hustle to keep up with her as she gathered her belongings and made a hasty retreat. Whoever the hell Robert was, the mere mention of his name was enough to kill a party.

  * * * *

  Ben followed her out of the bar and into the cold, dark night—but when he stopped at the curb to hail a taxi, she took a sharp right and trudged through the snow toward the next intersection.

  “Don’t you want to cab it?” Ben called after her.

  “No.”

  “Okay then, I guess we’re walking.” He jogged to catch up with her.

  She looked over in surprise as he joined her. “You don’t have to walk with me.”

  “Well I couldn’t in all good conscience allow you to walk home alone when I’m heading to the same place.”

  He was struck dumb by the sudden smile she turned on him. Good God, she was gorgeous when she smiled.

  “How very gentlemanly of you,” she said. Her brown eyes were shining up at him in the glow of the streetlamps.

  He pretended to tip his imaginary hat. “At your service, m’lady.”

  Her soft laughter hit him with a physical force. He loved that sound.

  “Just call me Archie Leach,” he joked.

  She literally stopped in her tracks to gape at him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Impressed I know Cary Grant’s real name?” He shrugged. “I told you in our e-mails that I was a fan of old movies. That was the conversation starter, remember?”

  She was looking at him as though he’d grown a second head. “So that was real?”

  Of course it was real. He’d loved the e-mail exchanges they’d shared before that night. In the dark days following the breakup, those lighthearted e-mails about classic movies and other trivial topics had been a saving grace. What did she think, that he tasked his assistant with e-mailing the hot chicks on the dating site? Not a bad idea, really.

  She shook her head and fell into step beside him. “Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile all the different sides of you.”

  As someone who considered himself a pretty straightforward guy, he had no idea what to make of that statement, so he chose to ignore it.

  “That’s why I e-mailed you in the first place, you know.”

  She blinked her beautiful brown eyes up at him in confusion. A stray curl peeked out from beneath her hat, and he itched to tuck it back in. He shoved his gloved hand into his jacket pocket.

  “Your reference to Cary Grant on your page,” he explained. “That’s what caught my eye. I read that and I thought… I’m your guy.”

  “Ha!” Her laugh was clearly mocking, but her smile was intoxicating. He would never tire of making her smile.

  But he pretended to take offense at her laughter. “I’ll have you know women are constantly comparing me to classic movie stars. I’ve gotten Clark Gable, Erroll Flynn…”

  She paused for a moment to size him up, as though giving it serious thought. “Clark Gable, maybe. Definitely not Cary Grant.”

  “Fine, oh wise one. And what, pray tell, does Cary Grant have that I do not?”

  She sighed wistfully and tilted her head to the side as she considered. “He’s funny—”

  “I’m funny.”

  “You’re sarcastic.”

  “Cary Grant was totally sarcastic.”

  “He was sardonic,” she corrected.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “He’s modest, self-deprecating—”

  Here he had to intervene. “And that’s what you think you want in a man?” He shook his head. “Believe me, you have more than enough modesty for one couple. You could use someone with some bravado. Next.”

  “He needs to be charming, elegant. Classy.”

  He stopped to turn and face her, and pointed toward himself. “Check, check, and check.”

  Caitlyn gave him a deadpan look before turning to walk away.

  He jogged a bit to catch up with her. “All right, what else do you need in your perfect man? This is interesting stuff.”

  She looked up at him and those brilliant, expressive eyes were dazzling in the light of the streetlamp. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

  “How did this get to be about me and my perfect man?” she asked.

  “You deserve to find him.” When she gave him a questioning look, he hurried on. “Your Cary Grant, I mean. You deserve that.”

  He glanced over and saw her staring at him with an indefinable look in her eyes. Confusion mixed with something stronger, deeper. He looked away quickly and forced a lighter tone. “If it’s Cary Grant you want, then that’s what you’ll get. Nothing is too good for my roomie.”

  “So you’re going to help find my Mr. Right now?” she asked.

  “Honey, I could be your Mr. Right Now,” he said with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows that had the desired effect of making her laugh. “But yes, that is exactly what I intend to do. Trust me, I am way better at picking online dates than you are.”

  “I’ve only gone out with you so far,” she protested.

  “My point exactly.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Just look how well that date turned out.”

  She pretended to think that over before giving him a serious look. “You’re right. I need help.”

  They walked in silence for a moment before she spoke again. “Can I ask you something? Why did you really reach out to me on that dating site? I mean, aside from the Cary Grant reference.”

  “Easy. Your picture. I thought you were hot.”

  She rolled her eyes, and he wondered for the millionth time if she had any idea just how beautiful she was. They walked in companionable silence for a bit before she asked him with unexpected gravity. “Seriously, Ben, why did you pick me? Why did you e-mail me in the first place?”

  Oh man, she really had no idea. The fact that she clearly didn’t was equally adorable and heartbreaking.

  “I am serious. You’re gorgeous.” He paused for a moment, and then the words came out of his mouth of their own volition. “And if I really wanted to overanalyze, I’d probably say it was because you seemed like the exact opposite of my ex.”

  She glanced over, her eyes filled with surprise that he was fairly sure matched his own. Where had that come from?

  “How so?”

  He shrugged, wishing he’d never brought up the topic in the first place. “Because you’re so…sweet.”

  She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “I hate that word.”

  He had to laugh at
her vehement reaction. She was, after all, the walking definition of sweetness. A soft-spoken, kindhearted artistic soul who spent her free time painstakingly knitting a family heirloom for a little old lady? The woman was bloody Mother Theresa. “What’s wrong with being called sweet?”

  Her answer was a huffy sigh.

  The streetlamp above cast her face in a warm glow and she was an open book. She was frustrated but trying not to admit it. Now he was really intrigued.

  She shook her head with a laugh that sounded forced. “I guess I’ve got some ex baggage too.”

  He feigned shock. “The ex thought you were sweet? What a bastard.”

  Her laugh made him want to burst into song like he was a character in some goddamn musical. What the hell was it with her?

  There was a hint of self-deprecating laughter in her voice when she said, “No, he thought I was boring.”

  Now it was his turn to flinch at the blasé way she said the words—as though she believed it.

  He placed a hand on her arm to stop her, and she turned to face him, her eyes wide with a questioning look and her lips…oh Lord, her lips. He wanted to kiss her so badly his whole body ached. He would press her soft curves against him and kiss her until she was moaning with desire. Get it together, man.

  He actually had to clear his throat to make words come out. “You do know you’re not boring, right?”

  Her smile was mocking and he hated it. “I sit around and knit all night so, you know…not exactly the life of the party over here.”

  Before he could protest, she continued on. “Anyway, I thought he was happy. Or content, at least.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  One corner of her mouth turned up in a pale imitation of a smile. Her tone was flat. “He wasn’t.”

  It was physically painful to see the joy drain from her expression, her eyes losing their spark. Her ex had done that to her. He’d clearly broken her heart. They continued walking before Ben asked, “Were you happy?”