by Nicola Marsh
“Easy, I’ve got you.” He lowered her to the nearest step as her head swam and she struggled not to barf all over his shoes. “When I said you’d fall for my charms, I didn’t expect you to actually swoon or to have it happen so quickly.”
In response, Samira vomited on her mother’s prize rosebush. Not a dainty vomit either; a full-on, multicolored puke that went on too long and left her swaying and clinging to whatever she could hold on to: in this case, Manish’s arm.
“Did you even notice I held back your hair like a true gentleman?”
“Stop trying to make me laugh,” she said, punctuated with a groan that had her clutching her stomach again. “I feel awful.”
“What did you eat?”
“Not much. An onion pakora, maybe two.” The thought of any kind of food made her stomach roil, and she wished he’d hurry up and leave so she could nurse her humiliation in peace.
“Could be a virus,” he said. “There’s a nasty gastro going around; the hospital ER has been inundated.”
It wasn’t a virus, but no way in hell would she tell him the real cause of her barf. This happened occasionally courtesy of her oligomenorrhea. She didn’t mind the infrequent periods and could handle the cramps, but the hormone spikes that induced nausea were the pits. She didn’t always vomit, thank goodness, but this spike must’ve been a doozy.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, struggling to her feet, grateful for the support of his arm. “Nothing a good lemonade won’t fix.”
“Barley water, don’t you mean?”
The thought of the boiled barley water her mom used to make her drink as a kid for good gut health made her want to barf again.
“Stop. You’re killing me.”
“Only because I’d get to revive you with mouth-to-mouth.”
“Oh my God, you did not just say that.”
“I think I did, but hey, at least you’re smiling.”
“It’s a grimace,” she said, liking his quick wit more by the minute, even in her puke-induced haze.
At that moment, her head spun again, and she clutched at him, hating herself for showing weakness. Ever since she’d divorced Avi and fled to LA, she’d turned her back on the fragile woman she’d been and embraced her inner tigress. Who had sadly morphed into a pathetic pussycat about five minutes ago.
“Let me take you inside.”
She could’ve protested but didn’t know if she’d manage to make it feeling so light-headed, and thankfully, by the time he led her into the lounge room, she felt better.
“Anything I can get you?”
“No, thanks, I’ll be okay.”
He eyeballed her with startling intensity. “You know you can call me, right? For my medical expertise, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, offering a smile, wishing she could feel something for this sweet guy.
He strode to the door where he paused. “Seriously, Samira, despite that little speech you gave me earlier, if you want to hang out as friends while you’re in town, just give me a call.”
He grinned and made a corny cocked gun with his thumb and forefinger. “Your mom has my number.”
She smiled as he waved, thankful she’d managed to maneuver through her mom’s first matchmaking attempt and come out unscathed.
If only the same could be said for Kushi’s inappropriately fertilized rosebush.
* * *
* * *
Rory glared at the immaculately trimmed rosebushes in his father’s manicured garden, remembering the time he’d hacked off the flowers in a rare show of rebellion. He’d been seven at the time, struggling at school, being teased incessantly for stuttering and missing his mom. She’d left years earlier, but the fragrance of roses never failed to remind him of her.
“Here you go.”
He turned and accepted the boutique beer his father held out to him. Predictably, Garth Radcliffe had a glass with a double shot of aged whiskey in his other hand. He’d never seen his father drink anything else.
“Thanks.” Rory raised his beer bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” His father downed the whiskey in two gulps. “What brings you by on a Friday night?”
Melbourne’s most prominent barrister never minced words. He also never showed affection or emotion or abided weakness of any kind. And while he hadn’t ever said it, Rory knew his father viewed his stutter as a weakness.
“It’s been a while.” Four months to be exact. “I wanted to touch base.”
Translated, Rory had undergone a session of dialect coaching with Pia and was in a serious funk, because the more time he spent with the speech therapist, the more his fear would grow that he’d never nail the audition in four weeks, and the speech program for underprivileged kids wouldn’t get off the ground.
That was what his impromptu visit to his father was about: giving himself a massive wake-up call that if he didn’t get the host gig for Renegades, he’d be back here having to grovel to a man who’d never let him forget it.
“You want something.” Garth pinned him with a steely glare that had intimidated many of the best lawyers in the country. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“Nice to see you too, Dad.”
Rory took a slug of beer to swallow the bitterness of being viewed as some usurper when he’d never asked his father for anything. He’d learned in his teens that anything his dad gave came at a price, and he didn’t want to pay it anymore.
“If you want to get into the economics field, I have connections—”
“I’m happy . . . doing what I’m . . . doing.”
Rory paused between the difficult D words because he’d be damned if he stuttered in front of his father. He’d tolerated a lifetime of pitying stares or worse, having Garth finish his sentences for him. He particularly hated that, like his father didn’t have the time to hear him out.
“I’ll never understand how throwing away your degree to tumble around a movie set like some circus clown makes you happy, but each to their own.”
For the first time since he’d set foot in his father’s multimillion-dollar mansion in upscale Brighton, Rory felt some of his tension dissipate.
He’d heard that same spiel from his father countless times over the last five years since he’d eschewed his economics degree in favor of acting. Even though Amelia had made it more than clear to Garth that the deep breathing, repetition, and practice involved in acting could only help his stutter, his father had scoffed. Besides, how could working as a stuntman improve his speech when he never talked on camera?
Deep down, he knew his father’s disdain and lack of faith in him was a major driving force to win the role of hosting Renegades. It was why he’d come, when visiting his father never ended well. He may need the money desperately to fund the start-up foundation for those migrant and refugee kids, but a small part of him couldn’t wait to wipe the smirk off his father’s face.
“And I’ll never understand how you can stand up in court every day defending a bunch of lying criminals, but hey, we do what we have to do.”
Rory drained the rest of his beer and placed the empty bottle on a nearby mosaic-encrusted table. “Thanks for the beer, Dad.”
His mock salute earned a frown. “It would be nice to see you around here more often.”
“And it would be nice to have a father who actually respected my choices and supported me, but we don’t always get what we want, do we, Dad?”
As the deep groove of disapproval slashing his father’s brow deepened, Rory strolled down the steps without looking back.
Yeah, visiting dear old Dad had achieved what he’d set out to do.
Given him a swift kick in the head as a reminder of why he had to nail the Renegades audition.
Because no way in hell he’d ask his judgmental, narrow-minded, emotionless drone of a father for money.
Twelve
Rory had to admit the coaching sessions with Pia were working. His confidence increased every time he conquered one of the vocal exercises she gave him, and he’d put in a lot of extra hours practicing at home. Between training his diaphragm and working out at the gym, he’d been suitably distracted.
Because every time he entered the posh health center for an appointment with Pia, he hoped he’d run into Samira.
She hadn’t called like he’d hoped—he’d seen his referral from Chris, and it had his cell number on there, which meant she could get it if she wanted—so rather than lament it, he’d focused on the task at hand.
But after a particularly grueling session with Pia where he’d ended up stumbling over his words more than usual, he needed a distraction of a different kind. It had been a week and a half since he’d hooked up with Samira, and while he’d mentally chastised himself the last ten days—he had to focus and not allow a sensational one-night stand to derail his focus—he’d worked hard and could do with a little relief from the frustrations of screwing up his session with Pia.
Not that he expected to have sex per se, but he remembered how hanging out with Samira for that one night had taken his mind off the stress of the Renegades audition, and he could do with that same feeling now.
Before he could second-guess his impulsivity, he strode down the corridor toward her office. The lights in the foyer had been dimmed, and the closed sign had been flipped on the glass doors out the front, which meant he was probably the last client in the building. Surely she wouldn’t be consulting at six if the rest of the center had closed?
Mentally rehearsing what he’d say to her so he wouldn’t stumble over his words, he stopped outside her office and knocked on the door.
He’d keep his greeting light and breezy, and try not to remember the last time he’d been in her office, when he’d kissed her in the hope she’d want to do a lot more of it. They shared a real spark, and he wondered what would’ve happened if he’d left his number the morning after their hookup. Would she have taken it as a sign he was keen for more and contacted him? Or would she have chalked up their raunchy night to a one-off and not bothered regardless?
The fact she hadn’t called pointed toward the latter, and while he’d initially taken their meeting again here as a sign, maybe he should just quit while he was behind.
Besides, he didn’t date. Dating set up expectations and soon led to a relationship, and he’d deliberately shied away from emotional involvements for the simple fact the closer he got to a person, the more relaxed he became in their company, the more he had to talk, and the more he stuttered.
A stupid reason for not getting involved; he knew it. But he’d never met anyone who he’d been willing to take the risk for. He’d gone out with a woman once for three dates in a week, his record. He’d thought they had a spark, but when she’d pushed him for details of his family history and his job and a myriad of other things, he realized how relationships involved a hell of a lot of talking and he’d ended it.
He wasn’t a man whore, but having a string of brief sexual encounters with women who knew the score suited him much better; encounters like he’d had with Samira.
So why was he really here, pushing his luck, hoping to hook up with her again?
The door opened as he half turned away, and in that moment when their eyes connected and he glimpsed genuine happiness in her eyes, he knew he’d made the right decision in chasing her up tonight.
“Hey.”
Not quite the scintillating greeting he’d hoped for, but at least he didn’t stutter. Because there was a high chance of that, considering his excitement level shot into the stratosphere the moment he saw her.
Samira was even more stunning than he remembered. Her eyes were truly beautiful, their unique hazel sparking green and gold as she stared at him, one eyebrow arched. Her skin glowed like she’d just finished a workout, and his mind immediately stumbled into the gutter as he imagined the kind of workout he’d like to have with her.
Her arched eyebrow edged higher. “What are you doing here?”
He inhaled slightly, let it out, calming, centered. “I’ve just finished a session with Pia, it’s been a long week, and I thought you might fancy a drink?”
The words ran into one another too fast, and he hoped she’d take it as a sign of his eagerness to hang out with her rather than anything else.
She hesitated, gnawing on her full bottom lip, and damned if he didn’t get a hard-on as he remembered what else she could do with those lips.
“Okay,” she eventually said, opening the door wider. “I have to finish up a few things, so why don’t you wait in here?”
She didn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but her gaze roved over him, hungry and possessive, like she too remembered . . .
“Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “You know a drink is just a drink, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because you’ve got this look . . .” She trailed off, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip—definitely not helping the hard-on situation. “And the last time we were in a bar, it didn’t stop there.”
“I liked hanging out with you that night.” He held up his hands, showing he had nothing to hide. “So that’s what tonight’s about, an impulsive decision to drop by and see if you’re free for a drink, that’s it.”
To his surprise, she stepped in close, reached over his shoulder, and pushed the door shut. Her faint jasmine fragrance washed over him, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to haul her into his arms.
Their gazes locked, and she inhaled sharply, the soft hiss of her breath as she released it the only sound in the silence. He could’ve sworn electricity arced between them, potent and lethal and bound to scorch him.
He wanted to close the distance between them and kiss her senseless. Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than that, starting with laying her on the exercise plinth and doing creative things with those colored exercise bands.
But he could see the skepticism in her eyes, like she knew his real reason for stopping by was a booty call. And while he’d like nothing better, and deep down that was exactly why he’d dropped by, he wanted to be better than that.
For what reason, he couldn’t fathom. He couldn’t date her, they never had to see each other again unless they accidentally bumped into each other in the corridors here, and they shared nothing but an intense physical connection. Once.
So why was he trying to impress her with this upstanding act when he wanted her so badly his balls ached?
Mentally kicking himself, he broke eye contact, and she stepped away, giving a little shake of her head as if she couldn’t believe they’d come so close to giving in to baser instinct again.
“Take a seat. I shouldn’t be too long,” she said, pointing at a sofa not far from her desk.
Glad she turned away so she couldn’t see him adjust himself with the boner situation going on behind his fly, he watched her stride to her desk. She wore stylish navy pin-striped wide-leg pants, a fitted white shirt, and black patent leather pumps, a simple work outfit that shouldn’t have been remotely sexy yet was. The way the pants hugged the curve of her ass, how the small heel added a sway to her hips . . . man, at this rate he’d be so hard he’d be unable to walk.
When she reached her desk, she glanced over her shoulder, a puzzled frown creasing her brow when she saw he hadn’t moved. Mustering his best acting skills, he grinned and headed for the sofa, relieved when she didn’t make a comment about his rather stilted gait.
She sat at her desk while he perched on the sofa and picked up a brochure, not giving a flying fuck about ergonomic chairs or exercises to improve posture but needing the distraction so he wouldn’t watch her.
He stared blankly at the diagrams featuring people sitting at desks, but the soun
d of her fingers clacking against a keyboard drew his attention, and he watched her. He couldn’t see much beyond a half profile, her tongue poking out slightly as she typed. She sat straight, shoulders back, just like one of the diagrams for perfect posture in the brochure. It thrust her breasts forward, drawing his eyes there, as he remembered feasting on them, sucking on her spectacular nipples . . .
Stifling a groan, he rested his head on the back of the sofa and covered his eyes with his forearm. Damn it, he needed to stop fantasizing about her, and the only thing guaranteed to douse his libido was to think about the Renegades audition.
Chris had been on his back about it, checking in every second day to ask how the dialect coaching was coming along. He had no idea why his agent did it, because he never gave him anything beyond “fine” and “good.” But considering the money Chris would earn from his cut if Rory actually landed the hosting role, he guessed that explained his agent’s exuberance.
“You okay?”
He lowered his forearm, shocked to find Samira sitting beside him on the sofa. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed the silence when she stopped typing or heard her move.
“Yeah.” He straightened, hating being surprised like this. It didn’t give him time to formulate responses in his head. He often mentally rehearsed what he’d say to people before actually saying it, and having her sneak up on him took away his chance to do it.
When he didn’t say anything else, she cocked her head slightly to one side, as if she couldn’t quite figure him out. Good.
“You are nothing like other guys I know.”
“That’s a good thing, yeah?”
She took a while before she nodded, continuing to study him with that probing stare. “Most guys can’t shut up. They want to talk about themselves, a lot, plenty of inane chatter about their job, their car, and their football team. Yet you’re . . . quiet.”
She was way too intuitive, and he needed to stop her delving into the reasons for his preference for silence.