She lowered her voice, but her words came with clipped clarity. “You think because I wasn’t born here I can’t understand racism? You think it’s hard to live here because people judge you once in a while? That kind of thing exists everywhere, even at home. In fact, it’s worse there. You know why? Because there we all look the same, and yet we’re still judged on our language, religion, caste, and the money in our bank accounts, so don’t you tell me I don’t understand.”
His clenched jaw loosened. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his expression contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking tired of explaining I’m not a Muslim. I feel like wearing a badge that says I am not a terrorist.”
“Most Muslims aren’t either, you idiot. I hope you take a few minutes to analyze the irony of your own statement.”
His lips pinched in a tight grimace, and the air thickened around them, making the ringing phone sound like a warning siren. She’d never spoken to him this way, but in the heat of the moment, she didn’t care. He was a good person…hotheaded and misguided, but good. She liked him, but sometimes she wanted to slap the unnatural scowl from his face. That expression didn’t fit him. He was the boy who took heavy groceries from her, made funny jokes, and spontaneously danced with her.
Luckily, Geet’s voice rang out, slicing through the tension. “Number five for 15C on The West Oracle Tower.”
“Excuse me, that’s my order,” Shyla said, marching past him.
He grasped her arm. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
“I have nothing else to say to you. Let go of me.”
He withdrew his hold. She rushed away, but his eyes continued to follow her while she made the sandwiches and bid goodnight to the Dhillons.
Gripping the handle of the umbrella tightly, she marched toward her destination, grounding out each step with determination. Even though the cold wind whipped around her, she burned hot. Still, she found a sweet vindication in the argument with Adesh. She’d bitten her tongue so many times that her voice was always thick around him.
Adrenaline coursed through her, creating a newfound courage as she repeated her mantra once more. “Now is the time for risks.”
Chapter 4
He opened the door wearing a Yankees T-shirt, faded blue jeans ripped at the knees, and a charming smile.
“Hello,” he said, leaning his tall muscular body against the doorframe.
“Hi,” she greeted, handing him the paper bag and his umbrella. “Thank you for lending me this.”
“You were wrong…again,” he said.
“Yes, I was.” She nodded, matching his playful expression.
“But I’m glad you didn’t get stuck in a downpour.”
He handed her a bill, and she reached for it the way she always did. She searched her pockets for change, but he held up his hand.
“Keep it.”
“Thank you.”
“Any predictions for tomorrow?”
“Why ask me? I’m always wrong.”
“I’ve learned if I do the opposite of what you suggest, it works out well.”
Her skin prickled as she took in his features. Because of her attraction to Nick, she found it difficult to look at him. She tried holding her gaze at his bare feet, but that didn’t work. Tilting her head toward his seductive smirk wasn’t a bright idea either. So she let her gaze linger at his broad chest, which wasn’t any easier. “I have nothing to report.”
“I guess this is the part where I tell you to be safe.”
This was when she’d take her leave, and she almost did, her courage peeled away by his presence. “Nick Dorsey.” The timid whisper of her voice didn’t sound natural.
“That’s me.”
“I know because your name is on the order slip,” she stammered, wincing at her lame attempt at conversation.
He smirked. “Your detective skills are impressive.”
She laughed nervously. “Did you know you are my last delivery of the night?”
“I assumed based on the hour.”
“I always pack an extra sandwich for myself. I also eat dinner very late.”
“That’s interesting.” He dragged a hand through his thick hair.
“Yes, and I go to school at NYU. My roommate will have people over tonight, and our place will be crowded. It’s difficult to think, let alone enjoy a meal in peace.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“Nick Dorsey, it looks like you have a nice, quiet place where one may enjoy a sandwich.”
“Are you inviting yourself to dinner?”
“In a way, except I’m bringing my own food.” She held up her own brown bag to cement the point. “I was wondering if you’d share your space and perhaps your company?”
He studied her, a look of suspicion crossing his face. Shyla cursed her stupidity and lack of feminine prowess to correctly assess the situation. He wasn’t interested. She lowered her gaze and began to turn away, but his foot kicked the door open. “Come in.”
He took the second paper bag from her. As he set down the food and put away the umbrella, she took a minute to study his home, still shocked she stood on the other side of the door. The loft was spacious by New York standards with lots of windows, modern charcoal-colored walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and intricate molding. The bookcase captured most of her attention, though, spanning an entire wall with hardcover spines from floor to ceiling. A rolling ladder rested against it.
She began shrugging off her coat. He came behind her, easing it off her shoulders. The polite action caught her off guard. Nick held his hand out for her scarf, but she shook her head, pulling it tighter.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, Nick Dorsey, I would.”
“Why do you keep saying my full name?”
She bit her lip, realizing she didn’t have an answer to the question. “I don’t know.”
“My name is Nick. Call me Nick.” He walked over to the glass dining table and pulled out a chair, gesturing for her to sit, but she stood in place.
“For Nicholas?”
“Yes, but I prefer Nick. I don’t know your name. I call you Sandwich Girl, but that seems very disrespectful right now.”
She held out her hand. “Shyla Metha.”
“Shyla,” he repeated slowly. He took her hand to shake it, but held on longer than courtesy required. He sucked in a deep breath. As his hold tightened, she imagined him pulling her closer, but instead he pulled free of their connection as if their touch had become uncomfortable for him. How could such a small gesture scream so loudly? Although she felt the sting of his rejection, she also welcomed the idea she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
“What would you like…” He paused, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before it tightened again. “To drink?”
“What do you have?”
“Water, scotch, and very old scotch.”
“What are you having?”
“Scotch.”
“I’ll have one too, please.”
He stared at her for a moment that stretched a few seconds too long for comfort before heading into the open kitchen area.
She took the seat he’d offered. At least in this position she could cover her shaking knees.
“How old are you?” he asked from the kitchen.
“Are you afraid of contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”
He laughed, bringing back a bottle of amber liquid and two small glasses with ice. “I’m sure you’re delinquent enough without my contribution.”
“What would make you think that?” Did he think she was a loose girl? Then again, her actions weren’t exactly characteristic of piety.
His grin put her at ease. “You invited yourself into a stranger’s house.”
“I’ve been delivering to you for a year now. You’re hardly a stranger.” He poured the liquor into each glass and slid one in front of her. “Besides, I have pepper spray in my pocket,” she added.
He s
hook his head before slugging back his drink. “That’s wise. Inform a possible attacker of the weapons you’re carrying and their location.”
Shyla shrugged. “You don’t know all my weapons. Just the one, and I can use it as a decoy should you choose to make me feel unsafe.”
He frowned, a look of regret flickering on his face. “You’re safe with me.”
“I believe you.”
He shook the ice cubes in his glass. “Shyla is an interesting name. Does it mean something?”
“It’s Sanskrit for daughter of the mountain.”
“Oh,” he said, dismissively. “That’s it?”
“It’s also the name of a goddess.”
“Definitely more appropriate.” He spoke barely above a whisper.
A heat crept across her neck. She took a large gulp of her drink to cool herself.
Big mistake.
The butterflies circling her belly burst into flames once the liquor hit. Her eyes watered, and her insides burned. She sputtered and coughed, placing her palm against her mouth for fear a dragon-like spear of fire might shoot free.
“Hey,” he said, crouching in front of her. He took the glass from her, setting it on the table. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, swallowing hard, hoping to extinguish the liquor-induced inferno. “I’m sorry.”
He brought her a glass of water. Gratefully, she sipped and apologized again.
“It’s fine. It could have been worse.”
“Worse?” she asked, embarrassed by her actions.
“You could have asked for the old scotch. That would have been a waste.”
She widened her eyes until he grinned mischievously. That grin was dangerous, both relaxing and stimulating. “How can you drink that?”
“Straight up and on the rocks. The question is why did you ask for it if you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t know I wouldn’t like it. I thought it would taste like butterscotch.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely not candy. Back to my original question. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
He sighed, looking relived. “You’re a very innocent twenty-two.”
“You just said I was a delinquent.”
He placed a hand on her shaking knee. It stilled immediately. His command over her body was stronger than her own. “I was wrong.”
“I guess it’s a matter of opinion.” She played with the frayed edges of her scarf, deciding scotch would never touch her lips again.
They both ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts. “You always order the turkey,” she finally said.
“I’m loyal to what I like.” He looked at her food. “What are you having?”
“It’s a veggie sandwich—cucumbers, tomatoes, avocado, and green chutney. I’m a vegetarian.”
“What are you doing here, Shyla?”
“In your apartment?”
“Yes, but let’s go broader. Why are you in New York? You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
“I’m from India.”
“Whereabouts?”
“A rural village in the western part of the country known as Kutch. I’m here on a student visa.”
“What’s your major? Please don’t say it’s meteorology because it’s definitely not your calling.”
She covered her mouth to hide her giggle. “Elementary education, thank you very much. I’ll be graduating in a few months and returning to India.”
“And you’ll be a teacher when you go back?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Seems like an odd choice.”
“Why?”
“We’re not exactly shining in that area. Why would you want to attend school in the new world when your own is excelling on every front?”
The question wasn’t original. Her answer came easily. “I respectfully disagree. A country that’s constantly producing is pretty amazing.”
“I hate to break this to you, but we don’t produce anything anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You produce great ideas, and with great ideas come great thinkers.”
Nick let out a low whistle. “I stand corrected.”
She pushed aside her half-eaten sandwich. “Do you mind if I look at your books? You have quite a collection.”
“Be my guest.”
She walked across the space, carrying her glass of water toward his bookshelf. He kept the distance between them and chose to stand against the wall at the opposite side of the room with his arms crossed. On one of the shelves was an old turntable with a stack of neatly laid records. She picked up a strange mask that lay next to it.
“I used to play goalie in this beer league a few years back.”
“Is it a competition where you drink beer?”
He chuckled. “We probably would have been better off doing that, but we actually played hockey first and drank beer after.”
She ran her fingers against several spines, her excitement growing as she silently read each title. Maybe they had more in common than she’d thought. “You must love to read.”
“I do. Luckily, I have an e-reader now, and just in time since I was running out of wall space.”
“We like many of the same authors.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Swift, Dickens, and Larsson for a start. But I like the modern stuff, too. I love Frank McCourt and Hosseini.”
“Me, too,” he said, a surprised inflection in his voice.
“You don’t have any romances.”
Nick chuckled. “Not unless you count my collection of vintage Penthouse magazines.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, it was a bad joke. I’ve never been a fan of romance. I have hard limits on how far my belief will suspend.”
“That’s a shame. They are my favorites.” She sighed, pulling one of the more colorful books off the shelf. The cover featured a striking man in an army jacket with a bikini-clad blonde in his arms. “You have the Keegan Moon novels, I see. It looks like you have the whole set—The Adventures of Max Montero.” Shyla didn’t know why the blonde needed to wear a bikini when Max was dressed head to toe, especially since the backdrop was a snow-capped mountain, but she guessed it had more to do with sales than plot.
“Have you read them?”
“My roommate’s a big fan. She lent me the first one.”
“What did you think of it?”
She shrugged. “The writing’s good, but I didn’t care for the characters.”
“Why not?”
“They felt one-dimensional. He comes across as a womanizing, self-indulgent fool.”
Nick arched his brow, his lips quirking into a grin. “He’s got his faults, but I wouldn’t describe him that way.”
“As bad as he was, though, the heroine was even worse. She seemed stupid and fake…almost vapid. She was always getting herself into trouble and falling into hot water.” Encouraged by his amused smile, she continued, “And I refer to hot water in the literal sense. The one I read, the girl was suspended from the ceiling over a pot of boiling water until Max Montero swooped in at the last minute.”
“It was acid, and he likes saving beautiful women from danger. What’s wrong with that?”
“She could have saved herself, or better yet, not gotten into the situation. And he…well, he could have been nicer to her in general.”
“Not every hero comes in a one-size-fits-all package, Shyla. Don’t hold back, though. Tell me what you really think.”
“Okay, I will. I can appreciate a different kind of hero, but I’d like one with a functioning set of scruples. In the scheme of things, these books don’t deserve shelf space with the others. They definitely fall into the dime store drivel category.”
“Ouch,” Nick said, pouring himself another drink. “I don’t think you understand the concept of sarcasm.”
She opened and shut her mouth as the realization hit her. “You were joking when you asked me to tell you what I really thought?”
�
��Yeah, but don’t worry about it.”
“So, what do you do for a living?” she asked, anxious to change the subject. It was possible she’d accidently insulted one of his favorite novelists.
“I’m an author.”
“Have you written anything I might have read?”
“The dime store drivel you’re holding.”
Uh oh.
The drivel in question fell from her hand, as did the water. Shattered glass and liquid marred the gleaming floors. She knelt before her mess. “Oh, my God.” Her hands hovered above the jagged shards of glass.
He moved swiftly, grabbing a roll of paper towels and covering the space between them in long strides. “Don’t,” he said, clasping her wrist before she picked up a chunk of glass. “You’ll cut yourself.” His dark eyes and square jaw captured her attention from the task at hand.
In that moment, she battled with the urge to either pull him closer or push him away.
Instead, she remained frozen. His thumb moved along her wrist. Could he feel her racing pulse?
“Stupid,” she muttered.
“Careful. You might be in danger of getting hurt and find yourself in need of rescuing.”
Her tummy twisted in reaction to her physical and social clumsiness. To her surprise, he laughed.
“I’m so sorry. I… I… The writing I enjoyed.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t take it back. Once words are airborne, they become stale, and you can’t breathe them in again. You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do. It was rude and insensitive.”
“It was honest.” He threw down some paper towels while she took the book and wiped it against her shirt, holding it as if it was a valuable work of art.
“Look Shyla, I know my work isn’t going to change the world, but Max Montero gives people an enjoyable escape for a few hours, and I’m happy to provide that outlet.”
She held up the book. “If I had known.”
“But you didn’t, and I’m glad you didn’t. Honesty is a rare and treasured trait for me. Trust me, I’ve gotten far worse reviews than yours.”
His reassurances did nothing to assure her. “The books say Keegan Moon is the author.”
“That’s my pseudonym.”
Unwanted Girl Page 3