There was something so sweet about his need to please her she turned her head for a moment in a lame attempt to relax the ear-spanning smile on her face. Nick washed his hands in the sink. He grabbed fresh ingredients. She scraped the burnt pasta and took his place at the sink. She scrubbed the pot, occasionally taking sidelong glances at his naked muscular back and the intricate inked lines adorning it. Her eyes lowered. A man’s butt had never been of any interest to her, but Nick’s muscular bum in low-slung jeans gave her moment to pause and her heart to accelerate.
“Are you checking me out?”
Did he have eyes in the back of his head? “Just making sure you don’t burn our food again.”
“I got this.”
He checked a recipe, boiling the pasta and creating a cheese sauce from scratch. She had to admit it was an impressive undertaking for someone who used his kitchen to store cereal.
“Have you ever had a veggie burger?” she asked him.
“No, but I like to try new things. Besides, I bought hamburgers in case it was gross.”
He came up behind her. His powerful arms encircled her as she leaned against his strong chest. He turned the stainless steel lever, causing the water to steam.
“I don’t know if I can get all of this out.” She’d been scrubbing so hard her arms hurt.
“Let me,” he said, taking the pad, their hands brushing. He continued to kiss her neck, occasionally running his tongue over her ear.
“I think you’re distracting me.”
“I’m helping you.”
The steam billowed out of the faucet, causing her skin to flush…or maybe it was the way he kissed her. There was something hungry in his affection—something that made each moment with him intensely beautiful. She wanted to freeze time and stay rooted next to him without any space between.
“You look cute in my shirt,” he said.
You look cute out of it.
“All done,” he said, holding up the shiny pot, now magically clean. He playfully slapped her behind. “Now get out of my way.”
“Give me something to do.”
He gently massaged her shoulders. “I want you to relax. Pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record. This will just take a few minutes.”
Shyla took two long-stemmed glasses from his cupboard and poured them each a generous glass of chilled chardonnay. She sipped, closing her eyes at the taste of the refreshing blend of citrus and grape.
She walked into the living room and chose “Pretty Girl” by Eric Clapton.
“Good choice,” Nick said from the kitchen. “Can’t go wrong with Clapton.”
“Thank you.”
He hummed along to the music. She glanced at the other records on his shelf. She knew most of them now. They’d even gone to a flea market one day in search of more. Nick had downloaded every song she said she liked to her phone.
She wondered if she should shower, but his scent still lingered on her skin, and she didn’t want to take off his shirt. She had clothes here now. The way that had happened was sudden and unplanned, like everything else about their relationship.
He’d offered the use of his washer and dryer because he didn’t want her wasting money using the facilities on campus. She ran late for class the next day, so she left the clean, folded clothes in the blue plastic basket on top of his dryer. When she came to his house in the evening, the blue basket sat in the same spot but was devoid of clothes. Nick explained, with an adorably impish grin, how he’d put her items in his dresser. Of course, all of these little things meant something, but right now, she didn’t want to decipher them. She just wanted to enjoy their time. But when she truly considered it, they’d become entwined in a way she had never expected. In fact, it was difficult for her to remember the sad, lonely person she was before him.
She took a seat at his dining table, glancing at the papers there. It was the latest draft of their book. She shoved it aside, deciding to procrastinate for another night. This wasn’t a night to think of the sullied past or the uncertain future. Tonight, they would live in the present.
She shifted her eyes to the other papers there, full of legal language and Nick’s neat penmanship scrawled in the margins.
“Is this your publishing contract, Nick?”
“Yeah, I decided it was a good time to renegotiate since I’ve decided to write another Montero book. I’m going to my agent’s house for brunch tomorrow so I figured I’d get a jump on it.”
Shyla scanned the pages. “It looks complicated.”
“Not really. Oh, I’m going to give her our partial on The Choice Less, too.”
She bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes closed. “Can you wait until we’re done with it?”
“If you wish.”
She sighed. “Thank you.”
“I get it. I used to be superstitious, too. I never told anyone what I was writing until it was done.”
“What does Right of First Refusal mean?” she asked, pointing at the section written in both bold and italics.
“It’s a loyalty clause. It means if I write anymore Max Montero books, this publisher gets the first rights. They pretty much own the character.”
“What if they don’t want the book?”
“It hasn’t been a problem so far. They sell very well, but if they don’t want it then I can take it somewhere else. It protects both of us, and I’m sure it’s non-negotiable. Not that I mind. I like this publisher. My agent, Carrie, worked out a good deal for me.”
“Are you close to her? You said you’re going to her house tomorrow.”
“We’re old friends. It’s more of a social visit than work.”
“How did you become friends?’
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, sometimes girls use that tactic to fish for information they don’t really want, but you’re not like other women I’ve been with so I can’t apply the same theories to you.”
He came to the table, two plates in his hand. Shyla gathered the papers and placed them on his desk.
“We worked late a lot, editing my book. One night we ordered Italian food and a bottle of Chianti. One bottle led to three. I slept with her.”
Shyla took a long gulp of wine to choke down the emotions of his statement. “Oh.”
“We both realized it was a mistake the next day. I wasn’t thinking too clearly, and she wasn’t interested in me. It made it very awkward for a while, but we worked through it and emerged friends.”
“Really?”
“Yes, in fact, I was best man at her wedding. It would make sense we’re close. After all, we have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“We both find Indian chicks very hot. She married one. Her wife, Tara, is Indian.”
“She married a woman?”
Nick pushed his pasta on the plate. “Is that strange to you?” There was no negative connotation in his question, only curiosity.
“I’ve lived in New York for a while now. I understand there are many kinds of relationships.”
“It’s more than a relationship. They’re a family. I’m honored to be their friend.”
Shyla quirked an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“The only way to know your real friends is to measure from the bottom up.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Like I told you, I fooled everyone about my addiction, especially me. I played the part of young successful author very well. I had a ton of friends, except they weren’t really my friends. When I was in the hospital contemplating how my life turned out and the self-loathing son of a bitch I was, it was Carrie who came to visit me every day. She brought me get-well cards from Maya.”
“Maya?”
“Maya is their daughter.”
“They have a daughter?”
“She’s Tara’s daughter from a previous marriage, but Carrie adopted her. I dropped out of their lives for a
while until I could get my own back on track, but they are very important to me. Anyway, Maya didn’t know why I was in the hospital, only that I was sick.” He surveyed Shyla closely as if waiting for her to comment, but she kept quiet.
He swallowed before speaking again. His voice sounded far away, wrapped up in some memory. “There’s something magical about a get-well card drawn by a kid. She made them like a story. Each one had a sentence about a dog named Shakespeare and a crude crayon drawing on colorful construction paper. The poor kid spelled Shakespeare different each time, and the dog changed breeds, size, and fur color as well.”
Shyla laughed, covering her mouth with a napkin.
“Maybe it’s silly, but I told myself I had to make it through detox because I had to find out what happened to Shakespeare. The kid is crafty. She ended each story with a cliffhanger. And between the visits from Carrie and the cliffhanger cards from Maya, I made it through each day.”
“It’s not silly at all. She sounds like a smart little girl.”
“She is. I want you to meet all of them. I think you’d like them.”
“Maybe.”
They were both quiet for a moment, the sounds of metal against porcelain accompanied by the riff of Clapton’s guitar filling the room.
“This is really good,” she said, pointing her fork to the pasta.
He shrugged. “It’s a little rubbery.”
“Thank you for making it.”
He nodded, pushing aside his plate, his veggie burger almost untouched. “I’m going to make myself a hamburger. Would you like anything?”
“Didn’t care for the veggie burger?”
“You can’t say I didn’t try.”
“Shall we watch a movie tonight?”
“Sure, it’s your turn to pick. What are you in the mood for?”
“I want to try something different tonight.”
“Different?” he asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Yes, it’s like you say, ‘It’s always good to try.’”
Chapter 21
Nick’s dirty mind considered the possibility of a skin flick, but he knew her too well to lend credence to the idea. He hadn’t expected a Bollywood movie, though. She found one of her favorites on Netflix.
She leaned against his chest as he tried to concentrate on the subtitles.
“It’s kind of multi-genre, huh?” he asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s definitely a romance, but there’s plenty of action with the fighting scenes.”
“Hmm…I suppose.”
“Plus, it’s a musical.”
She turned her head to peer at him. “Music and dance are staples of Bollywood.”
“Why is that?”
“Because all happy endings start with a song and dance.”
He laughed, kissing her head, grateful she was sharing her culture with him.
“We should go to Jackson Heights one day. We can visit Little India. Have you been there?”
“Once with Geet.”
“I think it’ll be fun. Would you like to go together?”
“I would.”
The heroine in the film was a pretty girl, but she didn’t hold a candle to Shyla. Still, he sat up when the girl did a sexy hip-shaking dance, which appeared to combine classical, hip-hop, and salsa all in one.
When the credits rolled, she turned to him. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I did actually.”
“What was your favorite part?”
“The fight scenes.”
“Oh, don’t be coy, Nick. You like the dancing, too, or at least when the girl danced. I was watching you watch her.”
“It was okay,” he said, nonchalantly.
“Just okay?”
He shrugged. “It was sexy as sin.”
“I can do that.”
His rubbed his jaw to keep it from falling. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for. Show me.”
“Show you?”
“Dance for me, please.” He jerked his head toward the television. “I want to see you do that, baby.”
“I don’t know. I’m out of practice.”
“You’re being very cruel. Why bring it up? All it’s going to do is torture me now.”
She bit her lower lip, blinking her eyes.
“Perfect, just add a sexy gesture to salt the wound.”
She took the remote from the couch, hit the rewind button until they came to the point with the loudest song, and paused it. She turned to him, one hand on her hip, the other shaking a finger at him in warning. “No laughing.”
“I doubt I’ll be laughing.”
She unfastened the last few buttons on the bottom of his shirt she still wore and pulled it into a tight knot against her waist, her lacey black panties fully exposed. Nick gazed in awe as her hands worked with lightening speed, twisting her loose strands into a tight bun. She placed a foot on his naked chest. He grasped it, but she shook her head. “I’m just stretching.”
“Good idea. It’s very important. In fact, I insist you stretch for a long time.” He moved his fingers up her bare leg. Just as he was about to pull her against him, she shifted, doing the same thing with her other leg. Nick debated if he could make it through the dance number. “That’s right, Goddess, keep stretching. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.” That wasn’t true. There was a muscle he wouldn’t mind if she pulled, but it belonged to him.
She surveyed the space between the coffee table and television.
“Need me to move anything for you?”
“No, I think there’s enough room. Can you press play?”
He did before sitting back, transfixed on the woman before him, all beauty and shyness as she waited for the music to start. At first, her movements were small, almost demure and controlled. As the drums beat louder, she became bolder. She thrust her breasts, rolled her hips, and then she went in for the kill. She pulled at the bun she’d created, inducing all her glorious soft curls to tumble in beautiful waves across her back.
Nick could no longer be in her audience. The temptation of her stimulated every cell in his body. He needed to participate, not with the dancing, but hell, he just had to touch her.
He stood behind her, resting his hands on her hips as she grinded against him.
“This is my favorite part,” he said.
She leaned her head back against his chest. “I thought so.”
“Where did you learn this?”
“Watching Bollywood films.”
“I think we should watch more. They’re highly educational.”
She turned and embraced him. “Not tonight. Tonight let’s work off that meal.”
“You’re speaking my language.”
* * * *
Lying under the cloud-like, down comforter, Shyla watched the raindrops splash the skylight above them. The whole sky would occasionally flash with a strike of lightning. Johnny Nash played on the record player, singing about the rain being gone along with all the obstacles. Nick had left a dim light on in the hallway as was his habit since the first night when she banged her shin into the coffee table. He did a lot of little things like that for her, without her needing to ask.
“It’s a bad storm.”
“I like storms. I sleep the best after a bad one.” She traced the lines of his palm.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m feeling your love line.”
“You’re reading my palm?”
“I already did.”
“Do you really believe in that stuff?”
“Palmistry has been around for a long time. We are born with these lines, and everyone is different. I can’t believe there is no reason behind that. Surely, they say something about us—something about our destiny. Plus, I don’t think the man that figures out personality traits from the way people consume juice boxes should judge.”
He chuckled, propping himself on his elbow. “Touché.”
“What does it say? This love line of mine.”
“It’s deep and solid. That means you’re very passionate and sentimental. I didn’t need to read your palm to know that, though.”
He took her hand in his. “Show me what your lines mean.”
She took his index finger and ran them over every line of her palm. “This is the lifeline, the heart line, the head line, and the fate line.”
“What does your love line say?”
“It’s broken in the middle. It means I’ll have heartache.”
“I see, and your lifeline?”
“Yours is long. You’ll live a long life with plenty of vitality.”
“I’m asking about you.”
She placed his finger across the line on her hand. “See, it’s also broken.”
“Does that mean a short life?” he asked, tracing the area with his thumb.
“Actually, it doesn’t. It means there will be sudden changes for me.”
“Shyla, we talked about this a while ago, but you didn’t give me many details. I want to know. When you go back home will your father arrange your marriage?”
She stiffened, not expecting the question. He waited patiently for her to answer.
“Possibly.”
“Won’t it be strange? Marrying someone you don’t know?”
“There are many happy arranged marriages, Nick. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure you’ll be fine?” His voice grew louder. “That’s not convincing.”
“It’s in the future. Right now, I don’t think about it.”
“How about we think about it for just a minute?”
“Why bother?”
“What about us?”
“What do you mean? We both knew this was a temporary situation.”
He fell back on his side of the bed, letting go of her hand. She moved her body against his. “Nick, are we really going to waste time fighting about this? I’m on a student visa. I have to go back when I graduate.”
“You know I worry about you when you walk home from work alone. What the hell am I going to do when you’re across the world from me?” The admission shocked her into silence. He took her hand again. His finger traced the curved broken line she’d shown him. “How much of this is me? How much of this life line do I get?”
Unwanted Girl Page 18