His, Unexpectedly

by Susan Fox

  He still hadn’t returned and his laundry would be getting wrinkled, so I opened the door of his dryer and got to work. I folded sweatpants, jeans, T-shirts. Nary a designer label. Nav’s clothes sense was pretty much “starving artist” even though I kept telling him about reasonably priced consignment stores that carried stylish outfits.

  Into the hamper went the running shorts that showed off his lean, muscular legs and awesome butt. Faded rugby jerseys with their Cambridge red lion crest. A Cambridge man. How cool was that?

  Boxer briefs. Black and navy, plain old Stanfield’s. Soft cotton that hugged his private parts. Damn, it would be so much easier if my best friend was a woman.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about Nav’s package, but the thing was, he had an excellent one. In fact, his whole bod was pretty fine, as I’d discovered bit by tempting bit. Like, when I hugged him. Or when he ran down the street for his morning jog, and I just happened to be at the window when he left. Or when he stretched up to hang my new light fixture, or hefted my new desk, or fixed the plumbing under my kitchen sink … No, I wasn’t creating I need a man chores; it was just so much nicer to have his help than to figure things out on my own.

  The view didn’t hurt one bit, either. He had strong shoulders, firm pecs, and a breathtakingly tight butt, as well as the aforementioned package.

  Which I shouldn’t be thinking about. None of it. Not that, nor the drop-dead sexy English accent, nor that gorgeous skin the color of cinnamon. I should focus on the unstylish clothes, the shaggy hair that always needed a trim, the beard and mustache that hid half his face.

  Even if he hadn’t been my best friend, and even if he had been into marriage, Nav wouldn’t be my type. I went for the polish of a successful, cosmopolitan man mixed with the edgy excitement and unpredictability of a bad boy. A man who’d grab me and kiss me senseless rather than give me a brotherly peck on the lips.

  So, I was glad Nav had only done the peck thing. Of course I was. Because if he’d really kissed me, I might have kissed him back. And if we’d done that, we’d have crossed a line I had no intention of crossing.

  Once, a few years ago, I’d fallen for a neighbor. When we broke up, I’d moved out of the building because I couldn’t stand seeing him. I wasn’t about to repeat the mistake and risk ruining the best relationship in my life.

  All of which meant the size of Nav’s package was utterly irrelevant to me, and no way was I going to think about it.

  “Kat, what are you doing?”

  I swung around, boxer briefs in my hands, to see their owner, still clad in those skimpy shorts. Fighting back a flush, I said, “Folding your laundry.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You’re blushing.”

  Damn. I folded his undies and put them in his hamper. Totally casually. And lied. “I was thinking about the wedding. My family.”

  “Ah.” He turned toward his dryer. “They really get to you.” Muscles flexing in his forearms, he heaved the rest of the dry items on top of the ones I’d folded, guaranteeing wrinkles.

  Distracted by his muscles, I tried to remember what he’d said. “Yeah. Isn’t that what family’s for?” I gave him a rueful grin. “In my family, love’s unconditional, but it sure isn’t nonjudgmental. There’s a reason I don’t visit more than every year or so.”

  Home was no longer the family house in Vancouver. It was my apartment in this renovated brownstone off St. Catherine near the heart of vibrant Montreal, where I lived side by side with my best friend.

  “I know exactly what you mean.” He leaned against a washer, all casual male strength and grace, albeit with faded running clothes and shaggy hair. Not that I, who hadn’t expected to see anyone this early in the morning, looked much better, though at least my sweats were Lululemon.

  “Got another e-mail from Mum,” he said, “pressuring me to move to New Delhi. Since she and Dad moved back there, they’re getting more and more traditional.”

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head vigorously. “You’re not allowed to.” We’d repeated this exchange three or four times over the past year, and I knew—almost—that he’d never move. But I also realized that living in Canada was a bone of contention between him and his parents. Nav was continually getting flack for being a disrespectful son.

  His face tightened, and I tensed. Surely he wasn’t considering moving. My apartment, Montreal, my life wouldn’t be the same without him.

  Slowly he shook his head, his glossy black curls catching the light. “No, I won’t move to India. I love my family, but having half a world between us is a good thing.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Great. How would I survive without you?”

  “You couldn’t,” he teased back. Then his gaze gentled. “Kat, you’ll always survive. You’re a strong woman.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Tough girl,” I joked. But he was right. I’d survived growing up in my weird family, moving to a new province, working in French, and I’d survived having my heart broken more than a dozen times. But I didn’t want to have to survive being without Nav.

  One of my dryers went off, and I turned to deal with my load of delicates. As I was folding things neatly, my second dryer buzzed.

  Nav opened the door and hauled out a pair of cotton pants and a tee. When he started to toss them on top of my careful pile, I grabbed them out of his hands. “Thanks, but I believe in folding clothes. Unlike some people, I’m not overly fond of wrinkles.”

  One side of his mouth kinked up. “Some people put too much weight on appearance, material goods, all that crap.”

  “Some people like to make a good impression.”

  We’d long ago established that we were opposites in a lot of ways, and the appearance thing was a running joke.

  I took over the folding, then glanced at my watch. “I need to get to the hotel and reorganize timelines, leave instructions for everyone, rearrange some meetings.” My job was challenging, but I loved it. Loved having a key role in the team of bright, dynamic people who were determined to make Le Cachet the best hotel in Montreal.

  We hefted our laundry baskets and headed for the elevator.

  When we reached the third floor, I put my basket down so I could fish in my pocket for my door key. “Got a hot date tonight?” I asked.

  I certainly didn’t. It was only a couple weeks since I’d been dumped by my last dating mistake, Jean-Pierre. The handsome, dashing NASCAR champ had said he was seriously interested in me, and his flattery and expensive gifts told the same story. But he’d moved on—either because he was a deceptive bastard or because I’d bored him—and my heart still felt battered.

  “You’re asking about my love life because …?” Nav raised his eyebrows.

  “Thought we might get together for a late-ish dinner.” After a long, hectic day at Le Cachet, it would be great to unwind with him. Besides, we should celebrate his exhibit.

  He studied me for a long moment. “One of our good old food-and-a-movie nights?” There was a strange edge to his voice.

  Was he afraid I wanted another favor? “Yes, that’s all. No more favors to ask, honest. If you have a date or whatever, don’t cancel it.”

  He reflected, perhaps mentally reviewing his social calendar. Not only did he date lots of women, his breakups usually seemed to be friendly and he’d as often be grabbing coffee with an ex as dating someone new. As well, he had three or four close guy friends he hung out with.

  Finally he said, “Alas, no date. No whatever.”

  Ridiculous to feel glad. As ridiculous as the fact that, on the mornings when I was leaving for work as he dragged home with the drained glow of a man who’d had sex all night and desperately needed sleep, it’d put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. This business of being best friends with a cute guy could be damned complicated, but Nav was so worth it.

  “I’ll have to settle for you,” he joked.

  “Hey, watch it with the insults. I was going to bring home a bo
ttle of champagne to celebrate your exhibit.”

  His chocolate eyes sparked with mischief. “In that case, I can’t think of a woman in the world I’d rather spend the evening with.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, I’m so flattered. Okay, champagne it is.”

  “I’ll pick up tourtière from Les Deux Chats.”

  He knew the spicy pie, a Québécois specialty, was my favorite comfort food. “I probably won’t make it home until around nine. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a busy day, too. Knock on the door when you get home.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  Was that a grimace on his face? He’d turned away before I could get a second look.

  *  *  *

  It was more than twelve hours later when, pump-clad feet dragging with weariness, stomach grumbling about the hours that had passed since my lunchtime salad, I knocked at Nav’s door.

  He opened it, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. “Hey, Kat.”

  “Tired. Hungry.” I sagged against his doorframe and tried not to notice his brown, well-muscled shoulders. “Long, long day.” I held up the bag I carried. “I come bearing champagne.”

  “Great. Go get changed, and I’ll bring the food.”

  I grinned. How nice it was to not have to be on. To relax, be myself.

  After going into my apartment, I left the door unlocked for him. His place was smaller than mine and cluttered with photography gear, so we always hung out at mine.

  I stripped off my business suit, shoes, and bra, and gave a head-to-toe wriggle of relief. The business day was over; time to unwind.

  The June night was warm, so rather than sweats I chose a light cotton salwar kameez—a midthigh-length tunic in blues and yellows over loose, drawstring waist blue pants. Light, floaty, feminine. I’d seen Indian women wearing them in Montreal and commented to Nav.

  He’d said that, according to his mother and aunties, they only fit properly if they were custom made. The next time he’d visited his family in India, he’d taken my measurements and brought me back three outfits. The clothes were so comfy and attractive, I’d become addicted.

  Knuckles tapped on my bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “Coming.”

  We never ate at the small dining table tucked into the space between galley kitchen and living room. I only used it to serve elaborately prepared dinners to impress dates. Instead Nav and I sprawled on the couch, food and feet fighting for space on the coffee table.

  I flopped down on my side of the couch, cozy and relaxed amid the interesting furniture I’d picked up at auctions and garage sales—woven rugs, Quebec folk art, a half dozen flowering plants. Although this morning Nav and I had mentioned a movie, he had put on a CD instead. One he’d given me. Pleasant and new-agey, with piano, flute, and sitar, it suited my mood.

  As did the scent of the spicy pork pie that sat on the coffee table. Not to mention the sight of Nav carrying plates and silverware from my kitchen. It was always a pleasure to watch him move. A rugby player in school, a jogger now, he had an athlete’s strength and grace. Just as much as the Olympic skier I’d once dated.

  As Nav put the plates down, the spicy scent made my tummy growl. Thank heavens he didn’t avoid pork.

  He’d found the bottle of champagne I’d put in the fridge. Moët et Chandon Grand Vintage 2000 Brut. It sat unopened on the coffee table along with two flute glasses.

  “You sure you want to drink this tonight?” he asked. “It’s pretty fancy. I have a Beaujolais in my apartment.”

  “You deserve fancy. God, Nav, your first major exhibit. This is big.”

  A quick smile flashed. “Thanks. Okay, consider my arm twisted.” He peeled off the foil, loosened the wire cage, then, using a towel and rotating the bottle, eased the cork out as deftly as any sommelier could have. Golden liquid foamed into our glasses.

  I lifted my glass to him. “To a huge step on your road to success.”

  “To steps forward. And success.” He clicked his glass to mine.

  There was something in his voice—determination, fire—that sent a shiver, the good kind, down my spine. A man with that passion and drive would get what he wanted.

  We tasted the wine and I sighed with pleasure. This champagne was one of my favorites. Fruit, honey, yeast, a touch of spice. Fresh, rich, elegant. Perfect for a celebration. And speaking of which …

  I raised my glass once more. “And here’s to M&M as well. May they have a long, very happy, life together.” I knew they would. They’d been joined at the hip since they were seven and were each other’s most loyal supporter.

  Nav drank that toast, too. “This is great wine, Kat.”

  I suspected he’d rarely, if ever, drunk such an expensive one. He refused to discuss finances—and always fought me for the check—yet it was clear he lived on a shoestring budget. “Glad you like it.” Hopefully his exhibit would be a huge success, and he’d finally be able to afford some of the better things in life.

  “Awfully fancy for a quiet night at home with a buddy and a plate of tourtière, though.”

  Maybe so, but tonight everything seemed just right. “Nav, this is perfect. Coming home to food, music. You look after me like, oh, a 1950s housewife.”

  He had leaned over to cut the pie and there was an odd tone to his voice when he said, “That’s what friends are for.” When he glanced up, however, his face wore its usual quiet smile, half hidden by his mustache and beard.

  “I really wish you’d shave,” I said for the zillionth time. I was dying to know what his face really looked like under all that curly black hair. With it, he was round faced and youthful, cute more than handsome. Of course, perhaps he was disguising a weak chin or acne scars.

  “You’re too obsessed with appearance.” He came back with his usual response as he handed me a plate with a hearty serving of tourtière.

  He dished some out for himself, and we both dug in.

  “Have a good day at the office, dear?” he asked in a saccharine-sweet voice.

  I looked up to see a twinkle in his eyes. He was playing off my housewife comment.

  “Cute.” I wrinkled my nose. “My day was stressful. Leaving on short notice is hard.”

  “And so is thinking about Merilee getting married.” Nav’s hand brushed my bare forearm. No doubt he meant it as a comforting gesture, but it felt almost like a caress, sending a quick thrill through me, of recognition, of … arousal. Damn.

  His hand dropped away, reached for his glass, and I shivered, banishing the sensation.

  “I know you want the same thing yourself,” he said. “Yet you keep dating men who are …” He shrugged.

  “I know, I know. I have the worst luck.”

  “You go for, uh, pretty dramatic men.”

  That was true. “I can’t help who I’m attracted to.” Attraction of opposites was normal. I was such an average person. Not brilliant like my parents and my one-year-older sister Theresa, not gorgeous like my one-year-younger sister Jenna. It made sense I’d be drawn to men who were amazing. And when one of those men was attracted to me, it blew me away.

  A humorless grin quirked Nav’s mouth. “Too true.”

  Said him, who was attracted to someone new each month. “And, unlike you,” I said, “I date seriously.” To me, it was a waste of time to date casually. I only went out with men I could imagine a future with. “I want a forever guy.”

  “And you think these men you hook up with are forever guys?”

  Obviously none had turned out that way. “When I met them I thought so.” Which only proved I was a bad judge of character, or didn’t have what it took to hold their interest and keep them faithful.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m an optimist.” I sounded a bit snappish, but I was sensitive about this. I was used to my family joking about my crappy taste and the jinx thing, but did Nav have to pick on me, too? Usually he was good about offering a shoulder to cry on, sans ju
dgment. Why was he acting different tonight?

  “I know, Kat, and that’s a great quality. But you also need some common sense. You meet Olympic Guy or NASCAR Guy, and suddenly you’re crazy about them and thinking in terms of forever. What is it about them? Or is it less about them and more about you being so desperate to get married?”

  “I’m not desperate, damn it. Just because I want to be married and you don’t—”

  “I do. I just don’t—”

  “Yeah, sure, I know.” Maybe in five or ten years. His current revolving-door policy was so not aimed at finding a wife.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” he said gently. “I know you’re not desperate. But maybe when you look at those guys, you see what you want to see. A prospective husband. Rather than what’s really in front of your eyes.”

  Was he right? Damn, this was heading into pop psych self-analysis, the kind of stuff that, in my humble opinion, only made people depressed.

  When my family trotted out the old stuff about my rotten taste, and me being a relationship jinx, I always tried to brush it aside. It hurt too much to think that my dating life consisted of attracting either losers or dynamite guys who quickly tired of me.

  God, I hated this introspective stuff. “Let’s watch a movie.”

  Normally, Nav would comply, but tonight he said, “Don’t feel like it.”

  At least he changed the topic of conversation. “Have you booked the train yet?” he asked, holding the pie plate toward me and offering me the last serving of tourtière.

  His muscular arm was even more tempting than the pie. I shook my head firmly. “No, thanks. And yes, I booked this morning.”

  He dished the pie onto his plate. “What’s your plan?”

  I rattled off my timetable for the tenth time today. “Work Monday morning, then the three forty train to Toronto. It gets in around eight thirty, and I’ll stay at the Royal York across from the train station. Then I’m on the morning train to Vancouver, arriving there first thing Friday.”

  “I hope you meet one or two fascinating people.” There was an odd note in his voice, but he was looking down at his plate, and that shaggy hair made it so hard to read his expression.