Love, Unexpectedly. Susan Fox P.Читать онлайн книгу.
he joked.
“Hey, watch it with the insults. I was going to bring home a bottle 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.”