“Yeah, I know, but at least we both know where we stand now.”
“For the record, I won’t hold it against you if you change your mind.” He tugged at his bow tie. “After all, who can resist a doctor in a tux?”
She made a buzzing sound. “Wrong on so many levels.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shrugged, his grin oddly endearing. “Until we meet again, Samira.”
Samira watched the not-so-dorky doctor with the killer sense of humor do the rounds saying his goodbyes, while her cell with Rory’s number in it burned a hole in her pocket.
He was too young for her, he was all wrong for her, yet she couldn’t deny that for the first time in her life she should quit thinking about doing the right thing and do the exact opposite.
Eleven
Samira had stuffed the last plastic bag into the trash when the first wave of nausea hit.
Her stomach churned like she’d drunk week-old lassi, and sweat broke out over her face. The pungent smell of garbage wasn’t helping, and she backed away from the trash can quickly.
However, a second wave swamped her, more powerful than the first, and she staggered toward the front step of the veranda, grabbing at the balustrading to prevent from falling.
“Hey, you okay?”
Of course, dashing Dr. Manish had to be leaving at that moment, and she managed a mute nod before slumping toward him.
“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.