“Leave it. We can do the dishes later.”
He dragged his gaze from her hand to her eyes, her somberness not encouraging. “Later?”
“Don’t you want seconds?”
“But there aren’t any eggs left—”
“Exactly.”
She stood, intertwined her fingers with his, and eyeballed him with an unspoken challenge he was all too willing to accept as they headed for the bedroom.
Fourteen
This time, when Rory woke in Samira’s bed, he didn’t slink away. Not that he wasn’t tempted, considering she captivated him just as much when she slept, with small puffs of air blowing out of pursed lips and her eyeballs’ rapid movement making her lids quiver, but they’d connected beyond the sex last night when she’d revealed all that stuff about being married, and slipping away would be a shitty thing to do.
But staying around until she woke and agreeing to brunch were poles apart. Saturday mornings were reserved for mega workouts and studying the requirements on stunt jobs for next week. But his schedule was annoyingly clear considering he needed the money, and he could always hit the gym later. Besides, he’d had a good cardio workout several times last night, three to be precise, and there was nothing like sex with Samira to get his heart pumping.
“What are you thinking about?”
He grinned at her from across a small table in an Indian café off the main drag in Dandenong. “Do you really want to know?”
She held up her hand, her eyes glittering with remembrance. “You don’t have to spell it out.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I spent a great night with a hot guy and I’m in a cheeky mood, so sue me.”
He laughed and she joined in, and he wished he could attribute the weird feeling in his chest to heartburn, but they hadn’t eaten yet.
When he’d turned up at her office last night, he hadn’t expected to connect this way. The sex had been as good as he remembered, and it should’ve ended there. But with cooking dinner together, spending the night, and sharing this late breakfast, Rory knew they’d moved beyond the “just screwing” phase into something . . . more. He didn’t know what it was, and he had no idea how to label it, but they were in some weird dating limbo land where he wanted to see her again but was terrified by the urge.
“So you think I’m hot, huh?”
“Like you need the validation.” She rolled her eyes. “You asked me last night why I was single, and I asked you the same.” She poked him in the biceps. “So what gives? You mentioned all that stuff about your job and small apartment, but what’s the real reason?”
No way in hell would he tell her why he steered clear of relationships, so he deflected by pointing at his chest and pulling his shoulders back. “Why would I deprive so many women of this by taking myself off the market?”
She laughed as he’d intended, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She’d already mentioned he was a man of few words, and he didn’t need her knowing why. Though interestingly, sitting across from her at the dining table last night and now, he realized he hadn’t been so self-conscious. He wasn’t weighing every word carefully before speaking or tensing in case he slipped up. She made him feel at ease in a way he hadn’t experienced since . . . well, ever.
Thankfully, their order arrived and prevented her from asking any more questions he’d rather not answer. He’d never heard of Indian dishes like upma and idlis, being a chicken tikka and rogan josh man, but they smelled delicious, and he was looking forward to trying his first vegetarian South Indian breakfast.
“Would you like a little of everything?”
He nodded and held out his plate, watching as Samira placed two white saucerlike cakes and a spoonful of chutney on it, along with several large spoonfuls of a grainy concoction.
“The upma is made from roasted semolina, with curry leaves, onion, chili, mustard and cumin seeds, and chana dahl mixed through it. It’s amazing.”
She looked so animated, so enthused, he wanted to drag her across the table and devour her rather than the food she’d described.
“The idlis are made from a special rice and urad dahl ground together, fermented, then steamed.” She pointed to the dollop of red on his plate. “And that’s coconut chutney. It’s so good.”
“Thanks,” he said, surprised to find himself salivating, and after he forked some upma into his mouth, he knew why. If the aromas of sautéed spices weren’t tempting enough, the explosion of flavor made his taste buds dance.
He must’ve made a weird noise, because he glanced up to find her staring at him with a beguiling mix of approval and admiration.
“Told you so,” she said, grinning. “Try the idlis.”
When he picked up a knife and fork to cut it, she shook her head. “Like this.”
She broke off a piece with her fingers and dunked it in the chutney before popping it into her mouth. Her blissful expression made him hard in an instant.
“That good, huh?”
“Better,” she said, with a wink, and he forced himself to focus on eating rather than thinking about other ways he could put that ecstatic expression on her face.
He found the idlis rather bland, but the chutney was delicious, and he cleared his plate quickly, to find she’d done the same.
When the waitress placed stainless steel mugs of steaming masala chai in front of them and cleared their plates, Samira said, “I know I’ve already said this, but one of the things I like most about you is your ability to enjoy this”—she waved her hand between the two of them—“without endless chatter. It’s refreshing.”
If she only knew that the source of her admiration for his preference for silence came from necessity rather than any grand plan on his part.
“I don’t see the point of talking for the sake of it,” he said, hoping she couldn’t read the truth on his face. “Listening is much better.”
She sighed, the corners of her mouth curving. “You may just be the unicorn of men.”
“Because I’m rare or because you think I have a mighty horn?”
She laughed so loud several people at nearby tables turned to stare, but she didn’t care and neither did he. There was something about this spontaneous woman that captivated him.
Which meant he should run for the hills before it was too late.
* * *
* * *
Samira knew bringing Rory to Dandenong was a big risk. Any number of her mom’s acquaintances or the dreaded auntie brigade— a group of local elderly Indian women who judged everyone and found them lacking—could spot them together and carry the news back to Kushi before she’d finished her masala chai. But she didn’t care. In fact, a small part of her had done this defiantly, almost daring fate to catch her sharing breakfast with a young Aussie guy far removed from Kushi’s version of the perfect man.