On impulse, she picked up her cell from the desk. After her bungling call last time, she’d stick to texting this time. But when she glanced at the screen, a little red dot glowed above the “message” box. She occasionally checked her cell between patients but had been too busy all morning. It could be her mom or Pia or anybody, but her heart pounded as her thumb stabbed at the little green button and she spied Rory’s name above the message.
Her lips eased into a smile as she read the first line: I MISS U
The feeling was mutual, and she liked that he didn’t play games like some guys, who’d never admit they missed a woman they were dating in a million years. She read the rest of his text.
U BUSY? I AM.
BUT NEED TO T UP ANOTHER DATE SOON.
I’M PINING 4 U.
Samira unconsciously pressed a hand to her heart. It was the most romantic text she’d ever received, and she thought it was cute that he was far more eloquent in text than verbally.
With a big grin on her face, she fired back an answer:
MISS U 2.
V. BUSY, WILL B IN TOUCH,
ANOTHER DATE SOUNDS GR8.
She deleted the two kisses at the end and settled for a loved-up emoji with three hearts floating around a blushing, smiling face, because that was her all over every time she thought about him; warm and fuzzy, like one of those cartoon characters from her childhood with hearts for eyes.
Crazy, because he was all wrong for her. Kushi would not approve of Rory, and a small part of Samira wondered if that was part of the attraction? Before she remembered his startling blue eyes and his lazy grin and his stubble and his muscles and his very impressive . . . No, she liked Rory for a multitude of reasons beyond his obvious attributes.
The sooner she had a quick obligatory coffee with Manish, the better, so she could rejig her calendar and fit in a very important date with the guy who’d piqued her interest without trying.
* * *
* * *
Here you go, one skinny cappuccino.” Manish placed the takeout mug in front of her and sat opposite. “Sure I can’t tempt you with one of these?” He picked up a ginormous blueberry muffin and brandished it.
“No, thanks, I’m good.” She picked up her coffee. “At least I will be once I drink this.”
“Tough morning?”
“Just busy. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “We had a multiple-vehicle pileup on the Ring Road this morning, which meant ER went into overdrive.”
“So you’re an ER doctor?”
He nodded, those peculiar gray eyes clouding with worry and something else she couldn’t identify but looked a lot like guilt. “Yeah, it’s stimulating work, but you can’t save everyone, and that sucks.”
His empathy made her like him a little more. She’d worked with many doctors over the years, and most developed a hardened shell to deal with the constant deaths they saw every day. But she glimpsed real emotion in his eyes, like he seriously cared.
“You love your job.”
The corners of his mouth quirked in a wry grin. “Guilty as charged. I’m married to my work, which is as good an excuse as any when my grandmother starts pushing me toward every eligible Indian girl in Melbourne.”
She chuckled. “What does your mom think?”
A shadow passed over his face, and he glanced away to stare at the Yarra River several feet from their riverside table. “She died not long after I graduated from uni, and Dad died when I was a kid, so Izzy, my gran, raised me.”
So much for light coffee conversation. Samira had put her foot in it. “Sorry to hear about your folks. Does your gran know my mom?”
He nodded. “She lives in Noble Park, so stands to reason they’d cross paths at the many interminable Indian dances.”
Samira smiled. “Were you dragged along to those as a kid?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, his vehemence breaking the tension as they both laughed. “Izzy would dress me up in a suit complete with vest and make me dance with all the girls in their spangled salwar kameez. I hated it.”
“The food wasn’t bad though,” she said, remembering that her passion for samosas often led her to wander through a giant town hall, watching dancers bounce around to Bollywood beats, on the lookout for leftover snacks on tables that she’d snaffle and scoff in the corner. “But the karaoke was the worst.”
They laughed in unison, and once again Samira was struck by how nice this guy was. “So what’s this coffee date really about, Manish?”
“Blunt, I like that.” Respect glinted in his eyes. “And my friends call me Manny.”
“So sharing a coffee constitutes friendship?”
“It does.” He picked up his takeout mug and tapped it to hers. “Here’s to a no-pressure, no-arrangements, no-hookup friendship.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, taking a sip of her cappuccino but still thinking this guy was too good to be true.
“Though I’m always up for reviewing our stance on the no hookup?”
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed.
“I’m seeing someone.”
The moment the words tripped from her mouth, she realized how much she liked hearing them. Sure, she and Rory may not have stipulated exactly what was going on between them or established whether they were dating, but she’d like to, and saying it reinforced that.
“Lucky bastard.” He took a giant bite out of his muffin, chewed, and swallowed. “Is he Indian?”
“No.”
He winced. “Sister, you’re in for a world of pain.”
“Don’t I know it.”
They grinned, and she waited until he’d finished another bite before asking, “From your surname, I take it you’re Anglo Indian?”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad were Anglo Indians from Goa. Izzy is Goan, too. I was born in Chennai; they migrated here when I was a few months old.”
His mixed heritage explained the gray eyes.
“I’m a half-and-half too. You’ve met Mom, and Dad was American.”
“What a spectacular mix it is, if I do say so myself.”
They locked gazes and . . . nothing. Not a hint of sizzle or attraction like she had with Rory. Kushi would be disappointed with their lack of spark. Manish was easy on the eyes, had a sense of humor, and was a doctor: perfection in any woman’s eyes, but Samira felt nothing but friendship for the handsome medico.