She placed her order, pointing at the brightly colored morsels in the display window. Gulab jamuns, plump, bronze balls soaked in sugar syrup, bright orange swirly jalebis, creamy rasmalai, cottage cheese dumplings soaking in cardamom-infused milk, and yellow peda, Indian milk fudge. Her stomach rumbled, and she imagined her mom’s expression when she walked in the door with her goodies. Kushi would feign disapproval, but she had a wicked sweet tooth and would enjoy devouring these tasty morsels as much as Samira.
A few hours in her mom’s company would distract her from the inevitable loneliness when she got home, and the constant question whirring through her head: Did I do the right thing in driving Rory away?
Leaving the shop, she had to sidestep a guy walking too quickly. He didn’t apologize, and she cast him a scathing glare, at the same time he stared at her.
Oh no. No freaking way.
“Hello, Samira.”
Avi had this way of looking at a woman, part leer, part proprietorial, that made her skin crawl. She hadn’t noticed it at the start of their courtship—she’d been too smitten with her real-life Bollywood hero at the time—but later, when the cracks began to appear in their marriage, she noticed the way he looked at other women. Now, like then, it made her want to douse herself in antiseptic.
“Avi.” She managed a brisk nod and tried to sidestep again, but he blocked her path.
“Why the hurry?”
She could play polite, make meaningless small talk, but he’d given up the right to any of her graciousness the moment he told her he’d got a teenager pregnant and was leaving her.
“I’ve got better things to do than stand around talking to you,” she said, staring him down in defiance.
Mistake. Big mistake. Avi loved a challenge, and taking her down for her feisty response would be something he wouldn’t walk away from.
“Better things? Like what?” He glared at her belly and quirked an eyebrow. “Incubating a bastard?”
“That’s rich, coming from you, considering your first child was born out of wedlock.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you were a cheating scumbag still married to me and had to wait a year for our divorce to come through before you could marry your mistress.”
Avi preferred subservient women, women who deferred to him, women like the starry-eyed sucker she’d once been, so she knew her smart-ass response would get to him. The eyes she’d once imagined staring into for the rest of her life glittered with malice, and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Let’s not rehash the past. We’ve both come a long way.”
He leaned in closer, and she edged back, inadvertently holding her breath as the familiar aftershave washed over her, an overpowering musk blend she’d never liked. “You’re looking more beautiful than ever, babe.” His bold gaze raked over her, possessive, and she subdued a shudder. “Pregnancy becomes you.”
“I’m not your babe,” she muttered, taking a step back, hating that he’d invaded her personal space like he used to.
“You were once, and you loved it.”
Samira bit back a laugh. Was he coming on to her? She could say so much, most of it nasty and derisive, but as he stared at her with a gleam in his eye she didn’t like, most of her animosity drained away.
What was the point of trading insults? He meant nothing to her anymore. Interesting, that he hadn’t changed much beyond a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still the same slicked-back black hair, big brown eyes, and smooth skin. It would’ve been better if he’d sprouted nose hairs and had a wart or two on his nose. But once again, she was giving him more thought than he deserved.
“Goodbye, Avi.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise, and as she sidestepped him, this time he let her go.
“Samira?”
She sighed and gritted her teeth against the urge to flip him her middle finger. “What?”
“I behaved deplorably when we were married, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She accepted his long-overdue apology with a gracious nod and kept walking.
Forty-Five
If Rory’s first eight weeks in the outback had dragged, it had nothing on the next sixteen. Four long months where he spent endless days in front of the camera, reading off cues, trying to appear enthusiastic about a bunch of wannabe models and B-grade celebrities following clues toward the ultimate prize.
Not that the Renegades concept was bad; it wasn’t. It was his attitude that stank. Faking it all day every day for the cameras was tough, so when he reached the confines of his tent at night, he dropped the pretense and crawled into bed with his cell for company.
He’d grown damn attached to the thing, considering it was the only way he stayed connected to his kid. Samira sent him regular updates, texts with test results or growth charts. He liked the one comparing his kid to various fruit and his or her corresponding size. From pea to lemon to avocado and beyond. It made him smile, when little did these days.
He hated how hope blossomed every time his cell pinged with a message from Samira. What did he expect, that she’d say, Surprise, I’ve changed my mind, I want you, I love you, come back?
Thankfully, the updates were only about the baby, and she didn’t mention anything to do with her. Then again, he could imagine exactly what she was up to, in excruciating detail: she’d be planning a wedding, something low-key, being embraced by one big, happy Indian family, while his child grew in her belly. Wrong on so many levels. Not the part about her being surrounded by a support network that would care for her, but the marriage part to M.D. Manish. What made the guy better than him? A few degrees on a wall and a plethora of initials after his name?
Though that was petty. Samira wasn’t impressed by that kind of stuff. She’d made it more than clear how into him she’d been, even when he was nothing more than a stuntman.
No, his own insecurities blamed Manish and fate and whatever else he could come up with for ruining the best thing to ever happen to him. Though that was the kicker; he didn’t really know what he’d done wrong. One minute she’d introduced him to her mom and the aunties; the next she’d told him she’d be marrying Manish.
He hadn’t seen any spark between them at her mom’s house. He’d looked for it too, especially when Manish mentioned being there for her during the miscarriage scare. But there’d been nothing more than friendship between them, and Rory could almost like the guy given half a chance. Manish had a sense of humor, and in any other circumstance Rory could see the two of them sharing a beer and a laugh. Ironic, considering that may well happen if Samira married the guy and he’d be forced to see him every time he went to pick up his kid during access visits.
The thought made him grab his cell. He needed to get grounded, fast, and seeing a pic of his kid would do that better than anything. His favorite picture was the snapshot of the five-month scan, where he could actually see the baby’s fingers raised toward its mouth. It looked like a wave, and he loved tracing the outline of his child, wondering what he or she would look like. They didn’t know the sex; they wanted a surprise. But he could imagine a gorgeous little girl with hazel eyes like her mom or a cheeky boy with her smile.