I didn't get a chance to reply. She shook out of my hold and walked off with her persimmon shoes and plump lips, and didn't grant me even a passing glance.
This fucking woman.
Chapter Three
Neera
Anamorphosis:a visual perspective technique that yields a distorted image of the work's subject when viewed from the typical viewpoint. However, it is employed such that when viewed from a specific angle, or reflected in a curved mirror, the distortion disappears and the image in the picture appears as expected.
I wasn'tone for knocking knees. I didn't wobble, I didn't waver. Few things struck fear in me.
But it wasn't fear that had me marching away from Gus Guillmand on unsteady feet. No, it was anger. True, kettle-whistling anger. That man was infuriating with his tree-climbing and word-twisting. It was anger and it was exasperation too. I wore a lot of hats around here, but riding herd on the artist-in-residence wasn't supposed to be one of them.
It was anger and exasperation, and an unwelcome jolt of attraction. That wouldn't do. I wouldnot. I couldn't lust after someone like Mr. Guillmand, someone insufferable and argumentative and—and distressingly sexy.
Icould, but I wouldn't.
It was anger, exasperation, attraction—rather unwelcomed—and a complete inability to focus on my work for more than three and a half minutes that had me clicking my online profile toout of officeand packing my things well before my regular quitting time.
I told Heath I had some personal business to handle this afternoon and he smiled and nodded while munching a dandelion—leaf, stem, and flower. If I was a betting woman, I'd say the office would be brimming with theories as to whether I was leaving—whether by new employment or terminal illness—before tomorrow morning's first chai.
I tucked my hair back, put my earbuds in, and clicked on a podcast before boarding the company's commuter bus. Around here—and other civilized parts of the world—earbuds served as a clear Do Not Disturb sign. Today, it saved me from collegial conversation and mulling over my unlikely reaction to Mr. Guillmand.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about him. His grasp on my arm throbbed like a burn and I was hot everywhere. Our conversations were stuck on repeat in my mind. For the first time in my professional life, I was doubting the way I handled a situation. It was unclear to me how I could've better handled Mr. Guillmand, although one corner of my mind hadideasabouthandlinghim.
When the bus rolled into the Redwood City station, I'd resolved nothing. I was tired from all the emotional footwork and frustrated with myself for allowing the issue to consume this much of my day when topics of far greater value demanded my attention.
I tapped open a car service app as my colleagues disembarked. I was a ten minute walk from home but that wasn't where I wanted to go. I was in need of calm and comfort—and a mental reset—and right now, that meant crossing a bridge and crawling along the 580 toward West Berkeley.
* * *
The cafeteria-style restaurantreminded me of Penn Station at rush hour. It was unbelievably loud and the crowd seemed to move as a collective body, swarming the front counter, surging toward open seats, scrambling to collect trays piled high with authentic Indian street food.
I loved it.
I gained as much peace from the atmosphere as I did the food. Perhaps that was a product of this great crowd and the anonymity that came with it. No one cared about me, my title, my connections, not when there was a fresh order of gulab jamun waiting for them.
I enjoyed my work and I was comfortable in my role but it was refreshing to live a moment or two without those pieces preceding me.Yes, that was it. Some comfort food and a reprieve from the world I managed, that was what I needed. Today's loss of equilibrium was a result of a busy week on top of a travel-heavy month on top of a turbulent year.
Mr. Guillmand was the unlikely product of my overdue need for some intense self-care. Nothing more.
One of the clerks behind the counter raised her hand, signaling for another customer. The waiting crowd heaved forward and an elbow connected with my upper arm. I covered the sting with my palm as I glanced to the side, in search of the offending elbow.
But it wasn't an elbow I found. It was a great wall of man, one barely enclosed in a black t-shirt, dark jeans, scuffed boots. One who seemed intent on invading every last inch of my world. I eyed him up and down, arching my eyebrow at his slicked-back hair and clenched hands. "Mr. Guillmand."
"Miz Malik." He loosened his fists and stretched his fingers, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Of all the curry joints in all the towns in the Bay Area, what're the odds you'd walk into this one?"
"I could ask you the same," I replied, still rubbing my arm.
He tracked the movement, his dark brows knitting together as understanding flashed in his eyes. He slipped his fingers under my palm, pulled my hand away. But he didn't release me. He held on. "I'm sorry," he whispered, covering my bicep with his free hand. His thumb stroked my skin over my sleeve, his touch gentler than I'd imagined possible.
And I'd imagined. I didn't want to admit to myself—to anyone—but I couldn't stop imagining those charcoal-darkened fingers exploring my body. Leaving marks on my skin.
Forcing a smile, I shook free from his hold for the second time today, clasped my hands, and stepped back as far as the crowd would allow. It wasn't far. "It was an accident. Just a bump. I'm fine." I tipped my head toward the counter. "Enjoy your meal. The chole bhature is exquisite."
Mr. Guillmand hit me with a smile that could only be described as undeterred, and he edged back into my space. "Is that your order?"
"Hmm. Sometimes." I shot a glance at the menu board. I wanted a bit of everything. "Don't let me keep you, Mr. Guillmand."
