Pari sends me a knowing look. The look of an Indian mother who knows she’s right and isn’t afraid to point it out to me. I see it often enough. “See,” she says, probably in case I don’t decipher the look.
“It doesn’t matter. I want a lot of things I can’t have. I want to develop abs right now, without doing anything. I want to be a famous singer but I can’t carry a tune. I want to get your husband’s sale.” I wince as I let out the pitch even after I accused Gavin of working his pitch behind my back.
It’s very hard to turn it off. Maybe I should book that trip to Antarctica.
“I can’t help with any of those things. Especially the last one, since the works are Harrison’s babies that predate me. But I can see there’s something between you and Gavin. Something like young love.”
Her words hit me like a cannon blast, and I do my best to mentally scramble away from the projectile, by denying her words.
I don’t love Gavin. Ican’tlove him. We’re just supposed to be havingfun. There’s nothing fun about feelings; they’recomplicated.
“I think you may be mistaking all our anger for...that other emotion. And I think it’s against an HR regulation, probably. And Gavin dates models,” I say, rambling despite my efforts not to.
Great, in my effort to deny this relationship, I’m now worried I don’t stack up to his previous lovers.
Or I would be, if I cared. Which I don’t.
Pari inclines her head. “Maybe. There’s supposed to be a thin line between love and hate.”
“No. With all due respect,” I hasten to add, remembering this is a client’s wife, and the woman whose house I’m staying in. “I think I would know.”
“Would you?”
I nod vigorously, squashing the logical part of me that says I would be the last one to know because I would deny it to the end.
“I don’t mean to intrude. Just to tell you what a good couple you two make. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you,” I say weakly. I feel just as drained as I do after a conversation with my mom. It must be a skill all Indian mothers have. Scary women.
I get into my room and flop on the bed. Half a day into Gavin’s and my very casual, hanging out with sexy timeswhatever, and he’s already making me crazy.
This is the opposite of fun and casual.
I could call it off. But then I’d miss...him. Having sex with him, sure. But also talking about art with him. And about our crazy fathers. And vacations in Antarctica. So even if he has me tied up in more knots than a mall food-court pretzel, I want to enjoy this. For a little longer at least.
Decision made, I ransack my suitcase for the sexiest thing I can find. I wasn’t planning on anyone seeing my underwear this trip, so it’s slim pickings, but I grab the smallest and laciest things I can find. Dressed, I get back on the bed and look at the door. Enticingly.
That loses its allure in about five minutes, and I get my iPad out, doing some writing on an upcoming exhibition catalog.
I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing, I don’t know how much time passes until my door bounds open.
After my brain is done processing the fact that Gavin is not a murderer or here to steal my work product, I try to shift my terrified look into one I hope is seductive.
“You should knock.” Wait, that’s not seductive. I am so bad at this with him.
But he didn’t even knock.
“I already had an invitation to come in.” He walks farther into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.
“You look amazing.” His eyes wander from my feet, up my legs, over my hips, butt, back, breasts and ending at my face. And then it goes to the item on the bed in front of me, set up in the least ergonomic way possible.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes.” I smile at him to take the bite out of the word. “But I’ll allow it.” I move my work stuff off the bed and saunter over to him.
“Did you get everything settled that you needed to?” I slide my hands into his sport coat and slip it off his shoulders. His hands go to the curve of my waist, pulling me slightly closer, but mostly digging in where they touch.
“Yup, all set for tomorrow.” His voice is distracted, and his eyes had long left my face for my breasts.
