by Nicola Marsh
“You know this new job means a lot to me. I’m finally starting to stand on my own two feet.”
“But?” Trust my best friend to keep probing.
“But I still feel like I have nothing to offer him.”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t want anything but you.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Yeah, it is.” She leaped off the sofa and started pacing, her heels clacking against the floorboards, before she halted in front of me, her frown ominous. “You’re in the best position to follow your heart. Not having a permanent lease is a bonus. You couldn’t up and leave if you had one.” She swept her arm wide. “You’ve paid up on this place so no stress here.”
“New job? Hello?”
She tapped her bottom lip, thinking. “You said the magazine’s expanding its online version, right?”
“Yeah.”
She snapped her fingers. “Easy. You give them a big spiel about writing extra copy direct from the source. Tell them your long-lost aunt owns a culinary school in Mumbai and has offered you an apprenticeship. Or maybe she’s writing a cookbook and needs your input and you’ll give the magazine exclusive excerpts. Or maybe—”
Laughing at her enthusiasm, I shook my head. “I can’t lie like that.”
She grabbed my arms and gave me a little shake. “And you can’t pass up an opportunity like this. Just go.”
She made it sound so tempting, so easy.
One of her suggestions had sparked an idea. The editor-in-chief had asked me for more articles for the magazine’s online version but there were only so many visits to Sassoon’s and phone calls to Mom begging recipes before I ran out of ideas.
If I’d had the luck to land this job in the first place through sheer bluffing and padding my qualifications, I could probably come up with a pitch to wow him into letting me submit from Mumbai.
A little elaborating here, a little expanding there, and I could convince him to send me on a special assignment. Though it was more likely I’d have to pay my own way and still adhere to deadlines.
Hating how I was wavering, I shrugged. “No money.”
She pointed at my TAG watch. “Sell that.”
I covered the watch with my other hand, protective. I hadn’t sold it when I’d pawned the rest of Tate’s trinkets because it didn’t count as a gift from him. I’d paid for it. As I reluctantly slid my hand away and uncovered the mother of pearl face, I knew I was lying to myself.
The watch might not have been a gift from Tate, but when I checked the time it proved that period in my life hadn’t been all about him, that I had been able to support myself, that I didn’t always need him. It made what I’d done more bearable and I’d been hanging onto it out of stubborn sentimentality.
Rita sat next to me and squeezed my arm. “You’ve got nothing holding you here. Why don’t you go to India, give it a shot with Drew? What have you got to lose?”
Everything.
chapter sixteen
Mumbai hadn’t lost any of its charm the second time around. (Charm could easily be interchanged with shock-value, chaos, or bedlam).
Thankfully, Jorg had loved my pitch and thought attending an Indian culinary school for a few months would be excellent article fodder. (Okay, so I’d used Rita’s lie. I preferred to call it stretching the truth.) On the downside, he refused to fund the trip so I’d worked my ass off the last two months, writing as many articles as I could and saving every cent. Along with the proceeds from selling the TAG, I’d finally made it back here.
My folks were intrigued I intended on spending several months in India for work. I hadn’t told them the real motivation behind my wanderlust. Time enough for that if everything worked out as I hoped.
Starting now.
Drew cared about me. He’d consistently called. He’d waited for me. I owed him more than the hasty brush-off farewell we’d had in New York. So here I was, with a death grip on a worn vinyl seat as a taxi veered through the chaotic streets of Mumbai, coming to a screeching halt in front of the Eye-on-I building.
Thankful I’d arrived in one piece, and tipping the driver way too many rupees because of it, I hoisted my backpack onto one shoulder and strode into the building.
I checked in with security, who eyed my backpack with a frown, until I mentioned the boss man’s name. Instantly, he directed me to wait on an ebony leather sofa while he called upstairs before gesturing me toward the elevator.
If I had any doubt Drew wouldn’t like a surprise visitor, he dispelled it by meeting me as I stepped out of the elevator, lifting me off my feet and hugging the life out of me.
“What are you doing here?” He held me at arm’s length for a moment, his expression a mix of disbelief and awe, before kissing me on the lips in full view of his secretary, who stared with blatant curiosity at our non-Bollywood-like greeting.
“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”
My casual tone didn’t fool him for a second as he slipped my backpack off my shoulder, hoisted it onto his, and held my hand in a tight ‘this time I’m not letting you get away’ grip.
I could live in hope.
“Come in,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice making my insides clench in remembrance. The way he’d laugh, the way he’d playfully called me Miss Jones, the way he’d moan my name in the throes of passion.
“Guess you’re surprised, huh?” Not my best opening line but standing here brought back a flood of memories that had me yearning to fling myself into his arms and forget explanations.
“Nothing about you surprises me.” He smiled, the same sexy grin that made his eyes crinkle, the same grin that rendered me witless. “I’d like to think you missed me like hell the last few months and that’s why you’re here. But considering you rarely return my calls, I’m doubtful.”
I perched on the end of his desk. “I needed to see you, to explain why I’m kafutzing around.”
He grinned. “Kafutzing?”
“My version of making a mess of everything.”
Drew didn’t speak, wisely giving me time, and I took a deep breath, a waft of Cool Water enveloping me in a familiarity that snatched my breath. If this were a rom-com I’d ignore my reasons for making this trip, drag his head down to mine, and kiss him senseless before delivering some upbeat line to cue the closing credits and HEA. Sadly, I had no idea if I was destined for the fated happily ever after.
“I botched our good-bye in New York—”
“You don’t need to do this,” he said, placing a finger against my lips while I resisted the urge to nibble it. “I got the message, it’s okay.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not. I used my insecurities to push you away. When in reality, I’m terrified.”
Concerned creases bracketed his mouth, all the encourage-ment I needed to take a deep breath and lay my heart on the line.
“Terrified of giving us a chance only to lose you in the end.” I swallowed the lump welling in my throat. “You mean too much to me, despite the ridiculous circumstances of how we met, the misunderstandings and roadblocks, and the too-good-to-be-true fairytale romance we had in New York.”
I gasped for air at the end of my spiel, deserving of a prize like all those years ago when I’d recited the McDonald’s two-all-beef-patties jingle better than any other kid in my class.
I had my prize, staring straight at me with confusion in his beautiful blue eyes.
“You mean a lot to me, too—”
I held up my hand, needing to finish. “I didn’t return many of your calls these last few months because I knew what would happen if I did.”
Smart guy, he didn’t butt in and risk talking to the hand again.
“Hearing your voice would’ve made me jump on the first plane out here and I didn�
�t want to be that person anymore.”
“I’m not following.” He rubbed the back of his neck, bewilderment slashing his brows.
“Bear with me for a bit longer.” I slipped off the desk and slid my hand into his, threading our fingers together. “I’m impulsive. I jump into situations, hoping they’ll work out in the end.”
He squeezed my hand in encouragement. “Like agreeing to impersonate your best friend to break her engagement?”
“Exactly like that.” I managed a weak smile. “Considering how that worked out, it wasn’t all bad. But rash decisions I’ve made in the past have been disastrous.”
“You’re talking about the jerk that did a number on you?”
I nodded. “I wasted a year of my life on him, and he didn’t mean—”
He placed a fingertip under my chin and tilted it up. “Mean what?”
“Mean half as much as you do.”
His lips kicked into a proud grin and I exhaled in relief. So far so good.
“I’ve come back because I want to give us a chance. I want to get to know you without the surrealism of sleeping over at The Plaza and making snack runs to Sassoon’s and doing the romantic touristy stuff like walking through Central Park and sharing hot dogs on street corners.”
I glimpsed excitement and hope and something indefinable in his eyes.
“I don’t want to rush into this. I want us to take our time, get to really know each other, develop our friendship, and see where this relationship takes us. You in?”
“I’m all in.” Three little words that may not pack the same punch as ‘I love you’ but based on how I felt at that moment, they came pretty damn close.
“I’m planning on hanging around a few months. You okay with that?”
He froze, and my heart stalled. Jamming a hand through his hair, he muttered a curse. “You turning up, saying what I’ve been dying to hear, distracted me.”
I tried to quell my rising panic and failed. “From?”
He pointed at his desk. “Major acquisition deal in the UK. We’re in a position to buy an Internet provider, and Rakesh is on his honeymoon, so I’m booked to fly out there tomorrow.”
Okay, not so bad. I could hang out with Anjali for a few days. “For how long?”
“Six weeks.”
Shit.
So much for getting to know each other. What could I say? Don’t go? I’d busted my ass to be here, juggling my work duties—lying, for goodness sake—and the moment I arrive he has to leave. I’d never been a clingy girlfriend and I didn’t intend to start now, not when Drew meant more to me than any other guy I’d ever known.
Uncertain, I dithered over a suitable response when he stalked around his desk and jabbed at his keyboard.
“Give me a second.” He squinted at the screen, tapped some more, his fingers flying while I fidgeted, rubbing the bare spot on my forearm where my TAG used to reside.
His cell rang and he answered it as he typed one-handed, his frigid tone and escalating volume culminating in an extended argument. He paced, alternating between gesticulating with his free hand to dragging it through his hair, barking orders into the phone.
With “you’re in charge” and “you make the deal happen” ringing in my ears, he opened his top drawer, flung the cell into it, and slammed it shut.
Had he just done what I thought he’d done?
His exultant whoop as he vaulted the desk made me jump.
I mentally crossed my fingers. “What’s happening—”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He picked me up and whirled me around until the room spun, our insane laughter echoing in his cavernous office.
When he put me down, I clung to him, determined to never let go. “But the acquisition? If it’s that important—”
“Nothing’s as important as you and me.” His arms wrapped around my waist, snug and secure. “Business has always been my entire world.” He paused, the emotion shadowing his eyes making me hold my breath. “Until I met you.”
Don’t cry… don’t cry…
“I know it’s early and we’re hell-bent on exploring our connection, but you’re the one, Shari Jones.”
“The one?” I squeaked before clearing my throat, not daring to imagine what he meant.
He ducked his head to hum the bridal waltz in my ear and whispered, “I love you.”
Elated, I buried my face in his chest so he couldn’t see my soppy grin and big fat tears.
When we straightened, I laid my palm over his heart, the consistent, steady beat, indicative of the guy I loved.
“Thanks for being patient with me.”
“My pleasure.” He kissed me, a soft, understanding kiss filled with promise and hope for our future.
…
Technically, I’d never lived with a guy. Tate had dropped by the Park Avenue apartment when it suited but we hadn’t spent longer than a weekend together. So cohabitating with Drew for a few months proved to be a good test of our relationship.
We’d wanted to explore beyond the spark we shared, to test the depth of our commitment. Living with someone who snored when he slept on his back, who made odd disapproving noises when he read the newspaper, who didn’t like my mess, proved to be challenging and enlightening and encouraging. Thank goodness the guy wasn’t perfect.
He even let me pay a measly rent now I could afford it—I’d insisted, complete with a threat to fly back to NYC—but we both knew it was token value. I couldn’t have afforded the rent on his amazing apartment on Marine Drive, featuring some of the highest land prices in Mumbai, if I starred in the next Bollywood blockbuster.
While he had his faults and I had mine, we managed to muddle along in some semblance of domestic bliss, and every morning when I woke, warm and cozy with his arm draped over my waist, I couldn’t believe how damn lucky I was.
I’d lie there for ten minutes, almost holding my breath not to wake him, so I could watch him sleep. The spiky shadows cast by his eyelashes, the tempting stubble, the strong jaw. I knew every inch of him intimately: the ticklish spot behind his knee, the sensitive patch in the curve of his hipbones, the way he liked his back scratched.
Though it was more than physical. We strolled along Marine Drive every evening, the Arabian Sea stretching like a sparkling slick, talking about anything and everything. We attended work functions and movie premieres and nightclub openings as a couple. He even tolerated being dragged along to every restaurant and street stall I could find, all in the name of research for my column, never doubting our growing bond for a second.
At least, Drew didn’t. Me? After two months, with my money running out as the column switched from weekly to monthly and the online version of Viand cut back on contributors, I knew the time fast approached where I’d have to make a permanent choice.
I knew what I wanted.
I wanted it all. The guy, the job, the transcontinental thrill.
Ideally, I’d expand my work to include freelancing for other travel magazines while dividing my time between NYC and Mumbai. For research purposes, and other more pleasurable pursuits. Namely, my evolving relationship with one very sexy Brit.
When Drew had to visit Goa for a few days on business, I took the opportunity to head back to Arnala. My birthplace had made a lasting impression during my first, all-too-brief visit. Fitting that I’d be contemplating a momentous decision there.
For a glorious five days I existed on thalis (a banana leaf plate covered in small mounds of rice, vegetables, dahl, raita, and pickles). I spent my time exploring the town, seeing the sights, absorbing the culture my ancestors took for granted on a daily basis. I took enough photos to fill two memory sticks and wrote continually, filling four journals with recipes and ramblings, all good fodder for work.
I soaked up the serenity of the people a
nd the place, the peace infusing me with clarity.
Yeah, I missed Drew. Would he find the sea view from my dorm-like window enchanting? Would he like to sit under a banyan tree and listen to the lilting singsong accent of the locals swap stories? Would he favor the sambhar over the dahl?
Everywhere I went, with every new experience I had, it all came back to Drew.
He was my world.
It was as simple as that.
I didn’t have to second-guess this decision.
Tate had been a minor aberration in the overall scheme of my life and I’d learned from it (never trust a man who has a designer shoe fetish to match yours). My self-confidence had taken a beating, making me doubt any decision I had to make.
Not anymore.
Living with Drew, trusting Drew, opening my heart to Drew, had restored my faith in myself.
I’d healed, with the help of a vibrant, startling, eye-opening country and the love of an incredible man.
Best of all, I’d done this for me. Every step I’d taken, every risk I’d chanced, had been worth it because it led me to this moment. Realizing how far I’d come and how far I was willing to go to secure my future.
Smiling, I hugged my knees to my chest as I sat on Arnala beach.
I wouldn’t waste another minute.
I knew what I had to do.
…
Anjali helped me prepare.
She loved the intrigue, and I couldn’t blame her. While I was terrified he’d think I was a lunatic for doing this, considering we’d only been living together two months, I couldn’t wait to see Drew’s face.
I hadn’t seen Anjali for three weeks, and while she helped me dress, she caught me up on the latest gossip. She’d met someone, another musician (sitar player this time)—groupie!—and had lost twelve pounds. Amazing what a new love interest could do to subdue ladoo cravings.
Rita and Rakesh were flitting around Europe and nauseatingly in love. We Skyped them, and by Rakesh’s devotion it looked like Mama Rama was out of the picture and he’d walk on hot coals for his new wife. Rita appeared radiant, and we made a pact to continue Mojito Mondays once we were back in New York. Or Mumbai, if I was lucky.
