Joe laughed. “I acquiesce. Your male relative’s ire would probably have more to do with you conversing with an unrelated man than your Steinem quote. And you with uncovered ankles.” He flicked the edge of the afghan that fell across her knees.
Eyes narrow, she drew her stockinged feet farther underneath her. “You’d be the one in trouble in the Middle East, accosting an unmarried woman in the sanctity of her house.”
“No, I believe in Islam the man’s always right.”
She lurched to the edge of her seat. “That is a ridiculous oversimplification of Islamic gender customs.” Her blood pressure rose.
“Fortunately, I’m a Westerner.” Standing, he reached for her cheese curls peppered plate and empty V-8 can. “May I serve you some chutney?”
“No, thank you.” She stood. The afghan fell off her pencil skirt, sliding into a pile on her Turkish rug that some Bible thumper was sure to drip chutney sauce on tonight. She grabbed the plate from his hands. Orange crumbs splattered over her white sleeve.
“I’d help you brush those off, but you know, Islamic standards.” He quirked a grin.
She rolled her eyes. “At least Middle Eastern guys wouldn’t be hitting on me.” Okay, she shouldn’t have snapped at him, but Dr. Benson still hadn’t answered. A metallic taste started under her tongue. Would today be the day she lost everything she’d ever worked for? A forty-year-old mother of five at the refugee center had confessed yesterday that she feared to walk the streets of Cambridge in a hijab. If she earned a Harvard professor post, she’d use that power to change attitudes so women like that could feel accepted rather than shunned.
Joe drew back, a hint of red tingeing his neck. “I’m not hitting on you.”
Really? She crossed her arms, spreading the cheese curl dust to her other sleeve.
“What kind of work do you do at the refugee center? That’s admirable.” His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled.
“Nothing special. Just volunteering.” She ducked in front of him as the invading horde pressed behind her. Kay grabbed the spoon to the chutney. The women who deserved admiration were the refugees who’d suffered through unimaginable circumstances in their home country, and still had the courage left to embark on a new life in a strange new culture.
Joe looked into her eyes, his expression so deep she squirmed.
The aroma of the mango sauce spread around them as they stood there. Jostling Bible thumpers shoved from behind them. The movement bumped her against Joe. Her shoulder brushed his arm. A tingly feeling ran down her fingers.
Only inches away from her, Joe still stared into her eyes.
She brought her arms up against her chest. “What?”
“Your eyes are the color of Arabian Nights.”
Weird, oddly intriguing compliment. Uncrossing her arms, she flicked her hair behind her ear. A nervous feeling prickled through her. He looked so solid standing there, the last glimmers of daylight shining through the sliding glass door behind his back. Completely irrationally, her heart fluttered.
Joe stepped in front of her and grabbed the wooden spoon stuck in the chutney. Plop after plop, he dished it on a plate.
The man was ignorant, boorish. No novel-esque compliments and superhero looks would change that.
He extended the plate toward her.
“Thanks.” Her voice broke. The tips of her ears heated. He dished his own plate then passed in front of her and took a seat on her faded loveseat.
People she’d never met filled her living room. Moving onto the tile, she cast an awkward glance around her at the strangers who probably thought much less of her than she did of them. Time to seek the sanctuary of her glider’s defenses.
A dude in a Harvard Law hoodie elbowed in front of her and plopped himself in the glider!
No. Kay shifted her feet as strangers jostled around her. The chutney in her hands sent up a truly heavenly aroma. If one believed in heaven, that is, which she didn’t. Even that fragrance couldn’t mask the stench of awkwardness permeating the air. The floor also filled with cross-legged bodies now, no place left to sit.
“Plenty of room.” Joe shifted right on the loveseat, his arm on the couch back. He smiled at her.
He probably thought she’d hosted this Dark Ages event at her apartment to see him.
Foreign bodies filled her entire apartment as the sound of scooping and slurping threatened to spread orange chutney stains across her every furnishing. She glanced to her phone. You have zero new emails.
With a groan, Kay slumped onto the worn loveseat by Joe. Her neck brushed against his arm. A rush of something shivered through her. He didn’t actually believe these fairy tales, did he? As pleasant as the idea of some foreign power looking out for one might be, science had disapproved any notion of a god.
With a self-important cough, a wispy man cleared his throat. “Joel 1:11, ‘Wail, you vinedressers . . .’ ”
Oh, she was wailing.
As the Bible study finally ended, all closed their eyes for the supposititious ritual of trying to communicate to some all powerful deity. Kay rolled the last of the chutney into half a tameez bread.
Joe not only believed these fairy tales, he’d chimed in all night with enough Bible references to make a Catholic priest look not-brainwashed. With a sigh, Kay dug back into the couch. Joe’s bare forearm touched her back. A tingle straightened her spine. She jolted upright. Her panty hose-covered knee grazed his jeans with the movement.
“Let us all join hands,” the balding man said.
Hold hands? She rammed back against the loveseat.
Joe flashed a smile at her, his teeth as straight as a dentist commercial. “At least this denomination doesn’t do the holy kiss.”
The holy flipping what? These people lived in a Monty Python movie. Was this the kind of crazy she’d encounter every day in the lice-infested hall of the Midwestern community college she’d have to teach at when Dr. Benson kicked her out of Harvard? Wait, was Joe joking?
He quirked the left side of his mouth up, an enigmatic quality in that grin. Joe held his hand out, palm up. Calluses lined his skin, the mark of a chin-up bar or dumbbell running underneath the base of his fingers.
Slowly, she moved her hand closer. Her fingers brushed against his. A flash of heat sparked through her wrist.
“Dear Heavenly Father.” Joe pressed his eyes shut, but even the platitudes to some non-existent god couldn’t stop the electricity of his touch.
What ailed her? Was she that insecure after Felipe that the first hot man who paid her attention could rivet her? He probably spent his Sundays watching the NFL and listening to conservative talk show hosts rant about the upcoming presidential election.
Joe said “Amen.” With the clump of dirty dishes entering the sink and bumps of scooted-back chairs, the motley crew of strangers started straggling out the door.
“Kay!” Mariam grabbed her elbow and dragged her to the kitchen. “You must delay Josiah! He must not see me leave with Hamed.” She hissed the words in a desperate whisper more worthy of CIA movie thrillers than a Bible study.
“What do you think he’s going to do, follow you to Canada? Also, I’ll miss you.” Kay plopped a Bible thumper’s dirty cup in the sink and stared glumly at the hours’ worth of cleanup the others had left.
“Yes, he will!” Mariam clenched Kay’s hand with both her thin ones.
Paranoia again. She’d always thought of Mariam as exceptionally level-headed, except for the Bible thing. She hoped Hamed and she were happy up north. Maybe she could visit them over Christmas break. Kay plunged the sink plug in and squirted soap. “Joe’s a security guard, not an immigration official.”
“Please, Kay! Give us a half hour head start. I beg of you!” Grasping Kay’s elbow, Mariam proceeded to half-shake her arm off.
“I’ll take care of Joe. Write me when you get to Canada.” Kay shook off soap suds and squeezed Mariam’s hand. She did want to help her friend. Besides, call it a desperate attempt to fo
rget that Dr. Benson still hadn’t answered her email and her entire career hung in the balance, but she wouldn’t object to an excuse to flirt with the cutest guy who’d ever hit on her.
She tugged open the refrigerator door and grabbed two drinks. Her heels clicked against the linoleum as she rounded the kitchen. Joe still sat on the couch.
“Hey, handsome.” She sloshed the two beers in her hand. “Want to go outside, have a beer?” She pointed with her elbow to the sliding glass door.
The moon lit the balcony, giving a view of the town surrounding them. She’d have offered him the vintage sherry Dad had sent her, but his tastes probably ran in less sophisticated lines.
“On-call.” Joe shook his head, but he picked up a duck cloth jacket and stood.
Did a security guard need enough brains to do his job that a hangover would matter? She gripped the sliding door. Joe reached around her. The door’s metal frame whistled through the track. His boots clamped against the wooden balcony.
The moonlight reflected off his light hair, the wind whipping that gray shirt against his abs. Sky glow framed the other apartments in this complex. Dark tree branches swayed in the night wind.
Leaning up against the porch rail, she brought the beer to her lips and looked at him.
His presence filled all seven by four feet of the balcony’s chipped paint. Even his ears looked manly. How did ears look manly? She half expected James Bond music to start piping up from the ground three stories down.
The sliding glass door offered a view of Mariam dragging her suitcase toward the front door. Joe couldn’t look that way. She only hoped Mariam and Hamed didn’t run into engine trouble in that decades-old Ford Explorer. Maybe she should have lent them her Prius.
Shifting down the rail, Kay let her fingers just brush Joe’s. He startled as if he felt the jolt of adrenaline too.
Pity he was a high school dropout and a Christian, otherwise she’d absolutely angle for a date with him.
The stars glowed in the sky above. Joe’s T-shirt hung over the top of his jeans, making a boxed shape that she could only imagine a redneck like him concealed a gun under. What kind of zombies did gun nuts think were about to jump out of the drywall that they’d need all those guns?
However irrational, she had to admit the hardness of a concealed revolver bulge beneath a guy’s shirt was sexy, the kind of thing that gave any tryst the spark of a Jason Bourne movie.
Back in her wild college years, she would have invited a guy like Joe over to her apartment even though she knew they had no future. Hung a bra on the door handle as a doorsock and hoped her overly loud roommates didn’t barge in.
“Where are you from?” Joe’s voice broke the moonlight.
She startled. “Massachusetts. You?”
“Kansas.” He took a swig of water from a plastic cup as he held her gaze. “Big family?”
Why did he ask? Did he think they might date? Because, while yes, he turned her on, they weren’t even in the same ballpark. He’d despise her values and convictions as much as she despised his. All she needed to do was open her mouth to show him the disparity in their upbringings. “No siblings. I spent my time reading Rumi and Abu Nuwas.”
He laughed, the sound filling the darkness as the evening breeze clattered against the neighbors’ string lights. “Abu Nuwas challenges Islamic orthopraxy at every turn.”
“You’ve read Abu Nuwas?” She stared at Joe. Respect swelled through her.
“Give me a little credit. I didn’t SparkNote my way through high school.” He quirked the left side of his mouth up, that same enigmatic grin flashing through the shadows.
Wait, did his high school actually teach Islamic literature, or was he a closet intellectual and mocking her for misjudging him? Kay shifted back. Her heel caught on chipped wood as she took a better look at him.
“Though with how many poems Abu Nuwas wrote glorifying taverns and wine, the guy must have been an alcoholic.” Joe leaned back on his elbows, his jacket falling down his hard wrists.
“You have read eighth-century Islamic poets.’” She felt a smile creep up her mouth. “A little too smart for a security guard, don’t you think?” She bumped against him. Her shoulder thudded against his upper arm.
“Guess you haven’t met many security guards.” His eyes twinkled like the stars above, only much deeper blue. “What do you think of Hazef’s poems?”
“I like them. Antinomianism at its best.” Her heart pounded. In college days, after a few too many beers, she would have let her hand brush up against his chest and see what he did next. How many months had passed now since she’d felt a man’s arms around her? Kay gave herself a shake.
She’d matured since college days. She didn’t have time to do something stupid like waste time on a guy she had nothing in common with.
That night six months ago when Felipe dumped her, she’d sure wanted to do something stupid. How could Felipe do that to her? She’d loved him. Every time she’d seen Felipe’s face, she’d thought of Rumi’s poem about the pull of love.
With a world-rocking smile, Joe reached out and just touched her fingers. At the contact of this handsome stranger with a puzzling affinity for Islamic poets, a sensation rushed through her. She felt beautiful, desirable, special. She hadn’t felt that way since Felipe. Joe said something, his voice a world away as he looked into her eyes.
Maybe a little irresponsible stupidity was what she needed. She was flunking out of her PhD program anyway, sure to get that email from Dr. Benson any moment. A day like today called for a drunken one night stand.
His shadow cut across the railing, his jacket falling open around the shirt that he hid who knew how many concealed weapons under.
Religious nut job or not, Joe had brains, she’d give him that. Mariam had said that Joe was into her, and he’d been confirming Mariam’s diagnosis all evening.
His fingers felt hot against hers, contrasting with the cold night air.
Kay stepped back. His gaze never left her. She toyed with the top button of her blouse. The starched white fabric gaped around pearl buttons. “Have a girlfriend?”
“No.” His voice had a musical quality. She’d put money on a local church roping him into performing in their Christmas musical this year.
“Anyone special?” She slipped the top pearl button out of its Ann Taylor buttonhole. The faintest scent of apple blossom perfume still clung to her shirt. More to the point, he smelled like Old Spice soap with the hint of danger exuding from his broad security guard shoulders.
“Not even close.” His mouth looked firm, and the taste of Middle Eastern spices would still cling to him if she pressed her mouth to his. He rested his arm on the deck rail.
She toyed with the second button of her blouse, the third. Leaning against the wooden railing, her elbows behind her, she let the partially unbuttoned shirt fall open to cleavage as she looked up at him through the darkness. The stars lent a radiance to their encounter, as if Mother Nature smiled down on the pleasure two human beings found in each other’s company. She bumped her shoulder against his arm.
A piece of splintered railing poked into her back. She froze. This was a terrible mistake. He was a religious nut and she wasn’t a college freshman anymore.
A rising wind whistled between them, blowing dark clouds over the moon. Joe’s arm felt warm against hers.
She hadn’t felt the warmth of a man’s embrace since Felipe. Instead, she’d focused all her energy on regaining her status at Harvard. Ha! Much good that hard work had done her.
Kay glanced to her cell, which protruded from her jean pocket. Even now Dr. Benson likely was emailing the dean to eject her from the program. Why not indulge in irresponsibility before her entire world fell apart?
Goose pimples rose on her skin as the blustery wind whipped at her barely attached blouse. She brushed her fingers against Joe’s. “A little warm tonight, don’t you think?
“More like freezing.” The wind whipped at his shirt, clearly reveal
ing the outline of a concealed carry and what looked like a shoulder holster. Felipe had been too much of a hippie to ever carry a gun.
Stepping in front of Joe, she touched his other arm, her body so close she could feel the heat from his chest. “It’s warm next to you.”
“You’d need a three-walled wind break to have any chance of blocking this hurricane.” He smiled at her, as if purposefully misunderstanding.
“No, I meant. . .” She rested her hand on his upper arm, her half-open blouse beating against her chest in the wind. His blue eyes glistened by starlight. He understood. He just intended to make her say it.
“Meant what?” He squinted.
She gestured to the broad window pane behind her. Inside, her nightstand light clearly illuminated her bedroom. A double bed stood next to the window, the duvet spread neatly. An erotic replica of French art hung above the bed. The night air whipped at her whisper, lending a suggestive tone to her words. “I’m inviting you—”
“Need a coat? You’ve got goose bumps.” He took off his duck cloth jacket and held it out.
She jerked back. “Are you gay?”
“No.” He blinked. “Why would you say that?”
“I just asked. You don’t have to get all huffy.” Mortification slithered down her half-unbuttoned blouse. She’d just propositioned a single, straight guy and he’d turned her down. The icy wind roared about her ears as she looked anywhere but at Joe.
Did Joe think she was some kind of hooker who threw herself at all men? She clasped her palm over her burning cheek. She needed him out of here and to never see him again.
“You look cute when you blush.” Joe spoke in a friendly tone, flirtatious even.
Could the deck floor open up and let her plummet three stories down? Please! “I think we should say goodnight.” She pointed to the door, gaze on her finger, not his face.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 4
