Love, Unexpectedly

by Susan Fox

  We’d long ago established that we were opposites in a lot of ways, and the appearance thing was a running joke.

  I took over the folding, then glanced at my watch. “I need to get to the hotel and reorganize timelines, leave instructions for everyone, rearrange some meetings.” My job was challenging, but I loved it. Loved having a key role in the team of bright, dynamic people who were determined to make Le Cachet the best hotel in Montreal.

  We hefted our laundry baskets and headed for the elevator.

  When we reached the third floor, I put my basket down so I could fish in my pocket for my door key. “Got a hot date tonight?” I asked.

  I certainly didn’t. It was only a couple weeks since I’d been dumped by my last dating mistake, Jean-Pierre. The handsome, dashing NASCAR champ had said he was seriously interested in me, and his flattery and expensive gifts told the same story. But he’d moved on—either because he was a deceptive bastard or because I’d bored him—and my heart still felt battered.

  “You’re asking about my love life because…?” Nav raised his eyebrows.

  “Thought we might get together for a late-ish dinner.” After a long, hectic day at Le Cachet, it would be great to unwind with him. Besides, we should celebrate his exhibit.

  He studied me for a long moment. “One of our good old food-and-a-movie nights?” There was a strange edge to his voice.

  Was he afraid I wanted another favor? “Yes, that’s all. No more favors to ask, honest. If you have a date or whatever, don’t cancel it.”

  He reflected, perhaps mentally reviewing his social calendar. Not only did he date lots of women, his breakups usually seemed to be friendly and he’d as often be grabbing coffee with an ex as dating someone new. As well, he had three or four close guy friends he hung out with.

  Finally he said, “Alas, no date. No whatever.”

  Ridiculous to feel glad. As ridiculous as the fact that, on the mornings when I was leaving for work as he dragged home with the drained glow of a man who’d had sex all night and desperately needed sleep, it’d put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. This business of being best friends with a cute guy could be damned complicated, but Nav was so worth it.

  “I’ll have to settle for you,” he joked.

  “Hey, watch it with the insults. I was going to bring home a bottle of champagne to celebrate your exhibit.”

  His chocolate eyes sparked with mischief. “In that case, I can’t think of a woman in the world I’d rather spend the evening with.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, I’m so flattered. Okay, champagne it is.”

  “I’ll pick up tourtière from Les Deux Chats.”

  He knew the spicy pie, a Québécois specialty, was my favorite comfort food. “I probably won’t make it home until around nine. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a busy day, too. Knock on the door when you get home.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  Was that a grimace on his face? He’d turned away before I could get a second look.

  It was more than twelve hours later when, pump-clad feet dragging with weariness, stomach grumbling about the hours that had passed since my lunchtime salad, I knocked at Nav’s door.

  He opened it, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. “Hey, Kat.”

  “Tired. Hungry.” I sagged against his doorframe and tried not to notice his brown, well-muscled shoulders. “Long, long day.” I held up the bag I carried. “I come bearing champagne.”

  “Great. Go get changed, and I’ll bring the food.”

  I grinned. How nice it was to not have to be on. To relax, be myself.

  After going into my apartment, I left the door unlocked for him. His place was smaller than mine and cluttered with photography gear, so we always hung out at mine.

  I stripped off my business suit, shoes, and bra, and gave a head-to-toe wriggle of relief. The business day was over; time to unwind.

  The June night was warm, so rather than sweats I chose a light cotton salwar kameez—a midthigh-length tunic in blues and yellows over loose, drawstring waist blue pants. Light, floaty, feminine. I’d seen Indian women wearing them in Montreal and commented to Nav.

  He’d said that, according to his mother and aunties, they only fit properly if they were custom made. The next time he’d visited his family in India, he’d taken my measurements and brought me back three outfits. The clothes were so comfy and attractive, I’d become addicted.

  Knuckles tapped on my bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “Coming.”

  We never ate at the small dining table tucked into the space between galley kitchen and living room. I only used it to serve elaborately prepared dinners to impress dates. Instead Nav and I sprawled on the couch, food and feet fighting for space on the coffee table.

  I flopped down on my side of the couch, cozy and relaxed amid the interesting furniture I’d picked up at auctions and garage sales—woven rugs, Quebec folk art, a half dozen flowering plants. Although this morning Nav and I had mentioned a movie, he had put on a CD instead. One he’d given me. Pleasant and new-agey, with piano, flute, and sitar, it suited my mood.

  As did the scent of the spicy pork pie that sat on the coffee table. Not to mention the sight of Nav carrying plates and silverware from my kitchen. It was always a pleasure to watch him move. A rugby player in school, a jogger now, he had an athlete’s strength and grace. Just as much as the Olympic skier I’d once dated.

  As Nav put the plates down, the spicy scent made my tummy growl. Thank heavens he didn’t avoid pork.

  He’d found the bottle of champagne I’d put in the fridge. Moët et Chandon Grand Vintage 2000 Brut. It sat unopened on the coffee table along with two flute glasses.

  “You sure you want to drink this tonight?” he asked. “It’s pretty fancy. I have a Beaujolais in my apartment.”

  “You deserve fancy. God, Nav, your first major exhibit. This is big.”

  A quick smile flashed. “Thanks. Okay, consider my arm twisted.” He peeled off the foil, loosened the wire cage, then, using a towel and rotating the bottle, eased the cork out as deftly as any sommelier could have. Golden liquid foamed into our glasses.

  I lifted my glass to him. “To a huge step on your road to success.”

  “To steps forward. And success.” He clicked his glass to mine.

  There was something in his voice—determination, fire—that sent a shiver, the good kind, down my spine. A man with that passion and drive would get what he wanted.

  We tasted the wine and I sighed with pleasure. This champagne was one of my favorites. Fruit, honey, yeast, a touch of spice. Fresh, rich, elegant. Perfect for a celebration. And speaking of which…

  I raised my glass once more. “And here’s to M&M as well. May they have a long, very happy, life together.” I knew they would. They’d been joined at the hip since they were seven and were each other’s most loyal supporter.

  Nav drank that toast, too. “This is great wine, Kat.”

  I suspected he’d rarely, if ever, drunk such an expensive one. He refused to discuss finances—and always fought me for the check—yet it was clear he lived on a shoestring budget. “Glad you like it.” Hopefully his exhibit would be a huge success, and he’d finally be able to afford some of the better things in life.

  “Awfully fancy for a quiet night at home with a buddy and a plate of tourtière, though.”

  Maybe so, but tonight everything seemed just right. “Nav, this is perfect. Coming home to food, music. You look after me like, oh, a 1950s housewife.”

  He had leaned over to cut the pie and there was an odd tone to his voice when he said, “That’s what friends are for.” When he glanced up, however, his face wore its usual quiet smile, half hidden by his mustache and beard.

  “I really wish you’d shave,” I said for the zillionth time. I was dying to know what his face really looked like under all that curly black hair. With it, he was round faced and youthful, cute more tha
n handsome. Of course, perhaps he was disguising a weak chin or acne scars.

  “You’re too obsessed with appearance.” He came back with his usual response as he handed me a plate with a hearty serving of tourtière.

  He dished some out for himself, and we both dug in.

  “Have a good day at the office, dear?” he asked in a saccharine-sweet voice.

  I looked up to see a twinkle in his eyes. He was playing off my housewife comment.

  “Cute.” I wrinkled my nose. “My day was stressful. Leaving on short notice is hard.”

  “And so is thinking about Merilee getting married.” Nav’s hand brushed my bare forearm. No doubt he meant it as a comforting gesture, but it felt almost like a caress, sending a quick thrill through me, of recognition, of…arousal. Damn.

  His hand dropped away, reached for his glass, and I shivered, banishing the sensation.

  “I know you want the same thing yourself,” he said. “Yet you keep dating men who are…” He shrugged.

  “I know, I know. I have the worst luck.”

  “You go for, uh, pretty dramatic men.”

  That was true. “I can’t help who I’m attracted to.” Attraction of opposites was normal. I was such an average person. Not brilliant like my parents and my one-year-older sister Theresa, not gorgeous like my one-year-younger sister Jenna. It made sense I’d be drawn to men who were amazing. And when one of those men was attracted to me, it blew me away.

  A humorless grin quirked Nav’s mouth. “Too true.”

  Said him, who was attracted to someone new each month. “And, unlike you,” I said, “I date seriously.” To me, it was a waste of time to date casually. I only went out with men I could imagine a future with. “I want a forever guy.”

  “And you think these men you hook up with are forever guys?”

  Obviously none had turned out that way. “When I met them I thought so.” Which only proved I was a bad judge of character, or didn’t have what it took to hold their interest and keep them faithful.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m an optimist.” I sounded a bit snappish, but I was sensitive about this. I was used to my family joking about my crappy taste and the jinx thing, but did Nav have to pick on me, too? Usually he was good about offering a shoulder to cry on, sans judgment. Why was he acting different tonight?

  “I know, Kat, and that’s a great quality. But you also need some common sense. You meet Olympic Guy or NASCAR Guy, and suddenly you’re crazy about them and thinking in terms of forever. What is it about them? Or is it less about them and more about you being so desperate to get married?”

  “I’m not desperate, damn it. Just because I want to be married and you don’t—”

  “I do. I just don’t—”

  “Yeah, sure, I know.” Maybe in five or ten years. His current revolving-door policy was so not aimed at finding a wife.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” he said gently. “I know you’re not desperate. But maybe when you look at those guys, you see what you want to see. A prospective husband. Rather than what’s really in front of your eyes.”

  Was he right? Damn, this was heading into pop psych self-analysis, the kind of stuff that, in my humble opinion, only made people depressed.

  When my family trotted out the old stuff about my rotten taste, and me being a relationship jinx, I always tried to brush it aside. It hurt too much to think that my dating life consisted of attracting either losers or dynamite guys who quickly tired of me.

  God, I hated this introspective stuff. “Let’s watch a movie.”

  Normally, Nav would comply, but tonight he said, “Don’t feel like it.”

  At least he changed the topic of conversation. “Have you booked the train yet?” he asked, holding the pie plate toward me and offering me the last serving of tourtière.

  His muscular arm was even more tempting than the pie. I shook my head firmly. “No, thanks. And yes, I booked this morning.”

  He dished the pie onto his plate. “What’s your plan?”

  I rattled off my timetable for the tenth time today. “Work Monday morning, then the three forty train to Toronto. It gets in around eight thirty, and I’ll stay at the Royal York across from the train station. Then I’m on the morning train to Vancouver, arriving there first thing Friday.”

  “I hope you meet one or two fascinating people.” There was an odd note in his voice, but he was looking down at his plate, and that shaggy hair made it so hard to read his expression.

  Speaking of that hair, and his general appearance…Earlier today, I’d e-mailed my sister Theresa and told her I was bringing Nav as a wedding date. Claiming bragging rights, I’d described him as good looking and successful. Which he was, in his way.

  His career was taking off, and I was thrilled for him. Now it was time he dressed for success. For being a flauntable wedding date, too.

  For us, discussions about appearance had been a running joke, a stalemate. How could I now get him to listen?

  I swallowed the last bite and put my empty plate on the coffee table. “By the way,” I said casually, “do you own a suit?” I’d never seen him in one, but didn’t every guy have a suit?

  His lips curved, then smoothed out. “For the wedding? I can manage something.”

  Given what I’d seen of his taste in clothes, I hated to think what he might manage. “Hmm.” I chewed my lip. Could I possibly persuade Nav to let me buy him a classy suit? No, not the guy who fought me for pizza bills.

  I respected male pride, but damn it, this was about my pride, too. He needed a makeover before he met my family. They were rough on dates. I’d yet to bring a man home they approved of, and Nav’s scruffy appearance would be a big strike against him.

  Maybe if I bought a suit and had it delivered, and there was no receipt that would let him return it…Still trying to act casual, I asked, “What size are you, anyhow?”

  Chapter 3

  What size was he? Nav almost choked on his last bite of tourtière. Exactly which portion of his anatomy was Kat inquiring about?

  Then it dawned on him. She meant suit size. Damn, the woman was trying to dress him so he’d impress her family. What the hell was wrong with him just the way he was?

  He’d been raised by a mum who was all about this kind of shit, and he’d gone to school with kids who judged by appearances. By image, status, job prospects, not by what kind of person you were inside. He fucking hated it.

  He and Kat had different views on appearance, and it was one of the things that had become a joke between them. But tonight, she’d gone beyond teasing and was starting to piss him off.

  Nav slapped his empty plate on her coffee table and stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I can dress myself without your help.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she stared right back. “Nav, I’m totally grateful you’re coming, but face facts. This is a wedding. You’ve shot wedding photos. You know the starving-artist jeans and tee don’t cut it for a guest. You need grown-up clothes.”

  Grown-up clothes? What made a suit more grown-up than jeans? As a boy and young man, he’d worn enough suits to last him a lifetime. She did have a point though. As a guest at her sister’s wedding, he should conform to the dress code. “Yeah, fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll check out a couple consignment shops.”

  “Consignment shops.” She eyed him warily. “I’ll write down the names of the best ones.”

  The best, meaning stores that carried once-worn designer clothes. The kind of shop where she bought much of her own classy wardrobe. Okay, maybe he’d follow her suggestion. He didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her family.

  Maybe he’d even wear a suit on the train. He stifled a grin. That’d shake her up.

  Maybe he’d get a haircut and shave off his beard. He hadn’t seen his face in four years. Probably wouldn’t even recognize himself.

  Nav wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed to this friends-hanging-out evening, but it was giving him in
teresting ideas. If he wanted Kat to see him differently, a designer suit might help.

  Rather than conceding her point, he decided to have some fun with her. “Salvation Army has a thrift shop.”

  She slumped back, shaking her head. “Appearances matter, damn it.” After a moment, she sat up again. “Let’s take this morning.”

  “Uh…” What about this morning?

  “In the laundry room. I was wearing sweats, right?”

  Made of a soft fabric, clinging to her curves. Like the way the light cotton of tonight’s salwar kameez did. Enough for him to have noticed that under the flimsy top she wore only a camisole. No bra. He cleared his throat and shifted position as his groin tightened.

  She made a face. “Yeah, sure, you don’t even remember. Anyhow, take it from me, I was wearing sweats. I’d just got out of bed, pulled on the first thing that came to hand.”

  Oh, man, the image of her climbing out of bed all warm and soft—did she sleep naked?—messed with his mind. If his train plan succeeded, he’d find out what she wore to bed. Casually he tugged his loose tee down over his baggy sweatpants to conceal his growing erection.

  She was going on, oblivious to her effect on him. “Then you saw me when I got home from work. You probably don’t remember that, either, but I was wearing a business suit, heels, makeup.”

  Looking great then, too, in a totally different way. When he saw her dressed for work, all sleek and professional, he had an overwhelming urge to strip off her clothes. To tousle her, tumble her, and—

  “Nav?” Her tone was sharp. “Are you paying attention?”

  “Sure.” He bit back a grin. “Go on.”

  “I’m saying appearance counts. Trust me on this.”

  Same old, same old. “It’s not the façade that matters, it’s what lies beneath.” Look at Margaret, the English girl he’d planned to propose to. Turned out she’d been all about image. When he’d chosen photography over the high-powered corporate career his parents had groomed him for, Margaret had taken off.

  And so, when he’d moved to Quebec City to go to school, he hadn’t mentioned his family’s multinational business, he’d lived on a tight budget rather than dipping into his trust fund, and he’d dressed for comfort rather than style. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. Lots of women were happy to take it. Why the hell wasn’t Kat?