by Alisha Rai
Rana wrinkled her nose. Wearing a gigantic sweatshirt of his, with her hair in a high ponytail, she looked so cute it hurt. “Not pretentious. Okay. Maybe a little pretentious. You don’t seem like the type to watch eighties movies.”
“You Americans think anyone with an English accent is pretentious.”
“Hey, like you reminded me, you’re an American too.”
He sniffed. Loudly. “I used to go to the movies quite a bit. Having an appreciation for art does not mean you automatically condemn all other forms of media.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She picked up the plastic menu and skimmed it. “So what you’re saying is I get to pick a movie for us to go to and you won’t be all snooty about it…even if it is a cheesy horror flick?”
He opened his mouth, but stopped. She had called it—he had always been a bit judgmental of certain films, often avoiding the big-budget blockbusters for smaller, independent movies. Like everything else in his life, he hadn’t gone to a movie in years. He imagined sitting in a theater now, his arm around Rana as she squealed and burrowed closer to him.
Micah didn’t care what movie she picked. He wouldn’t dare criticize it. As long as she was there.
He was saved from having to articulate that when the waitress came by and gave them a bored nod. “What can I get you two?”
“Ah…” Rana looked down at the menu. “Waffles? With extra whipped cream please. And a glass of orange juice.”
The waitress turned to him, and he balked. He usually only got coffee here, but it seemed rude to do that while Rana was eating. “Coffee, black. And the same, please.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered as the woman poured his coffee and then left. “You’re right. It’s such an old-timey diner. She was popping gum and apathetic.”
He had to smile, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze dropped to his lips. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, but he noticed that she liked amusing him. Made sense. He was growing addicted to that peal of laughter she rolled out.
She moved the menus to the side of the table. “I hope you’re going to tell me the food here is amazing.”
“I have no idea if the food is good or not,” he said. He was fond of this place because it was like being around people without being around anyone. Normalcy he could tolerate. “It’s quiet and there’s no one here. That’s all I care about.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Rana fiddled with a napkin before glancing up at him. “The pub was a mistake.”
Micah cocked his head. “What?”
“The pub was a mistake. I should have picked a place less like something from your past. That wasn’t crowded.” She nodded at the diner. “You have no memories attached to a place like this, I bet.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t believe him. “Well, I’m sorry about that. I should have thought about it.”
She was apologizing to him? When he was the problem? Unacceptable. He wrapped his hand around his mug to disguise its shaking. “You should have been a psychology major.”
She chuckled, but it carried a tinge of bitterness. “Oh, God no. As my mother will so fondly remind everyone, I barely graduated high school. No majors for me.”
It didn’t take a genius to pick up on Rana’s strained relationship with her mother. “Do you regret not going to college?”
“Not really. I was so terrible at sitting still in school, my parents had me tested me for ADD. Negative, by the way. Which I think only made my mom sadder, because to her that meant I was just flighty and dumb.”
“You’re neither of those things.” Thanks to the attack, he’d spent more than his share of time with people who presumably understood brains and how they worked. When he said she was brilliant, he meant it. She had an uncanny grasp of human nature.
She lifted her shoulder. “Anyway, I barely made it through high school. My dad died not long after graduation.”
“I’m sorry.” His chest tightened to think of his big, gregarious father dead. He may not be able to live near his parents right now, but he couldn’t imagine them not in the world.
“It’s okay. It was a while ago. But with him gone I knew my mother would need help. Both of my sisters were planning on higher education. And I…I adore that restaurant.” She gave him a vaguely sheepish smile, as if she were confessing something shameful. “I like waiting tables. I like talking to everyone who comes in and making sure they have a good time. The restaurant being one-third mine is like an added benefit, not the main reason I work there. If we closed tomorrow, I’d go be a waitress somewhere else.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Her smile grew brittle. “You know when someone says they were the first person to go to college in so many generations? I was the first person in three generations not to go to college.”
Academics had been important in his family, but his father had tempered his mother’s tendency to push him. Papa was a teacher by profession, but if he’d had his way, he would have spent his entire life surfing and chatting with tourists. He’d been happy to have a son who wanted to explore art.
Rana shifted. “Most of my extended family thinks I’m cashing in on the family business and coasting through, not working at all.”
“Coasting?” He was vaguely insulted on her behalf. “I’ve seen how physically tired you are every day. I can’t believe you aren’t mentally exhausted as well.”
“Eh. They don’t get that. Education’s like a…” she made a helpless gesture, “…like an asset in my family. So of course I get flack for not having it.”
“I tried to get an art degree,” he confessed. “I quit after a year to focus on painting full-time. I suppose I have no assets either.”
Her smile grew stronger. “You have plenty of assets. I mean, honey. Really, that ass alone.”
“I could say the same,” he growled, her silliness awakening a frivolousness he’d thought long dead. “Your buttocks are worth two diplomas, at least.”
The waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food, her face carefully impassive. Micah avoided looking at Rana, certain she was watching him with dancing laughter in her eyes over what the older woman may have inadvertently overheard.
The waitress placed two plates with waffles and mounds of dripping whipped cream in front of them and left without a word.
Rana unwrapped her silverware from the napkin. “That’s what my family says,” she responded lightly. “At least I’m pretty.”
Micah knew he should turn the conversation to more shallow topics. They were getting in far too deep. Yet he couldn’t stop. He could tell himself he merely wanted to learn more about Rana to aid his painting her, but that was a stone-cold lie. “You have more going for you than your ass.”
“Says the man who wants to paint my ass.”
Her words remained joking, but he caught the bite under them. “I may not have the clout I once did, but I could make a few phone calls and find supermodels who would be happy to pose for me. For free.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened over her knife. “Your arrogance is showing, Micah.”
When he chose a model, Micah did so only partially on looks. The rest of his selection was based on some mysterious combination of qualities he couldn’t begin to verbalize. “My point is that I didn’t want you to pose for me because you have a pleasing face and body.” He leaned over the table and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I wanted you to pose for me because you’re you. You have this…intriguing mix of good and naughty. Silly and sexy.”
She froze as he touched her, her eyes deep and soft and wary, as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t. “Good? I’m not a good person,” she blurted out.
His lips turned up. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.” She shook her head, suddenly looking upset. “You know that, right?”
She was serious. “No. I don’t know that.” She wasn’t a good person? H
e had seen the worst of humanity, the very bitter dregs.
Rana was so far away from that, it was laughable.
“I’m shallow and vain and blunt and flighty. I’ve slept with more than my share of men. I…” She looked down at her knife.
She could have been describing him, before the attack had changed him. He’d been all of those things. Shallow, vain, blunt, something of a player with women. Only people had praised him for those qualities. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Her voice was so low, he had to lean forward to hear her. “I almost slept with my baby sister’s boyfriend.”
He absorbed her confession. Did she honestly think he would tsk at her and walk away, certain she was a terrible human being? “Why?”
Rana didn’t look at him, but scraped some of the melting whipped cream off the waffle. “Why what?”
“Why did you almost sleep with your sister’s boyfriend?”
“There’s no good reason—”
“Certainly there could be. Why?”
Her cheeks puffed out, and she exhaled so hard her hair fluttered. “I knew the asshole was cheating on her, and I didn’t think she would listen to me. I set it up so she would walk in on us. I didn’t sleep with him.” Her lips compressed. “But I can’t promise I wouldn’t have. I was panicked. Not thinking straight.”
“That must have…strained things between you two.”
“Devi’s super forgiving, the jerk.” Rana forced a smile. “She said she understood why I did what I did. Now she’s in a great relationship with someone else and incredibly happy. But, yeah, it made things kinda awkward for a while.”
He considered what he knew of Rana. “You’re a fixer.”
“What?”
He took a sip of his bitter coffee. “You’re a fixer. You like fixing things for people. Keeping everyone happy.” Even as he said the words, he experienced a sinking sensation in his belly.
God, she wasn’t trying to fix him, was she? That was a lost cause. What if her emotions became engaged and…
Then you’ll end it.
She gave a short laugh. “Yeah, okay. That’s better than calling me an impulsive moron.”
“Maybe your actions were a bit impulsive,” he began.
“My life was a bit impulsive,” she interrupted, so much self-loathing in every word, he scowled. He didn’t like anyone hating her. Even her. “I’ve always looked before I leapt. And that time, I almost irreparably damaged my relationship with my family.” She shook her head. “Anyway. I learned my lesson. I’ve been working hard at changing myself. For the better, you know?” Her eyes glimmered. “I ask myself, what would Old Rana have done? And then New Rana does the opposite.”
I dress like this for me because I like it. If I didn’t like it so much, I would have been able to trash my wardrobe when I trashed everything else about myself.
One of the many puzzle pieces that made up this complicated woman slotted into place. “Is that why you haven’t slept with a man in a year? Because it’s what Old Rana would have done?”
Her flinch was slight. “Not exactly.” Her words were halting. “I always liked men, keeping it casual. And then I saw my sister fall in love and…I don’t know. Suddenly I wasn’t happy with what I had. I wanted permanency.”
“Marriage.”
“That’s what everyone else interpreted it as, especially my family. I wouldn’t be opposed to getting married. But really I want love.” Her tone grew defensive. “No one thinks it’s weird when a playboy wants to settle down. This isn’t so different.”
He’d been something of a playboy. Maybe he would have gotten to the point where he’d wanted to be reformed, if the attack hadn’t thrown a wrench in his whole life. “I don’t think it’s weird.”
She played with her fork. “Since Old Rana wasn’t so good at the whole dating-a-guy-more-than-twice thing, I figured I needed to change my methods to get the perfect man. No going out to clubs, no partying, exactly one date a week.”
Did she hear how wistful she sounded? He didn’t like clubs or parties, but Rana was a social butterfly.
He wanted to poke at all the things she’d said. What made up the perfect man? Who was defining that perfection, her or her family?
He couldn’t though. He didn’t have the right.
She shook her head ruefully. “I honestly think I would respond to my dating profile username as well as I would my real name right now.”
“What is it? Your username.”
“QueenofHearts,” she mumbled, and then shot him a mock glare. “It’s because of my name, okay?”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Does your name mean Queen of Hearts?”
She brightened, her mood changing quicksilver fast. As always, he found her unpredictability utterly fascinating. Strange, and fascinating. “Yesssss,” she hissed.
“What?”
“You walked right into that. You’ve asked this desi girl what her name means.” She pointed her fork at him. “Strap yourself in, sir. There’s a story. There’s always a story.”
His fingers itched to grab a napkin and pencil and sketch her expressive face. Every day he grew more frustrated with her dictate not to paint her above the neck. He was certain he could do a million portraits of her and never duplicate the same expression. “Strapped in.”
She cleared her throat dramatically. “Thirty-something years ago, a beautiful baby girl was born…”
“Thirty-two years ago?”
“Thirty-something years ago, a beautiful baby girl was born. She was gorgeous, and totally did not look like a scrunched-up turtle gnome, à la most newborns.”
He found himself leaning forward, hanging on to her words. “Of course.”
“Her mother wanted to name her Rani. Rani means queen. But some fool at the clerk’s office made a typo on the birth certificate, and changed that i to an a. Now, the baby’s father, he was tickled pink over the accident. Because you see, the stunning infant happened to have a nasty temper, and a forceful, demanding, aggressive personality. One meaning of Rana is…king.”
Micah laughed, a harsh bark. Smiling felt odd to him, laughing even more so. What spell had she cast over him? “Queens can be as aggressive as kings,” he felt compelled to point out. “Haven’t you played chess?”
“Stop interrupting.”
“Sorry.”
Rana’s eyes danced. “After much debate, the father persuaded the mother to leave the name, because then the child could claim all the titles of royalty. Rana it was, though they called her Rani when she was young. The end.”
He cocked his head at her choice of words. “Why only when you were young?”
“What?”
“Why was Rani only a pet name when you were small?” To his great chagrin, one of his aunts still called him by the childhood nickname she’d dubbed him with. “Mikey” wasn’t so precious on a grown man.
She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Well, my dad called me that, off and on, until he passed away. I guess, as I grew up, everyone else decided I wasn’t ladylike enough to be a Rani.”
I’m shallow and vain and blunt and flighty. I’ve slept with more than my share of men…
He sat back against the cracked red vinyl, attempting to control his abrupt flash of anger. Not at her. With everyone who had ever made her feel like she was anything less than the generous, warm, sweet woman she was.
She called herself QueenofHearts, but he doubted she considered herself—or at least not Old Rana—worthy of the title. Which was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have to become someone else to live up to some idealized feminine alter ego. Hell, if she wished it, he would call her queen right now, as she was.
His queen.
Idiot. You’re not in a position to be anyone’s idea of a prince consort.
Unable to keep completely silent, he spoke up. “Old or new or king or queen, I think you’re exceptional the way you are.” He wished his
voice could be less gruff. She deserved tenderness, not his clumsy, borderline-growled compliments.
You’re so much more than a bunch of scars.
Micah didn’t entirely believe those words, but to hear someone say them was a gift. He wanted her to know she was more than whatever she called herself.
Rana stilled, her eyes deep, dark pools. “Thanks, Micah.” She cleared her throat, glancing away. “Anyway, that’s the origin of QueenofHearts.” Her smile was small, but genuine. “Shorter answer to your question: no, it’s not technically my name, but it’s undoubtedly easier than KingofHeartsHeyFunnyStoryBro, which would have required I transcribe this whole explanation into a profile. I couldn’t bank on the perfect man caring enough to read it.”
Then he’s not the perfect man for you. The perfect man for her would be captivated by her explanation.
Again, he bit back the words he truly wanted to say. It wasn’t his place to tell her how to run her personal life. It especially wasn’t his place to tell her how to find a mate. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “It’s excessively clever, your choice of a handle.”
“It’s been a long year. I had to amuse myself somehow.”
“Searching for the right man is hard work,” he said, ignoring the pang in his chest. And because he knew he needed the brutal reminder, he added, “I must be quite the detour.”
Her eyes were suddenly unreadable. “You’re my—”
“What?” he asked, when she cut herself off.
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
“You’re my muffin.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m your… I beg your pardon?”
She exhaled. “When you’re on a diet and all you want is a muffin? Like, you would destroy a muffin, you need it so bad. So you have one. And promise to get back on the wagon as soon as you finish.” Her jaw hardened. “I shouldn’t have you. New-and-improved me shouldn’t want you in my bed, and I shouldn’t want you to paint me. But I do. So you’re my muffin.”
She fell silent and sawed a piece of her waffle, sticking it in her mouth. Not ten minutes ago he’d been worrying over the possibility they could be falling for each other. What a difference a few heartbeats could make. Because now he despised the way she was speaking about their relationship like it had an expiration date.
