by Nicola Marsh
“Hey,” he said, as he drew near. “Need some help guarding the food?”
He glimpsed a telltale flare in her eyes that implied she wasn’t as immune to his flirting as she’d like him to think.
“I’m not guarding it.”
Her response had a similar bite to earlier, like she didn’t want him anywhere near her. But the eyes rarely lie, and right now she was gobbling him up and salivating for seconds.
“Sure looks that way to me.” He smiled and gestured at the table. “Though who’s going to want to touch all this fancy-schmancy stuff? It’s way over the top.”
Somehow he’d said the wrong thing again, as her eyes narrowed to glacial slits. “Is that right?”
“Absolutely. Indian food doesn’t need dressing up. It’s the flavor that matters, not the presentation.”
“So you’re an expert in food?”
“I hold my own in the kitchen.”
He’d learned from the master. Izzy made the best bebinka, his favorite dessert, a rich, layered, coconut pudding that took hours to make and channeled her Portuguese-Goan heritage perfectly. He could also make a mean pork vindaloo, dahl, and aloo tikki, the lentils and spiced potato patties something he’d lived on while in med school.
When he wasn’t working manic hours at the hospital, he loved to cook for Izzy. His way of thanking her for the countless delicious meals she’d served him over the years, and a way to de-stress at the same time. No better way to vent frustration than dicing vegetables.
“You’re very opinionated.”
She sounded so disapproving he couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s better to be honest, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but someone took time to make this food look appealing for the guests. The least you can do is appreciate it.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Styling food is overrated. As for prettying it up for this lot”—he pointed at the throng milling through the massive hall—“waste of time. They’ll demolish whatever they can get their hands on in five seconds flat. Weddings make people hungry, and they don’t want to stand around admiring the food; they want to eat it.”
Her top teeth caught her bottom lip, and the damnedest thing happened. He wanted to do the same. Right here, right now. His gaze riveted to her mouth; the bow shape of it, glossed in crimson, the fullness. Man, he needed to get laid ASAP if watching a prickly woman gnaw unconsciously on her lip had him wanting to take her in the nearest private space.
She waged an inner battle. He saw it reflected in her expressive eyes, torn between berating him for his opinions and applauding. The war didn’t last long—those luscious lips curved in a slow smile that had him sucking in air.
“I’m not hungry. Are you?”
Where had that sultry edge in her tone come from?
He shook his head. “No.”
At least, not for food, but he wisely kept that gem to himself.
“Good, then let’s get some fresh air.”
She held out her hand, and rather than ponder her switch from bristly to flirty, he grasped it in his, ready for her to lead him wherever the hell she wanted.
3
The moment Manny took hold of her hand, Harper had to resist the urge to yank him closer and knee him in the balls.
She thought she’d grown immune to insults since her vitiligo diagnosis thirteen months ago. Not that there’d been many, but she’d never forgotten her first phototherapy session to treat the white patches on her face and body. Being blasted with high ultraviolet rays for eighty seconds to re-pigment her skin hadn’t been bad, but it meant she couldn’t wear makeup entering the clinic. She’d felt naked striding into that place, and when a few teens skateboarding outside had fired off insults, it had hurt more than it should.
They were being smart-asses, trying to outdo their friends, so it shouldn’t have registered. But every time she entered that clinic, three times a week, she made sure she wore her hair out so it half covered her face, along with a cap, and the minute her treatment was over she’d slather on foundation before heading out.
Like those bigmouth teens, Manny’s insults regarding her food styling should’ve meant nothing too. But he’d hit her where she was most vulnerable—her floundering job—and she wanted to teach him a lesson.
She could’ve reacted by telling him where he could stick his opinions. But when she’d seen the way he looked at her mouth, like he wanted to devour her whole, she’d come up with another form of payback that would be much more fun.
If she could pull it off, that is.
Not dating for a year meant her flirting skills were subpar. She’d never been much good to begin with, so stringing him along for a little while would be challenging. But oh so fun, she thought as he fell into step beside her. She led him through a side door she’d used earlier when placing her tools of trade back in her car.
“Should I be worried?”
She hated to admit his deep voice did something to her insides, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “About?”
“You’re dragging me away from hundreds of people into a dark alley. Maybe you’re about to take advantage of me?”
“You wish,” she muttered, and he laughed, the rich timbre of his chuckles as appealing as his damn voice.
“I like you, Harper, even if the feeling’s not entirely mutual.”
She arched a brow. “What makes you say that?”
“A hunch.” He paused to close the door behind them, leaving them on a landing with six steps leading to a small car park beyond. “I’m just glad there were no carving forks on that buffet table, because I had the distinct impression you wanted to stab me in the eye with one.”
Genuine laughter burst from her lips. Was there anything more attractive than a cute guy with a killer sense of humor?
“It’s been a long day.” She shrugged, dislodging the end of her sari again, and this time when he corrected it his fingertips brushed the bare skin of her upper arm, sending a skitter of heat through her.
“Phew.” His hand swiped across his forehead in exaggerated relief. “At least it’s not me.”
“Oh, it’s you too,” she said, but this time they shared a conspiratorial smile devoid of ill feeling on her part.
“So what are we doing out here?” He surveyed the parking lot and the small row of shops beyond, mostly the Vietnamese cafés this area was famous for.
“Already told you, getting fresh air.”
“You could’ve picked a better spot.”
“Yeah, but this one’s more private.”
She bit back a triumphant grin as his gaze riveted to her mouth again. Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this flirting caper after all.
“I can’t get a read on you,” he said, grasping her other hand in his, so she had to face him. “And I’m usually pretty good at it.”
“Getting a read on people is code for prejudging them, right?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “There you go again, twisting my words, making me out to be a bad guy.”
“Are you?” She leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. “Bad?”
With a groan, he hauled her flush against him. She gasped—she hadn’t expected her toying to escalate so quickly, and certainly not to this, where his mouth covered hers in a commanding kiss that left her reeling.
She shouldn’t have let it get this far, but before she could stop it he sucked her bottom lip and nipped it, then soothed it with an assured sweep of his tongue that had her arms snaking around his neck to hang on for dear life.
Her lips parted on a needy whimper, and he took full advantage, his tongue challenging hers, taunting her, lashing her with the full force of an expertise she’d never known before.
Damn, the man could kiss.
She swayed beneath the onslaught of sensuality, grateful for his strong arms
around her waist, until his hands slid down to her ass and pulled her flush against him, showing her exactly how far she’d let this game get out of hand.
She eased back and didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he let her. Her ragged breathing matched his, and when she reluctantly dragged her gaze to meet his, the depth of his desire matched hers.
“That was some kiss,” she murmured, hoping she could pull off coy, because that kiss had rattled her more than she liked.
She’d intended on toying with him, teasing him, then doing something excessively childish like rubbing his face in a dish of her perfectly presented kulfi.
But she hadn’t expected the kiss, and now the thought of his face being covered in rose water–flavored ice cream made her think naughty thoughts of licking it off him.
“Yeah, it was.”
He sounded as stunned as she felt, and when he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the tender gesture almost made her forget why she’d wanted to humiliate him in the first place.
Almost.
“Could you give me a hand?”
“Anytime.”
She rolled her eyes at his naughty smirk. “I have some things in my car I need brought inside.”
“Sure, lead the way.”
Damn it, she even found his mock bow cute and resisted the urge to stomp to her car and kick a tire. He’d insulted her work. Worse, he’d belittled it, deeming it frivolous and unimportant. For that, he had to pay.
“Do you have a special gift for the happy couple?”
“Something like that,” she said, popping the trunk and reaching into her bag of tricks.
When she attended styling jobs she used a giant briefcase, like the doctors’ cases from the olden days that folded out. In it, she stocked every item she may need: knives, zester, peeler, mandolin, potato masher, pastry cutters, blow torch, wooden skewers, and hand mixer.
And a can of whipped cream.
With her back to him, she gave it a shake before swiveling to face him. He was peering into the trunk and didn’t see it coming. With a deft press of her finger she directed the nozzle at him, releasing a stream of cream that covered his face.
He leaped back with a loud, “What the fuck?” and for a second Harper experienced genuine remorse. What a stupid, childish payback for some clueless guy insulting her food.
But then he wiped the cream from his eyes and fixed that glittering gray gaze on her, and she knew it would be okay.
Until she realized Manny wasn’t angry.
He was intent on revenge.
4
The first raunchy thought that entered Manny’s mind when he saw the whipped cream can in Harper’s hand was, Lucky me, she’s into some kinky shit.
That was before she decorated him like a fucking meringue.
The woman was crazy, but before he got to the bottom of why she’d done this, he knew exactly how to deliver a little vengeance of his own.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she said, brandishing the can at him like a weapon.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Her eyes widened as she realized his intent a second before he kissed her again, this time smearing her face with the cream covering his.
She responded for a moment, those beautiful pliant lips pressing against his, before she pulled back and shoved him away.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she yelled, radiating anger like he was the bad guy in this scenario.
“Just like I can’t believe your stealth cream attack on me.”
Her chest heaved with indignation. Magnificent. Even now, when he knew she had to have a screw loose, he wanted his hands all over her . . .
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, flinging the can back in the trunk and reaching for a dishcloth from the same bag that held a mystifying array of kitchen implements. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“From the way you kissed me before, I thought you liked it there.”
“That kiss should never have happened.” She slammed the trunk shut and dabbed at her face, doing little but spreading the cream around, before holding it out to him. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
She folded her arms and frowned. It did little to detract from her beauty, even beneath the layer of whipped cream.
“I’m a food stylist. You insulted me in there, so I wanted to make you pay.”
Ah, so that was the reason behind her hissy fit. Now that he’d got over the shock of being decorated like an ice cream sundae, he could see the funny side of it, but by her glower, she didn’t.
“Sorry.”
“No you’re not. You’re an opinionated jerk who thinks his high and mighty job is more important than anything else, so I stupidly thought I’d take you down a peg or two by flirting, then humiliating you with that.” She pointed at the cream covering his face, her shoulders slumping as she grimaced. “But it was lame and childish and I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
He bit back a grin because he didn’t think she’d appreciate it. Yeah, what she’d done was something a kid would do, but it was funny as hell and perfectly warranted considering he’d insulted her job. “But for the record, I don’t think being a doctor is better than anyone else’s job, and I’m sorry if my jibes about yours made you feel that way.”
He glimpsed grudging respect in her eyes before she blinked. “Wipe that stuff off your face. You look like a clown.”
“So do you,” he said, wiping his face before advancing on her to do the same.
But she sidestepped and held up her hands to ward him off. “I’ll get cleaned up inside.”
“You can’t walk back in looking like that.”
“I have a makeup bag in the room reserved for the bride, so I’ll be fine.”
With that, he watched the most infuriating, intriguing woman he’d met in a long time turn and run.
5
“I’m mortified.” Harper covered her face with her hands as Samira and Pia tried to stifle their laughter and failed. “I acted like an idiot.”
“Manny deserved it,” Pia said, muttering, “Ouch,” when Samira poked her in the arm.
“He wasn’t being mean considering he didn’t know Harper had styled the food.”
Pia rolled her eyes. “You always defend him. If you weren’t so hot and bothered for your sexy husband, I’d say there’s something off with this friendship between you and the doc.”
“Manny is so not my type.” Samira’s smitten gaze drifted past a group of revelers dancing a Bollywood version of the “Macarena” to focus on Rory, the host of Australia’s latest hit reality TV show, Renegades. “Now him, on the other hand . . .”
Pia made mock gagging sounds. “How can you still be so in love after six months of marriage?”
“He makes it easy,” Samira said softly, a satisfied smile curving her lips. “He’s a great hands-on dad too, and Ronnie adores him.”
Harper couldn’t help a small stab of envy. She’d once harbored dreams of a family. Until her own had imploded and taken her faith in commitment with it.
“Rory and Ronnie, I don’t know how you keep them straight,” Pia said.
The women laughed. “Speaking of marriage, how are you and Dev going with counseling?” Samira asked.
When Harper had first met the cousins through Nishi, who loved calling impromptu wedding planning meetings as an excuse to drink margaritas and gossip, Samira had just married Rory and caused a minor scandal in the Indian community considering he was a decade younger, Australian, and had impregnated her out of wedlock. And Pia had been separated from her husband for several months. Pia had been surprisingly open about her struggles with infertility and how her husband’s sterility had put a strain on her marriage, and with some not-so-gentle prompt
ing from everyone in her family had made inroads to reconciling with Dev.
“The counseling is going well.” A blush stained Pia’s cheeks. “We’re dating again.”
“Good for you,” Harper said, as Samira wolf whistled. “Are we talking ‘dating,’ cuz, or the horizontal bhangra?”
“Shut up.” Pia elbowed Samira but laughed. “We’re taking it slow.”
“I’m so happy for you both.” Samira gave Pia a quick hug. “Perhaps I should throw an informal dinner party or a barbecue, something to get us all together?” She slid a sideways glance at Harper. “Maybe I could invite Manny and make sure to secure the whipped cream under lock and key?”
“Don’t remind me.” Harper’s cheeks burned again at the memory of what she’d done. She was never reckless or impulsive, so she had no clue what had prompted her to choose such a childish payback. “What I did was incredibly immature, definitely not my finest moment.”
“He’s a good sport,” Samira said, eyeing her with open speculation. “But something tells me you wouldn’t be this wound up unless there’s more to this?”
Harper had no intention of telling the cousins about that toe-curling kiss and the all-too-brief follow up. The less time spent remembering the way her knees wobbled, her head spun, and everywhere in between zinged, the better.
“He rubbed me the wrong way, that’s all,” she said, glad her voice didn’t give her away, because after that first kiss she knew exactly how the dashing doctor could rub her and where.
“He’s too bloody charming for his own good,” Pia muttered, but there was no malice in it. “The guy must have five nipples or an extra ass cheek, because how could someone like him be single at forty?”
Samira burst out laughing and Harper joined in, as Pia grinned. “Seriously. There has to be something wrong with him.”
Apart from being opinionated and not afraid to express those opinions, Harper couldn’t see any faults. Then again, she knew better than anybody that a perfect facade could hide a multitude of sins.
