at him. “Damn, I need a hug.”
His arms came up, circling her body, cuddling her close.
This was vintage Kat. She had no patience for what she called “all that angsty, self-analytical, pop-psych crap.” If she was feeling crappy, she vented, then moved on.
Or so she said. Nav was dead certain it didn’t work that easily. Not that he was a shrink or anything, only a friend who cared.
Cared too much for his own sanity. Now, embracing her, he used every ounce of self-control to resist pulling her tighter. To try not to register the firm, warm curves under the soft fabric of her sweats. To fight the arousal she’d so easily awakened in him since they’d met.
Did she feel the way his heart raced or was she too absorbed in her own misery? Nav wished he was wearing more clothing than thin running shorts and his old Cambridge rugby jersey, but he’d come to the laundry room straight from an early run.
Feeling her warmth, smelling her sleep-tousled scent, he thought back to his first sight of her.
He’d been moving into the building, grubby in his oldest jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out as he wrestled his meager belongings out of the rental truck and into the small apartment. The door beside his had opened and he’d paused, curious to see his neighbor.
A lovely young woman in a figure-hugging sundress stepped into the hall. His photographer’s eye had freeze-framed the moment. The tantalizing curves, the way the green of her dress complemented her auburn curls, the sparkle of interest in her brown eyes as they widened and she scanned him up and down.
As for the picture she saw—well, he must’ve made quite a sight with his bare arms hugging a tall pole lamp and a sandalwood statue of Ganesh, the elephant god. Nani, his mum’s mother, had given him the figure when he was a kid, saying it would bless his living space.
The woman in the hallway gave him a bright smile. “Bonjour, mon nouveau voisin,” she greeted him as her new neighbor. “Bienvenue. Je m’appelle Kat Fallon.”
Her name and the way she pronounced it told him that, despite her excellent Québécois accent, she was a native English speaker like Nav. He replied in that language. “Pleased to meet you, Kat. I’m Nav Bharani.”
“Ooh, nice accent.”
“Thanks.” He’d grown up in England and had only been in Canada two years, mostly speaking French, so his English accent was pretty much intact.
His neighbor stretched out a hand, seeming not to care that the one he freed up in return was less than clean.
He felt a connection, a warm jolt of recognition that was sexual but way more than just that. A jolt that made him gaze at her face, memorizing every attractive feature and knowing, in his soul, that this woman was going to be important in his life.
He’d felt something similar when he’d unwrapped his first camera on his tenth birthday. A sense of revelation and certainty.
Already today, Ganesh had brought him luck.
Kat felt something special, too. He could tell by the flush that tinged her cheekbones, the way her hand lingered before separating from his. “Have you just moved from England, Nav?”
“No, I’ve been studying photography in Quebec City for a couple years, at Université Laval. Just graduated, and I thought I’d find more…opportunities in Montreal.” He put deliberate emphasis on the word “opportunities,” wondering if she’d respond to the hint of flirtation.
A grin hovered at the corners of her mouth. “Montreal is full of opportunity.”
“When you wake up in the morning, you never know what the day will bring?”
She gave a rich chuckle. “Some days are better than others.” Then she glanced at the elephant statue. “Who’s your roommate?”
“Ganesh. Among other things, he’s the Lord of Beginnings.” Nav felt exhilarated, sensing that this light flirtation was the beginning of something special.
“Beginnings. Well, how about that.”
“Some people believe that if you stroke his trunk, he’ll bring you luck.”
“Really?” Her hand lifted, then the elevator dinged and they both glanced toward it.
A man stepped out and strode toward them with a dazzlingly white smile. Tall and striking, he had strong features, highlighted hair that had been styled with a handful of product, and clothes that screamed, “I care way too much about how I look, and I have the money to indulge myself.”
“Hey, babe,” he said in English. He bent down to press a quick, hard kiss to Kat’s lips, then, arm around her waist, glanced at Nav. “New neighbor?”
Well shit, she had a boyfriend. So, she hadn’t been flirting?
Her cheeks flushed lightly. “Yes, Nav Bharani. And this is Jase Jackson.” She glanced at the toothpaste commercial guy with an expression that was almost awestruck. “Nav, you’ve probably heard of Jase—he’s one of the stars of Back Streets.” She named a gritty Canadian TV drama filmed in Ontario and Quebec. Nav had caught an episode or two, but it hadn’t hooked him, and he didn’t remember the actor.
“Hey, man,” Jase said, tightening his hold on Kat. Marking his territory.
“Hey.”
“Jase,” Kat said, “would you mind getting a bottle of water from my fridge? It’s going to be hot out there.”
When the other man had gone into the apartment, Nav said, “So, you two are…?”
“A couple.” Her dreamy gaze had followed the other man. “I’m crazy about him. He’s amazing.”
Well, hell. Despite that initial awareness between them, she hadn’t been flirting, only being friendly to a new neighbor. So much for his sense of certainty. The woman was in love with someone else.
Nav, who could be a tiger on the rugby field but was pretty easygoing otherwise, had felt a primitive urge to punch out Actor Guy’s lights.
Now, in the drab laundry room, hearing Kat sigh against his chest, he almost wished he’d done it. That rash act might have changed the dynamic between him and Kat.
Instead he’d accepted that she would, at most, be a friend and had concentrated on getting settled in his new home.
He’d just returned from a visit to New Delhi and a fight with his parents, who’d moved back to India when his dad’s father died last year. In their eyes, he’d been a traitor when he’d rejected the business career they’d groomed him for and moved to Quebec City to study photography. Now that he’d graduated, his parents said it was time their only child got over his foolishness. He should take up a management role in the family company, either in New Delhi or London, and agree to an arranged marriage.
He’d said no on all counts and stuck to his guns about moving to Montreal to build a photography career.
Once there, he had started to check out work opportunities and begun to meet people. But he’d
