know exactly what you mean.” He leaned against a washer, all casual male strength and grace, albeit with faded running clothes and shaggy hair. Not that I, who hadn’t expected to see anyone this early in the morning, looked much better, though at least my sweats were Lululemon.
“Got another e-mail from Mum,” he said, “pressuring me to move to New Delhi. Since she and Dad moved back there, they’re getting more and more traditional.”
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head vigorously. “You’re not allowed to.” We’d repeated this exchange three or four times over the past year, and I knew—almost—that he’d never move. But I also realized that living in Canada was a bone of contention between him and his parents. Nav was continually getting flack for being a disrespectful son.
His face tightened, and I tensed. Surely he wasn’t considering moving. My apartment, Montreal, my life wouldn’t be the same without him.
Slowly he shook his head, his glossy black curls catching the light. “No, I won’t move to India. I love my family, but having half a world between us is a good thing.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Great. How would I survive without you?”
“You couldn’t,” he teased back. Then his gaze gentled. “Kat, you’ll always survive. You’re a strong woman.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Tough girl,” I joked. But he was right. I’d survived growing up in my weird family, moving to a new province, working in French, and I’d survived having my heart broken more than a dozen times. But I didn’t want to have to survive being without Nav.
One of my dryers went off, and I turned to deal with my load of delicates. As I was folding things neatly, my second dryer buzzed.
Nav opened the door and hauled out a pair of cotton pants and a tee. When he started to toss them on top of my careful pile, I grabbed them out of his hands. “Thanks, but I believe in folding clothes. Unlike some people, I’m not overly fond of wrinkles.”
One side of his mouth kinked up. “Some people put too much weight on appearance, material goods, all that crap.”
“Some people like to make a good impression.”
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.”
