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 than 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
