Nav would comply, but tonight he said, “Don’t feel like it.”
At least he changed the topic of conversation. “Have you booked the train yet?” he asked, holding the pie plate toward me and offering me the last serving of tourtière.
His muscular arm was even more tempting than the pie. I shook my head firmly. “No, thanks. And yes, I booked this morning.”
He dished the pie onto his plate. “What’s your plan?”
I rattled off my timetable for the tenth time today. “Work Monday morning, then the three forty train to Toronto. It gets in around eight thirty, and I’ll stay at the Royal York across from the train station. Then I’m on the morning train to Vancouver, arriving there first thing Friday.”
“I hope you meet one or two fascinating people.” There was an odd note in his voice, but he was looking down at his plate, and that shaggy hair made it so hard to read his expression.
Speaking of that hair, and his general appearance…Earlier today, I’d e-mailed my sister Theresa and told her I was bringing Nav as a wedding date. Claiming bragging rights, I’d described him as good looking and successful. Which he was, in his way.
His career was taking off, and I was thrilled for him. Now it was time he dressed for success. For being a flauntable wedding date, too.
For us, discussions about appearance had been a running joke, a stalemate. How could I now get him to listen?
I swallowed the last bite and put my empty plate on the coffee table. “By the way,” I said casually, “do you own a suit?” I’d never seen him in one, but didn’t every guy have a suit?
His lips curved, then smoothed out. “For the wedding? I can manage something.”
Given what I’d seen of his taste in clothes, I hated to think what he might manage. “Hmm.” I chewed my lip. Could I possibly persuade Nav to let me buy him a classy suit? No, not the guy who fought me for pizza bills.
I respected male pride, but damn it, this was about my pride, too. He needed a makeover before he met my family. They were rough on dates. I’d yet to bring a man home they approved of, and Nav’s scruffy appearance would be a big strike against him.
Maybe if I bought a suit and had it delivered, and there was no receipt that would let him return it…Still trying to act casual, I asked, “What size are you, anyhow?”
Chapter 3
What size was he? Nav almost choked on his last bite of tourtière. Exactly which portion of his anatomy was Kat inquiring about?
Then it dawned on him. She meant suit size. Damn, the woman was trying to dress him so he’d impress her family. What the hell was wrong with him just the way he was?
He’d been raised by a mum who was all about this kind of shit, and he’d gone to school with kids who judged by appearances. By image, status, job prospects, not by what kind of person you were inside. He fucking hated it.
He and Kat had different views on appearance, and it was one of the things that had become a joke between them. But tonight, she’d gone beyond teasing and was starting to piss him off.
Nav slapped his empty plate on her coffee table and stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I can dress myself without your help.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she stared right back. “Nav, I’m totally grateful you’re coming, but face facts. This is a wedding. You’ve shot wedding photos. You know the starving-artist jeans and tee don’t cut it for a guest. You need grown-up clothes.”
Grown-up clothes? What made a suit more grown-up than jeans? As a boy and young man, he’d worn enough suits to last him a lifetime. She did have a point though. As a guest at her sister’s wedding, he should conform to the dress code. “Yeah, fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll check out a couple consignment shops.”
“Consignment shops.” She eyed him warily. “I’ll write down the names of the best ones.”
The best, meaning stores that carried once-worn designer clothes. The kind of shop where she bought much of her own classy wardrobe. Okay, maybe he’d follow her suggestion. He didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her family.
Maybe he’d even wear a suit on the train. He stifled a grin. That’d shake her up.
Maybe he’d get a haircut and shave off his beard. He hadn’t seen his face in four years. Probably wouldn’t even recognize himself.
Nav wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed to this friends-hanging-out evening, but it was giving him interesting ideas. If he wanted Kat to see him differently, a designer suit might help.
Rather than conceding her point, he decided to have some fun with her. “Salvation Army has a thrift shop.”
She slumped back, shaking her head. “Appearances matter, damn it.” After a moment, she sat up again. “Let’s take this morning.”
“Uh…” What about this morning?
“In the laundry room. I was wearing sweats, right?”
Made of a soft fabric, clinging to her curves. Like the way the light cotton of tonight’s salwar kameez did. Enough for him to have noticed that under the flimsy top she wore only a camisole. No bra. He cleared his throat and shifted position as his groin tightened.
She made a face. “Yeah, sure, you don’t even remember. Anyhow, take it from me, I was wearing sweats. I’d just got out of bed, pulled on the first thing that came to hand.”
Oh, man, the image of her climbing out of bed all warm and soft—did she sleep naked?—messed with his mind. If his train plan succeeded, he’d find out what she wore to bed. Casually he tugged his loose tee down over his baggy sweatpants to conceal his growing erection.
She was going on, oblivious to her effect on him. “Then you saw me when I got home from work. You probably don’t remember that, either, but I was wearing a business suit, heels, makeup.”
Looking great then, too, in a totally different way. When he saw her dressed for work, all sleek and professional, he had an overwhelming urge to strip off her clothes. To tousle her, tumble her, and—
“Nav?” Her tone was sharp. “Are you paying attention?”
“Sure.” He bit back a grin. “Go on.”
“I’m saying appearance counts. Trust me on this.”
Same old, same old. “It’s not the façade that matters, it’s what lies beneath.” Look at Margaret, the English girl he’d planned to propose to. Turned out she’d been all about image. When he’d chosen photography over the high-powered corporate career his parents had groomed him for, Margaret had taken off.
And so, when he’d moved to Quebec City to go to school, he hadn’t mentioned his family’s multinational business, he’d lived on a tight budget rather than dipping into his trust fund, and he’d dressed for comfort rather than style. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. Lots of women were happy to take it. Why the hell wasn’t Kat?
