The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,14
got six clients booked in for tomorrow.”
Pia gave a sheepish shrug. “Seeing as you’re touring the facility later today, I thought you’d want to hit the ground running tomorrow.”
“What if I’m jet-lagged?”
Though the strange fuzziness in her head had nothing to do with a mucked-up biological clock and everything to do with a lousy night’s sleep. Or lack of. She’d managed a grand total of three hours between the erotic escapades with Rory.
“That’s not jet lag I see,” Pia said, her eyebrows arching as she pointed at her cheeks. “You’re blushing. What’s that about?”
Samira felt the heat in her cheeks intensify, and Pia let out an excited whoop. “Did you hook up after I left the bar last night?”
Samira couldn’t keep the goofy grin off her face. “Maybe.”
“Good for you.” Pia reached across and slugged her on the arm. “Let me guess. You chatted for a while, flirted, then bolted for the safety of your apartment.”
“Not quite.” Samira’s grin widened along with Pia’s eyes.
“You didn’t.”
Samira nodded, smug in the knowledge she’d done something completely out of character and felt fantastic because of it. “I did.”
Pia leaned across the table to murmur, “You actually had S-E-X?”
Samira mimicked her and responded with an exaggerated whisper, “Y-E-S.”
“No way!” Pia squealed and clapped her hands. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Cuz.”
“Well, I did.” She winked. “Several times.”
Thankfully, their order arrived at that moment, while Pia continued to gape at her in blatant admiration. Samira salivated as the dosa, a crispy, paper-thin, rolled-up rice pancake filled with spicy potato and as big as the table, was placed in front of her.
LA had some great Indian restaurants, but not one compared to this small, simple café in her home suburb of Dandenong.
She pointed at Pia’s plate. “Eat your vada before it gets cold.”
However, not even Pia’s favorite spicy lentil donuts could distract her.
“Not until you tell me what happened last night.” Pia smirked. “And don’t leave out a single detail.”
Samira rolled her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an insatiable gossip?”
“I’m a speech therapist. It helps hone my ear to hear people talk, so technically, listening to your weird hybrid Aussie-American accent is work and beneficial to my professional development—”
“Enough with the BS.” Samira laughed and held up her hand. “I’ll give you the quick version because I’m starving and I don’t want to drool all over my dosa.”
Pia grinned and absentmindedly dunked her vada in coconut chutney as she focused all her attention. “Go on.”
The hollow sensation in Samira’s stomach had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with remembering how she met Rory and what had ensued.
She filled Pia in on the basics, leaving out the juicy details. The memory of Rory’s mouth and hands all over her made her flush enough without going into specifics.
“Wow, I’m proud of you.” Pia’s eyes glowed with admiration. “I’m glad my pep talk worked so quickly.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “So, are you going to see your boy toy again?”
Samira ignored the instant disappointment that hollowed her stomach. She’d experienced the same gut-drop when she’d woken this morning to find Rory’s note, thanking her for a great night. She hadn’t expected anything beyond a steamy night together, but it irked just the same that her first night back in Melbourne encapsulated her life: an unexpected high followed by a resounding low.
“It’s called a one-night stand for a reason,” Samira said, her tone clipped. “Now let’s hurry up and eat so you can give me the grand tour of the practice.”
She expected Pia to push for details, and when she didn’t, Samira sighed in relief. Rory had been a spontaneous, fleeting interlude. Something wonderful to sustain her for the months ahead when she’d be swamped with work and fending off Kushi’s matrimonial machinations.
Last night had been amazing, but Samira had to ground herself in reality.
Starting now.
Seven
Rory’s nose twitched as he strode down the main corridor of the dilapidated basement in one of the housing commission blocks of flats in Carlton. Pungent disinfectant warred with cloying lavender freshener, like the cleaners had tried to smother the mustiness. The corridor opened into a large rec hall, where Amelia sat behind a makeshift desk, frowning at a calculator.
The fifty-something woman had a pencil stuck behind one ear and her silver bob pushed back by sunglasses perched on top of her head, her deep frown alerting him that whatever numbers she crunched, they weren’t good.
“Hey,” he said, moving toward her, his footsteps kicking up tiny whirls of