The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,28
eggs with a fork? To make conversation without having to overthink every goddamn word? To share an impromptu dinner after great sex and not feel the slightest bit awkward?
If he ever broke his relationship rule, she’d be a primary candidate. Then again, what was the point? She’d be leaving at the end of her six-month stint at the health center, and the last thing he needed was to let down his guard for the first time in his life, fall for her, only to be left broken when she headed back to LA. He was many things; a masochist wasn’t one of them.
“You really are a man of few words,” she said, picking up a dishcloth. “I’m hoping it’s you being an introvert and not because you find me a boring conversationalist.”
“You’re fantastic, and I think I demonstrated fifteen minutes ago exactly how stimulating I find you.”
She blushed the same shade as the tomato in her hand, which she tossed him and he caught. “That’s sex, and yes, I think we’ve established how good we are at that.”
“Just good, huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “Great. Amazing. Stupendous. Better?”
“Getting there.” He winked, tossed the tomato, and caught it. “Yeah, I’m quiet. I prefer to listen.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you real or some superhuman male deposited here from another planet?”
“Some parts of me are superhuman, if your moans of approval are any indication,” he deadpanned, earning a flick of the dishcloth on his ass.
“Just chop,” she said, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. “For what it’s worth, I don’t reveal the secret of my Punjabi scrambled eggs to just anybody.”
“So I guess that means you like me for more than my superhuman co—”
“Dice,” she said, pointing at the tomato, her blush intensifying as she turned the stove knob to light the gas.
Grinning, he focused on the task at hand so he wouldn’t dice a fingertip along with the tomato. She had that effect on him, her sense of humor as beguiling as the rest of her. And even though they’d only hooked up twice, and she was transient, and he couldn’t afford to get too distracted from nailing the Renegades audition, he couldn’t help but wish they could do this for longer.
“Why is someone like you single?”
Fuck, the question popped out before he could get his brain into gear, something that never happened.
She paused, pouring oil into a frying pan and adding a dob of ghee, before answering. “I could ask you the same question.”
“That’s easy. I’m not a relationship kind of guy. I live in a tiny flat, my work is intermittent, and I travel around a lot for it.” He shrugged. “Not exactly stable material.”
She whirled the pan in circular motions to spread the oil and ghee while eyeing him speculatively. “I was married, once, many years ago. It lasted eighteen months. When the divorce came through, I moved to the US because my dad’s from there, so I got a green card, started working, and never looked back.”
Her admission surprised him. She didn’t sound bitter. In fact, she sounded almost blasé, like it meant nothing. While he’d never contemplated marriage and never would, he was pretty sure if his imploded, he’d be more cut up. Then again, she’d said many years ago . . .
“You must’ve been a child bride.”
“Something like that,” she said, turning away to focus on the stove. “Can I have the onion please?”
Nice deflection, and he didn’t push for answers, no matter how curious. He handed her the saucer with diced onions and watched as she tipped the onion into the pan, deftly flicking the pieces around with a wooden spoon.
“Tomato,” she said, and he handed her the next saucer, wishing he hadn’t opened his big mouth and changed the playful mood to wariness.
With the both of them reverting to silence, the sizzle of frying onion and tomato the only sound in the kitchen, an awkwardness he didn’t like extended between them.
This was why he shouldn’t speak. On the rare occasions he tried to make conversation, he inevitably screwed up.
“These eggs are my mom’s recipe,” she said, soft, uncertain. “The guy I married was her choice.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You had an arranged marriage?”
“Sort of.” She added a pinch of garlic powder to the pan, and half a teaspoon of garam masala. “He was Indian, came from a solid family, had a good job, and was handsome. I was young and craving a fairy tale from watching one too many Bollywood movies, and