The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,38
pushing me toward every eligible Indian girl in Melbourne.”
She chuckled. “What does your mom think?”
A shadow passed over his face, and he glanced away to stare at the Yarra River several feet from their riverside table. “She died not long after I graduated from uni, and Dad died when I was a kid, so Izzy, my gran, raised me.”
So much for light coffee conversation. Samira had put her foot in it. “Sorry to hear about your folks. Does your gran know my mom?”
He nodded. “She lives in Noble Park, so stands to reason they’d cross paths at the many interminable Indian dances.”
Samira smiled. “Were you dragged along to those as a kid?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, his vehemence breaking the tension as they both laughed. “Izzy would dress me up in a suit complete with vest and make me dance with all the girls in their spangled salwar kameez. I hated it.”
“The food wasn’t bad though,” she said, remembering that her passion for samosas often led her to wander through a giant town hall, watching dancers bounce around to Bollywood beats, on the lookout for leftover snacks on tables that she’d snaffle and scoff in the corner. “But the karaoke was the worst.”
They laughed in unison, and once again Samira was struck by how nice this guy was. “So what’s this coffee date really about, Manish?”
“Blunt, I like that.” Respect glinted in his eyes. “And my friends call me Manny.”
“So sharing a coffee constitutes friendship?”
“It does.” He picked up his takeout mug and tapped it to hers. “Here’s to a no-pressure, no-arrangements, no-hookup friendship.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, taking a sip of her cappuccino but still thinking this guy was too good to be true.
“Though I’m always up for reviewing our stance on the no hookup?”
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed.
“I’m seeing someone.”
The moment the words tripped from her mouth, she realized how much she liked hearing them. Sure, she and Rory may not have stipulated exactly what was going on between them or established whether they were dating, but she’d like to, and saying it reinforced that.
“Lucky bastard.” He took a giant bite out of his muffin, chewed, and swallowed. “Is he Indian?”
“No.”
He winced. “Sister, you’re in for a world of pain.”
“Don’t I know it.”
They grinned, and she waited until he’d finished another bite before asking, “From your surname, I take it you’re Anglo Indian?”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad were Anglo Indians from Goa. Izzy is Goan, too. I was born in Chennai; they migrated here when I was a few months old.”
His mixed heritage explained the gray eyes.
“I’m a half-and-half too. You’ve met Mom, and Dad was American.”
“What a spectacular mix it is, if I do say so myself.”
They locked gazes and . . . nothing. Not a hint of sizzle or attraction like she had with Rory. Kushi would be disappointed with their lack of spark. Manish was easy on the eyes, had a sense of humor, and was a doctor: perfection in any woman’s eyes, but Samira felt nothing but friendship for the handsome medico.
“I have to get back to the center,” she said, standing. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime, friend.”
She hesitated, unsure whether to bring up her mom’s matchmaking but thinking it prudent in case Kushi misconstrued this meeting. “Just so you know, I’m going to tell Mom we met up to get her off my back. So if she tells your gran and they book the wedding reception hall, don’t freak out.”
He chuckled and stood. “So you’re using me as your dating beard. Nice.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’ll play along, but you know giving your mom a hint of anything between us is going to encourage her.”
Samira sighed. “Maybe, or I’m hoping she’ll back off with the nightly phone calls where she extols your virtues at great length.”
“I am a pretty good catch.” He squared his shoulders in a mock superhero pose that had her laughing.
“Then why are you single?”
The amusement in his eyes faded, and he masked it with an exaggerated eye roll. “Because I haven’t met the right one, of course.”
He sent her a pointed glare, and she held up her hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m all wrong for you.”
“Pity. Just imagine, we could’ve had a merging of medical minds.” He winked. “And a merging of other parts—”
“Stop right there, mister. Being friends means no lame-ass flirting, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted. “And for the record, I’m not interested in you as more than a friend either, but it’s