The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,5
told me to shut up. You know I can talk all night about the center.”
“I like seeing you this enthusiastic.” Samira smiled. “We still on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Meet me at Dosa Villas at midday, and we can discuss more of the nitty-gritty details about the practice.”
“Sounds good.”
She needed to focus on work, not the odd disassociated feeling plaguing her since she’d come home. She’d built a reputation as one of LA’s best physical therapists specializing in unusual therapies, from clinical Pilates to dialect coaching, but consulting on a new, first-of-its-kind, innovative health center in her home city had filled her with a trepidation she didn’t usually associate with her job.
It was all about being back in Melbourne and the overwhelming guilt she felt returning home. Guilt for not being woman enough to keep her husband. Guilt for not producing the babies he wanted. Guilt for intrinsically blaming her mother for it all and driving a wedge between them because of it.
Samira could feel her emotions starting to spiral, so she faked a yawn.
Pia immediately stood. “I should go and let you get some rest.”
Samira raised her half-full glass. “I’ll just finish this. That way I’ll be fully comatose to fight off the pitfalls of jet lag.”
“Go for it.” Pia rewound her scarf before dropping a peck on her cheek. “It’s good to have you home, Cuz.”
Samira knew if she responded with “it’s good to be home,” it would sound like a hollow lie, so she settled for, “We’re going to have a blast hanging out, both in and out of work.”
Pia hesitated and glanced around. “Are you sure you want to stay here? You’re always welcome at our place—”
“With you and Dev trying to make a baby?” She grimaced. “No, thanks.”
The moment the retort popped out of her mouth, Samira wished she could take it back. Her cousin had been trying to have a baby for the last two years, and while Pia joked about it herself, Samira knew firsthand the pain of not being the baby-maker expected of a good Indian wife, though in Pia’s case their fertility problems stemmed from Dev.
Thankfully, Pia appeared unfazed by her blunder. “Well, if you get tired of apartment life, you know you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.” Samira stood and hauled Pia in for a hug.
“You’re only saying that because I’m your new boss.”
Samira bumped her with her hip. “And I’m your world-renowned consultant, so you’d better treat me nice or I’ll head back to LA where I know I’m appreciated.”
Pia rolled her eyes and blew her a kiss as she strolled away, elegant and stunning in a way Samira never could be. Pia owned her heritage. While they both had Indian mothers and Caucasian fathers, everyone recognized Pia as being Indian, while Samira, with her streaked light brown hair, hazel eyes, and lightly tanned olive skin, was consistently mistaken for other nationalities, from Greek to Spanish to Maori to Hispanic.
It served to accentuate her inherent feelings of not belonging, of being lost. Lost to her heritage, lost in relationships, lost in the divide between countries and culture.
She downed the remainder of her vodkatini in two gulps, only to find a replacement appear before her like magic.
“You look like you could use another?” The hipster, barely out of his teens, stroked his beard as he studied her with blatant speculation. His brown eyes glittered with intent behind black-rimmed glasses.
Jet lag, a bellyful of Indian food, and the alcohol had lowered her resistance. She didn’t want to appear rude, so she picked up the glass and said, “Thanks.”
“Your accent is hot.” He slid onto the barstool Pia had just vacated, and Samira guzzled her drink to refrain from responding.
“Can I get you another?”
“This is fine for now.” She raised the almost-empty glass in a silent cheer, and he shrugged, obviously nonplussed she didn’t want to flirt.
“Care to share my cab sav?” He picked up his wineglass and waved it under her nose like a sommelier. “Then we can share anything else you want.”
He leaned on the bar, making his biceps bulge beneath a black T, continuing to swirl his wine like he wanted to hypnotize her.
He winked, and Samira stiffened, dread making her skin prickle. Avi used to wink at her all the time, and she hated that such an innocuous gesture could awaken her old insecurities.
If her mom knew about Avi’s impending fatherhood, the entire Indian community would. Their overt pity would stifle her as much as their sly glances, their