The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,96

knew he needed the money from snippets of what he’d said.

So to walk away from that because of her and the baby? Ultimately, it would never work. He’d grow to resent her, and the baby, and she could never have that. She cared for him enough to never make him choose between her and his career.

She’d sent him two short texts over the last few weeks, updates about the glucose test she’d done and the later results. He’d responded with a short, sharp “thanks.” That’s what it would be like for the next few months until the birth, and she had to get used to it. Didn’t mean she had to like it.

Stepping into the Punjab sweetshop, she inhaled deeply, the heady aromas of ghee, milk, sugar, and cardamom never failing to soothe her. Smells of her childhood. Smells to comfort. She knew a lot of sugar wasn’t good for the baby, but she was feeling particularly morose today, nothing a few pieces of cashew barfi and carrot halwa couldn’t fix.

She placed her order, pointing at the brightly colored morsels in the display window. Gulab jamuns, plump, bronze balls soaked in sugar syrup, bright orange swirly jalebis, creamy rasmalai, cottage cheese dumplings soaking in cardamom-infused milk, and yellow peda, Indian milk fudge. Her stomach rumbled, and she imagined her mom’s expression when she walked in the door with her goodies. Kushi would feign disapproval, but she had a wicked sweet tooth and would enjoy devouring these tasty morsels as much as Samira.

A few hours in her mom’s company would distract her from the inevitable loneliness when she got home, and the constant question whirring through her head: Did I do the right thing in driving Rory away?

Leaving the shop, she had to sidestep a guy walking too quickly. He didn’t apologize, and she cast him a scathing glare, at the same time he stared at her.

Oh no. No freaking way.

“Hello, Samira.”

Avi had this way of looking at a woman, part leer, part proprietorial, that made her skin crawl. She hadn’t noticed it at the start of their courtship—she’d been too smitten with her real-life Bollywood hero at the time—but later, when the cracks began to appear in their marriage, she noticed the way he looked at other women. Now, like then, it made her want to douse herself in antiseptic.

“Avi.” She managed a brisk nod and tried to sidestep again, but he blocked her path.

“Why the hurry?”

She could play polite, make meaningless small talk, but he’d given up the right to any of her graciousness the moment he told her he’d got a teenager pregnant and was leaving her.

“I’ve got better things to do than stand around talking to you,” she said, staring him down in defiance.

Mistake. Big mistake. Avi loved a challenge, and taking her down for her feisty response would be something he wouldn’t walk away from.

“Better things? Like what?” He glared at her belly and quirked an eyebrow. “Incubating a bastard?”

“That’s rich, coming from you, considering your first child was born out of wedlock.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you were a cheating scumbag still married to me and had to wait a year for our divorce to come through before you could marry your mistress.”

Avi preferred subservient women, women who deferred to him, women like the starry-eyed sucker she’d once been, so she knew her smart-ass response would get to him. The eyes she’d once imagined staring into for the rest of her life glittered with malice, and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Let’s not rehash the past. We’ve both come a long way.”

He leaned in closer, and she edged back, inadvertently holding her breath as the familiar aftershave washed over her, an overpowering musk blend she’d never liked. “You’re looking more beautiful than ever, babe.” His bold gaze raked over her, possessive, and she subdued a shudder. “Pregnancy becomes you.”

“I’m not your babe,” she muttered, taking a step back, hating that he’d invaded her personal space like he used to.

“You were once, and you loved it.”

Samira bit back a laugh. Was he coming on to her? She could say so much, most of it nasty and derisive, but as he stared at her with a gleam in his eye she didn’t like, most of her animosity drained away.

What was the point of trading insults? He meant nothing to her anymore. Interesting, that he hadn’t changed much beyond a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still the same slicked-back black hair, big brown eyes, and