Читать книгу Unwanted Girl - MK Schiller - Страница 11

He opened the door wearing a Yankees T-shirt, faded blue jeans ripped at the knees, and a charming smile.

“Hello,” he said, leaning his tall muscular body against the doorframe.

“Hi,” she greeted, handing him the paper bag and his umbrella. “Thank you for lending me this.”

“You were wrong…again,” he said.

“Yes, I was.” She nodded, matching his playful expression.

“But I’m glad you didn’t get stuck in a downpour.”

He handed her a bill, and she reached for it the way she always did. She searched her pockets for change, but he held up his hand.

“Keep it.”

“Thank you.”

“Any predictions for tomorrow?”

“Why ask me? I’m always wrong.”

“I’ve learned if I do the opposite of what you suggest, it works out well.”

Her skin prickled as she took in his features. Because of her attraction to Nick, she found it difficult to look at him. She tried holding her gaze at his bare feet, but that didn’t work. Tilting her head toward his seductive smirk wasn’t a bright idea either. So she let her gaze linger at his broad chest, which wasn’t any easier. “I have nothing to report.”

“I guess this is the part where I tell you to be safe.”

This was when she’d take her leave, and she almost did, her courage peeled away by his presence. “Nick Dorsey.” The timid whisper of her voice didn’t sound natural.

“That’s me.”

“I know because your name is on the order slip,” she stammered, wincing at her lame attempt at conversation.

He smirked. “Your detective skills are impressive.”

She laughed nervously. “Did you know you are my last delivery of the night?”

“I assumed based on the hour.”

“I always pack an extra sandwich for myself. I also eat dinner very late.”

“That’s interesting.” He dragged a hand through his thick hair.

“Yes, and I go to school at NYU. My roommate will have people over tonight, and our place will be crowded. It’s difficult to think, let alone enjoy a meal in peace.”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“Nick Dorsey, it looks like you have a nice, quiet place where one may enjoy a sandwich.”

“Are you inviting yourself to dinner?”

“In a way, except I’m bringing my own food.” She held up her own brown bag to cement the point. “I was wondering if you’d share your space and perhaps your company?”

He studied her, a look of suspicion crossing his face. Shyla cursed her stupidity and lack of feminine prowess to correctly assess the situation. He wasn’t interested. She lowered her gaze and began to turn away, but his foot kicked the door open. “Come in.”

He took the second paper bag from her. As he set down the food and put away the umbrella, she took a minute to study his home, still shocked she stood on the other side of the door. The loft was spacious by New York standards with lots of windows, modern charcoal-colored walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and intricate molding. The bookcase captured most of her attention, though, spanning an entire wall with hardcover spines from floor to ceiling. A rolling ladder rested against it.

She began shrugging off her coat. He came behind her, easing it off her shoulders. The polite action caught her off guard. Nick held his hand out for her scarf, but she shook her head, pulling it tighter.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, Nick Dorsey, I would.”

“Why do you keep saying my full name?”

She bit her lip, realizing she didn’t have an answer to the question. “I don’t know.”

“My name is Nick. Call me Nick.” He walked over to the glass dining table and pulled out a chair, gesturing for her to sit, but she stood in place.

“For Nicholas?”

“Yes, but I prefer Nick. I don’t know your name. I call you Sandwich Girl, but that seems very disrespectful right now.”

She held out her hand. “Shyla Metha.”

“Shyla,” he repeated slowly. He took her hand to shake it, but held on longer than courtesy required. He sucked in a deep breath. As his hold tightened, she imagined him pulling her closer, but instead he pulled free of their connection as if their touch had become uncomfortable for him. How could such a small gesture scream so loudly? Although she felt the sting of his rejection, she also welcomed the idea she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“What would you like…” He paused, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before it tightened again. “To drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Water, scotch, and very old scotch.”

“What are you having?”

“Scotch.”

“I’ll have one too, please.”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched a few seconds too long for comfort before heading into the open kitchen area.

She took the seat he’d offered. At least in this position she could cover her shaking knees.

“How old are you?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Are you afraid of contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”

He laughed, bringing back a bottle of amber liquid and two small glasses with ice. “I’m sure you’re delinquent enough without my contribution.”

“What would make you think that?” Did he think she was a loose girl? Then again, her actions weren’t exactly characteristic of piety.

His grin put her at ease. “You invited yourself into a stranger’s house.”

“I’ve been delivering to you for a year now. You’re hardly a stranger.” He poured the liquor into each glass and slid one in front of her. “Besides, I have pepper spray in my pocket,” she added.

He shook his head before slugging back his drink. “That’s wise. Inform a possible attacker of the weapons you’re carrying and their location.”

Shyla shrugged. “You don’t know all my weapons. Just the one, and I can use it as a decoy should you choose to make me feel unsafe.”

He frowned, a look of regret flickering on his face. “You’re safe with me.”

“I believe you.”

He shook the ice cubes in his glass. “Shyla is an interesting name. Does it mean something?”

“It’s Sanskrit for daughter of the mountain.”

“Oh,” he said, dismissively. “That’s it?”

“It’s also the name of a goddess.”

“Definitely more appropriate.” He spoke barely above a whisper.

A heat crept across her neck. She took a large gulp of her drink to cool herself.

Big mistake.

The butterflies circling her belly burst into flames once the liquor hit. Her eyes watered, and her insides burned. She sputtered and coughed, placing her palm against her mouth for fear a dragon-like spear of fire might shoot free.

“Hey,” he said, crouching in front of her. He took the glass from her, setting it on the table. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, swallowing hard, hoping to extinguish the liquor-induced inferno. “I’m sorry.”

He brought her a glass of water. Gratefully, she sipped and apologized again.

“It’s fine. It could have been worse.”

“Worse?” she asked, embarrassed by her actions.

“You could have asked for the old scotch. That would have been a waste.”

She widened her eyes until he grinned mischievously. That grin was dangerous, both relaxing and stimulating. “How can you drink that?”

“Straight up and on the rocks. The question is why did you ask for it if you don’t like it?”

“I didn’t know I wouldn’t like it. I thought it would taste like butterscotch.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely not candy. Back to my original question. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He sighed, looking relived. “You’re a very innocent twenty-two.”

“You just said I was a delinquent.”

He placed a hand on her shaking knee. It stilled immediately. His command over her body was stronger than her own. “I was wrong.”

“I guess it’s a matter of opinion.” She played with the frayed edges of her scarf, deciding scotch would never touch her lips again.

They both ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts. “You always order the turkey,” she finally said.

“I’m loyal to what I like.” He looked at her food. “What are you having?”

“It’s a veggie sandwich—cucumbers, tomatoes, avocado, and green chutney. I’m a vegetarian.”

“What are you doing here, Shyla?”

“In your apartment?”

“Yes, but let’s go broader. Why are you in New York? You’re far from home, aren’t you?”

“I’m from India.”

“Whereabouts?”

“A rural village in the western part of the country known as Kutch. I’m here on a student visa.”

“What’s your major? Please don’t say it’s meteorology because it’s definitely not your calling.”

She covered her mouth to hide her giggle. “Elementary education, thank you very much. I’ll be graduating in a few months and returning to India.”

“And you’ll be a teacher when you go back?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Seems like an odd choice.”

“Why?”

“We’re not exactly shining in that area. Why would you want to attend school in the new world when your own is excelling on every front?”

The question wasn’t original. Her answer came easily. “I respectfully disagree. A country that’s constantly producing is pretty amazing.”

“I hate to break this to you, but we don’t produce anything anymore.”

“Yes, you do. You produce great ideas, and with great ideas come great thinkers.”

Nick let out a low whistle. “I stand corrected.”

She pushed aside her half-eaten sandwich. “Do you mind if I look at your books? You have quite a collection.”

“Be my guest.”

She walked across the space, carrying her glass of water toward his bookshelf. He kept the distance between them and chose to stand against the wall at the opposite side of the room with his arms crossed. On one of the shelves was an old turntable with a stack of neatly laid records. She picked up a strange mask that lay next to it.

“I used to play goalie in this beer league a few years back.”

“Is it a competition where you drink beer?”

He chuckled. “We probably would have been better off doing that, but we actually played hockey first and drank beer after.”

She ran her fingers against several spines, her excitement growing as she silently read each title. Maybe they had more in common than she’d thought. “You must love to read.”

“I do. Luckily, I have an e-reader now, and just in time since I was running out of wall space.”

“We like many of the same authors.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Swift, Dickens, and Larsson for a start. But I like the modern stuff, too. I love Frank McCourt and Hosseini.”

“Me, too,” he said, a surprised inflection in his voice.

“You don’t have any romances.”

Nick chuckled. “Not unless you count my collection of vintage Penthouse magazines.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, it was a bad joke. I’ve never been a fan of romance. I have hard limits on how far my belief will suspend.”

“That’s a shame. They are my favorites.” She sighed, pulling one of the more colorful books off the shelf. The cover featured a striking man in an army jacket with a bikini-clad blonde in his arms. “You have the Keegan Moon novels, I see. It looks like you have the whole set—The Adventures of Max Montero.” Shyla didn’t know why the blonde needed to wear a bikini when Max was dressed head to toe, especially since the backdrop was a snow-capped mountain, but she guessed it had more to do with sales than plot.

“Have you read them?”

“My roommate’s a big fan. She lent me the first one.”

“What did you think of it?”

She shrugged. “The writing’s good, but I didn’t care for the characters.”

“Why not?”

“They felt one-dimensional. He comes across as a womanizing, self-indulgent fool.”

Nick arched his brow, his lips quirking into a grin. “He’s got his faults, but I wouldn’t describe him that way.”

“As bad as he was, though, the heroine was even worse. She seemed stupid and fake…almost vapid. She was always getting herself into trouble and falling into hot water.” Encouraged by his amused smile, she continued, “And I refer to hot water in the literal sense. The one I read, the girl was suspended from the ceiling over a pot of boiling water until Max Montero swooped in at the last minute.”

“It was acid, and he likes saving beautiful women from danger. What’s wrong with that?”

“She could have saved herself, or better yet, not gotten into the situation. And he…well, he could have been nicer to her in general.”

“Not every hero comes in a one-size-fits-all package, Shyla. Don’t hold back, though. Tell me what you really think.”

“Okay, I will. I can appreciate a different kind of hero, but I’d like one with a functioning set of scruples. In the scheme of things, these books don’t deserve shelf space with the others. They definitely fall into the dime store drivel category.”

“Ouch,” Nick said, pouring himself another drink. “I don’t think you understand the concept of sarcasm.”

She opened and shut her mouth as the realization hit her. “You were joking when you asked me to tell you what I really thought?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it.”

“So, what do you do for a living?” she asked, anxious to change the subject. It was possible she’d accidently insulted one of his favorite novelists.

“I’m an author.”

“Have you written anything I might have read?”

“The dime store drivel you’re holding.”

Uh oh.

The drivel in question fell from her hand, as did the water. Shattered glass and liquid marred the gleaming floors. She knelt before her mess. “Oh, my God.” Her hands hovered above the jagged shards of glass.

He moved swiftly, grabbing a roll of paper towels and covering the space between them in long strides. “Don’t,” he said, clasping her wrist before she picked up a chunk of glass. “You’ll cut yourself.” His dark eyes and square jaw captured her attention from the task at hand.

In that moment, she battled with the urge to either pull him closer or push him away.

Instead, she remained frozen. His thumb moved along her wrist. Could he feel her racing pulse?

“Stupid,” she muttered.

“Careful. You might be in danger of getting hurt and find yourself in need of rescuing.”

Her tummy twisted in reaction to her physical and social clumsiness. To her surprise, he laughed.

“I’m so sorry. I… I… The writing I enjoyed.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t take it back. Once words are airborne, they become stale, and you can’t breathe them in again. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. It was rude and insensitive.”

“It was honest.” He threw down some paper towels while she took the book and wiped it against her shirt, holding it as if it was a valuable work of art.

“Look Shyla, I know my work isn’t going to change the world, but Max Montero gives people an enjoyable escape for a few hours, and I’m happy to provide that outlet.”

She held up the book. “If I had known.”

“But you didn’t, and I’m glad you didn’t. Honesty is a rare and treasured trait for me. Trust me, I’ve gotten far worse reviews than yours.”

His reassurances did nothing to assure her. “The books say Keegan Moon is the author.”

“That’s my pseudonym.”

“Why do you write under an alias?”

He stood, holding his hand out to assist her. He opened a hall closet and retrieved a broom and dustpan. “For a few reasons. My first book was under my real name, and it’s very different from the fifteen Max Montero books. My agent figured it would be a good idea to use a penname. Once readers get to know an author, they have certain expectations of their work, and we didn’t want to disappoint them.” Nick scooped up the glass, walked back to the kitchen, and deposited it in the bin. He returned with fresh water for Shyla, but this time it was in a plastic bottle. “We shouldn’t chance it again,” he said with a wink.

“That’s probably wise.”

“Anyway, I decided I liked the other name, and it gives me a bit of anonymity.”

“What was your first book about?”

Shyla started clearing the table, but he took over, gesturing for her to sit. She flopped on the dining room chair, playing with her scarf, happy to have something to occupy her hands.

“My grandfather’s life.”

“Like a biography?”

“Sort of. He didn’t relay his whole life story, but he gave me some interesting snippets. I pasted enough together to write the book.”

“He must be very special.”

“He was,” he said in a low voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“He had a good life.” Nick glanced at a picture on the wall. “He was kind of a bastard….but a loveable one.” Nick’s blue eyes grew wistful. “He used to have all these grampisms or grumpisms, depending on how you looked at it. He would give me advice, but it always fell a little short of its mark. Like he’d say, ‘Nicky, it’s true you can be anything you want to be in this country…but for fuck’s sake, make sure whatever you choose, you aim for rich.’” Nick’s voice had turned gruffer when he quoted his grandfather.

“It sounds like you were close to him.”

“He raised me.” Nick took the seat across from her again. She forced herself not to stare at his ripped jeans or bare feet. Why was that appealing?

“What happened to your parents?” she asked, folding a paper napkin into a tight square.

“I don’t have any,” he said without emotion.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I don’t mean to lead you astray. My parents are very much alive, but their existence has no bearing on mine.”

“I understand,” she said, although she didn’t. She wondered if she should take her leave now that her constant curiosity had ruined the mood.

“You do?”

“Not really.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “I was four when my dad left. I’ve seen him maybe a dozen times since then. All of those visits involved monetary requests…on his part. Another reason I chose an alias.”

“That’s awful.”

A flicker of a frown eased into a dismissive shrug. “It could be worse.”

“Your mother?”

“She resented being saddled with a kid. She’d take off for weeks at a time, depositing me with Gramps. The last time was when I was eight. He told her not to come back again.” Nick laughed cynically. “The one time she listened to him.”

Shyla wanted to find some words of comfort, but nothing came to her. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, but Nick didn’t appear to need a response. “Wow, this turned into a therapy session, didn’t it? Would you believe I never talk about this stuff, or have you already categorized me as a wallowing prick?”

“I would believe you with no doubts. I shouldn’t have asked so many personal questions.”

“Inquiring about someone’s parents isn’t a personal question…not usually, but you can ask me anything.”

Her heart wrenched for him, but she was grateful for the warmth of his words. “Your grandfather must have been proud of you.”

“I finished the book right before he died. He was the first one who read it. He cried. He said it was like his life had a purpose. I’ve been lucky enough to receive many accolades in my career, but the statement from Gramps, by far, was my greatest moment as a writer.”

“I would love to read that book.”

Nick strode over to the bookcase. He jumped on the ladder, skipping several rungs, and then leaned his body until the whole structure slid effortlessly to the other side of the long shelf.

She tensed at the carefree, almost reckless way he carried himself. “Be careful.”

“I do this all the time.”

He reached for a book on the top without looking, and then jumped off. He walked over to her and deposited the small hardcover in her lap. “Here you go.”

“You’re lending it to me?” She traced the embossed cover that featured a black and white deck of playing cards. She cleared her throat and gripped her fingers on the novel with enough force to cause her knuckles to crack.

“You won’t find it in a bookstore anymore. It did well critically, but it was no commercial success. You can keep it.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I insist. I have other copies. Besides, you can’t hate my work if you haven’t been exposed to all of it.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to read this.” She held up the small book with a surprisingly steady hand. “Irish Hold’em?”

“Yeah, it’s a play on Texas Hold’em, my grandfather’s favorite game. He was a gambler. He didn’t win much, and it’s probably the reason we were always broke, but he sure as hell loved the game. He’d take me with him when I was younger.”

“To the casino?”

Nick shook his head. “He didn’t like casinos. These were underground games. Gramps knew it wasn’t the right place for a kid, but he also couldn’t resist the lure of a poker table. We’d go to the library first where I could check out all the books I wanted. The kicker was I had to read them the same day. I guess that’s where my love for reading started. Because in those hours in smoky pool halls, while old men played cards, I was able to go to a different place and have adventures of my own.”

“Is that when you came up with Max Montero?”

“Yeah, I suppose it was,” he said, as if realizing it himself. “I had this imaginary friend as a kid. I guess it’s not uncommon, but my friend wasn’t exactly normal. He drank hard liquor, swore, and had some crazy adventures. Eventually, he developed into Max Montero.”

“I’ve always wondered how writers come up with their ideas.”

“I can only speak for my own methods. You know why people like Max? Well, besides present company?”

“Tell me.”

“He appeals to everyone. Men enjoy the action-adventure components and his badass personality. Women appreciate a man who’s both a voracious lover and a lovable jerk.”

“You really think women like that?” she asked, genuinely curious. After all, it was exactly what she disliked about the character.

“Women are compassionate and kind. They have this innate need to fix broken when they see it. And Max Montero is all kinds of broken.”

Shyla had a feeling Nick Dorsey was “all kinds of broken” too, but she kept the thought to herself. “I see.”

“Anyway, you’ll be happy to know Max Montero is done with his kickass life and panty-dropping adventures.”

“What? You killed him off?” she gasped.

“No, he has a strong fan base, and readers would hate me if anything untoward happened to him. He’s simply going away.”

“Why would you stop if the books are successful?”

“It appears my imaginary friend has abandoned me.”

Shyla blinked her eyes in confusion.

“He used to talk to me. Shit, that makes me sound crazy.”

“You have writer’s block?”

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt?”

His laugh held little joy. “No, it just feels empty, frustrating, listless…unproductive…lazy. I guess those are the right adjectives.”

“Maybe you just need some inspiration,” she offered, part statement and question.

“A muse would be welcome.” He lifted a brow suggestively.

Shyla inhaled a deep breath, attempting to recover her composure before he managed to crumple it once more. “Where would you ever find one?”

“You seem like a qualified candidate.”

She stood and started backing toward the doorway. “I should go.”

He stood, but remained rooted in the spot, shoving his hands in pocket. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all. It…it’s late. Thank you for this,” she said, holding up the book. “I can’t wait to start it. And thank you for tonight.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It is…or at least it was to me.”

He helped her with her coat. She took swift steps toward the door, clutching the book against her chest, hoping it would mask the harsh sounds of her beating heart.

“Shyla,” he called, leaning against the doorjamb, just as she was once again on the outside of his home. Perhaps the side she belonged on.

She pivoted toward him.

His lips turned up in a tight smile as he dragged a hand across his thick hair. “If I ordered a sandwich tomorrow, would you deliver it?”

There was something endearing in the way he’d asked. Her answer came automatically without any forethought. “Of course, I’m your delivery girl.”

“Would you stay and eat with me?” The hope in his voice surprised her.

“If you wish.”

“Do you wish?”

She did wish, more than she had wished for anything in a very long time. “I would like that very much.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” He took out his wallet and handed her another bill.

“You already paid me.”

“It’s later than usual. Take a cab back to the campus tonight.”

“I don’t have far to go.”

“It’s not the distance I’m worried about. I’d rather your pepper spray remain unused.”

She swallowed back a tiny lump. “I’ll take a cab, but I can pay for it myself.”

He opened her palm, placed the bill inside, and closed her fingers around it. “That’s not the point.” There was something in his stance that deterred her from quarrelling. Not to mention his proximity made the simple task of articulation difficult. She whiffed his intoxicating scent, clean and soapy, yet masculine.

“Thank you.”

“Be safe, Shyla.”