Читать книгу Love, Unexpectedly - Susan Fox P. - Страница 9

What size was he? Nav almost choked on his last bite of tourtière. Exactly which portion of his anatomy was Kat inquiring about?

Then it dawned on him. She meant suit size. Damn, the woman was trying to dress him so he’d impress her family. What the hell was wrong with him just the way he was?

He’d been raised by a mum who was all about this kind of shit, and he’d gone to school with kids who judged by appearances. By image, status, job prospects, not by what kind of person you were inside. He fucking hated it.

He and Kat had different views on appearance, and it was one of the things that had become a joke between them. But tonight, she’d gone beyond teasing and was starting to piss him off.

Nav slapped his empty plate on her coffee table and stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I can dress myself without your help.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she stared right back. “Nav, I’m totally grateful you’re coming, but face facts. This is a wedding. You’ve shot wedding photos. You know the starving-artist jeans and tee don’t cut it for a guest. You need grown-up clothes.”

Grown-up clothes? What made a suit more grown-up than jeans? As a boy and young man, he’d worn enough suits to last him a lifetime. She did have a point though. As a guest at her sister’s wedding, he should conform to the dress code. “Yeah, fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll check out a couple consignment shops.”

“Consignment shops.” She eyed him warily. “I’ll write down the names of the best ones.”

The best, meaning stores that carried once-worn designer clothes. The kind of shop where she bought much of her own classy wardrobe. Okay, maybe he’d follow her suggestion. He didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her family.

Maybe he’d even wear a suit on the train. He stifled a grin. That’d shake her up.

Maybe he’d get a haircut and shave off his beard. He hadn’t seen his face in four years. Probably wouldn’t even recognize himself.

Nav wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed to this friends-hanging-out evening, but it was giving him interesting ideas. If he wanted Kat to see him differently, a designer suit might help.

Rather than conceding her point, he decided to have some fun with her. “Salvation Army has a thrift shop.”

She slumped back, shaking her head. “Appearances matter, damn it.” After a moment, she sat up again. “Let’s take this morning.”

“Uh…” What about this morning?

“In the laundry room. I was wearing sweats, right?”

Made of a soft fabric, clinging to her curves. Like the way the light cotton of tonight’s salwar kameez did. Enough for him to have noticed that under the flimsy top she wore only a camisole. No bra. He cleared his throat and shifted position as his groin tightened.

She made a face. “Yeah, sure, you don’t even remember. Anyhow, take it from me, I was wearing sweats. I’d just got out of bed, pulled on the first thing that came to hand.”

Oh, man, the image of her climbing out of bed all warm and soft—did she sleep naked?—messed with his mind. If his train plan succeeded, he’d find out what she wore to bed. Casually he tugged his loose tee down over his baggy sweatpants to conceal his growing erection.

She was going on, oblivious to her effect on him. “Then you saw me when I got home from work. You probably don’t remember that, either, but I was wearing a business suit, heels, makeup.”

Looking great then, too, in a totally different way. When he saw her dressed for work, all sleek and professional, he had an overwhelming urge to strip off her clothes. To tousle her, tumble her, and—

“Nav?” Her tone was sharp. “Are you paying attention?”

“Sure.” He bit back a grin. “Go on.”

“I’m saying appearance counts. Trust me on this.”

Same old, same old. “It’s not the façade that matters, it’s what lies beneath.” Look at Margaret, the English girl he’d planned to propose to. Turned out she’d been all about image. When he’d chosen photography over the high-powered corporate career his parents had groomed him for, Margaret had taken off.

And so, when he’d moved to Quebec City to go to school, he hadn’t mentioned his family’s multinational business, he’d lived on a tight budget rather than dipping into his trust fund, and he’d dressed for comfort rather than style. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. Lots of women were happy to take it. Why the hell wasn’t Kat?

“I’m a woman and I work in PR, and I’m telling you both things count,” she said firmly. “Look at Le Cachet. We offer a lovely, luxurious image, and what lies beneath matches up. It’s pure quality. And every one of us who works there conveys that image with our clothes, our grooming, our attitude.”

Hmm. That did kind of make sense. But…“How about those guys you date? You go for façade there.”

“I do not! I want substance. Depth.” The protest came quickly, then she pressed her lips together, frowning a little.

He waited, giving her time to reflect. To his mind, any guy with depth would see how amazing Kat was, and not let her get away.

Slowly she said, “Okay, maybe I do get blown away by style, charm, good looks. Successful, fascinating men with exciting careers. I suppose I’m a little, uh, dazzled.”

Dazzled into blindness so she didn’t look beneath the surface. “Gee, you think?”

“What’s wrong with wanting someone who’s attractive and presents themselves well?” she said heatedly. “Someone who does interesting things, who’s successful?”

Damn. Now she’d made him think. Yes, of course he found Kat attractive and there was no question she presented herself well, whether in stylish business suits, slinky evening wear, camisoles matched up with designer jeans, or the salwar kameezes he’d had made for her in New Delhi. Oh, yeah, he liked looking at her.

Of course he found her interesting, and no question she was successful. Grudgingly he admitted, “I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. But shouldn’t you look at personality first, not appearance? And if you care about someone, does it matter whether they’re beautiful or plain? Whether they’re an Olympic gold medalist or a, er…” He couldn’t say “photographer.”

“Schoolteacher? Ditch digger? Maybe it shouldn’t, but I want someone who’s more than just…average.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “I’m average enough myself.”

He must have misheard. About to ask, he stopped when she said, “It’s like when I go window-shopping. It’s not the plain dresses that catch my eye, it’s the gorgeous ones.”

Gorgeous dresses and dazzling, successful men.

What was he thinking, with this crazy plan of his? Even if he did show up on the train in a suit, he’d still be Nav. A man three years younger than her, just starting his career, who was anything but dazzling. She’d give him the same old line about seeing him as a friend, yada yada.

Speaking of his career, he should stay at home and concentrate on the exhibit that might well launch it to the next level. Why put that in jeopardy to tilt at the windmill of winning Kat’s love?

Let’s face it, it was time to get on with his life. He should put his feelings for Kat behind him and give other women a fair chance. He’d thought he’d been doing that, but maybe his efforts had been doomed because he’d still been hoping Kat would one day return his love.

He was too sunk in his own gloom to realize she had been quiet for a while, too.

Then she said, “It’s not necessarily the gorgeous men I go for. It’s the ones who make the most of what they’ve got. The way I do. I’m not beautiful—”

He couldn’t hold back a sound of protest.

She chuckled. “Aw, that’s sweet, but I know I’m not. Jenna’s the beauty in our family. I have a decent build, okay features, nice hair. If I stay in shape, get my hair styled, wear a little makeup, and dress well, I look more attractive than I really am.”

“You always look great to me.” He tried not to sound hopelessly besotted and resisted glancing toward her, afraid his face would give him away.

“Spoken with the loyalty of a good friend.”

Nav gritted his teeth, buddy trap echoing in his head.

“A male friend.” She jabbed him lightly in the shoulder. “A woman would’ve made a detailed assessment of my strengths and weaknesses, like my sisters and I did when we lived at home. Women are more analytical and objective about appearances than men.”

“More obsessed.” He crossed his arms.

“But this stuff is important for guys, too.” She curled up on the couch, facing him. “Nav, you ought to be able to relate to this. Your work is all about visual representation and the message it conveys. What did you say the name of the exhibit is?”

He glanced at her. What was she getting at? “‘Perspectives on Perspective.’”

“Right. Perceptions, messages. Image, and what’s beneath it.”

His brain was trying to come to terms with what she was saying, but she rushed on. “Think about the opening night of your exhibit. That elegant gallery, your work on the walls, framed, lit, displayed to perfection.” Kat waved her hands, as if conjuring up the scene. “People with glasses of champagne.” She lifted hers in a toast. “Admiring your photos.”

Oh yeah, he had to smile at that vision.

“They want to meet the artist,” Kat said. “And there you are, ta da! Naveen Bharani, the brilliant photographer. Dressed in…sweats? An old rugby jersey?”

“Of course not.”

“What then? Jeans and a shirt?”

He hadn’t thought about it. But now that he did…“Not a business suit. Too stuffy.”

Her face lit up like he’d handed her a box of Godiva chocolates. “Exactly! Now you’re thinking about image. You shouldn’t look stuffy, nor like a starving artist. You need to look like a successful photographer. Jeans could be okay, but they need to be designer jeans. Paired with a classy shirt, or a light sweater. A V-neck sweater, maybe black. Something that shows off your great build, your wonderful coloring.”

She thought he had a great build and wonderful coloring?

“You need to do what I do,” she said. “Make the most of what you’ve got.”

He’d written off her obsession with appearance as the same kind of snobby thing he’d grown up with and hated. However, now that she was explaining, her viewpoint made some sense. Yes, he of all people ought to understand about perspectives and perceptions.

When he looked at his problem from that angle…from Kat’s perspective, he was an old friend. He needed to alter that perception and make her see him as someone different.

As…a stranger? Part of the mystique of trains was meeting a fascinating stranger.

Excitement rushed through him. This was brilliant. He could show up on the train as a stranger, the kind of man who dazzled her. Ritzy clothes, a haircut, a shave. The flashy diamond ring his parents had given him for his twenty-first birthday, which he kept stored in a safe-deposit box. He’d create a radically different image, not just Nav-in-a-suit.

She’d know it was him, yet it wouldn’t be him. Could he create a sexy “stranger on a train” game and persuade her to buy in?

He glanced at Kat, who was sipping champagne. Could he sweep her off her feet? Did he have the guts to do something so bold?

He might be an easygoing guy, but he was no coward. In England, he’d spent his childhood being ruled by parental expectations. Then he’d reached the breaking point. He couldn’t be what his mum and dad wanted, so he’d left to follow his passion for photography even though it had cost him their approval.

Well, his passion for Kat was even stronger, and he was fed up with letting her expectations govern their relationship. Things between them damned well had to change.

Hell, yeah. He could reinvent himself. As the old saying went, All’s fair in love and war.

Adrenaline fizzing through him, he leaped to his feet. “Time to head home. I have things to do, and you need a good night’s sleep.”

“But we still have wedding details to work out,” she protested. “Your suit. Airline tickets. We need—”

“We’ll work things out later.” He cut her off and held out his hand. “Come on.”

She put her hand in his and let him haul her to her feet. “There’s something different about you tonight.”

“Is there?” The good buddy would have gathered the dishes and stacked the dishwasher, but Nav walked straight to the door.

Kat followed. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I have a lot on my mind.” He fought to keep a straight face.

“I know. Congrats again on the exhibit. It’s fabulous. And thanks again, too.” She threw her arms around him. “You’re the best, Nav.”

“That I am.” The best man for her. On a subconscious level she had to know it.

He couldn’t resist brushing her cheek with the lightest of kisses. Oh, yeah, there was a disadvantage to his facial hair. He could barely touch her skin. That would change very soon.

She stepped back quickly, gave a nervous laugh. “Tickles.”

“Does it?” The next time he kissed Kat, he’d make damned sure she had a very different reaction.