“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