The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(18)

“At what? A pleasing financial statement? A perfectly polished belt buckle? An employee who shouts How high? when you tell them to jump? A paintball team that obeys your every command?”

Jay arched an eyebrow, a superior gleam in his eyes. “We would still have won the game if we’d followed my strategy.”

“You’re probably right,” she admitted with reluctance. “But would it have been fun? Why spend hours crawling through cold damp leaves covered with spiders when you can run through the forest dodging enemy bullets while your team cheers you on?”

He was silent for so long she wondered if she’d offended him. “We clearly have different ideas of what constitutes fun,” he said finally.

She tipped her head to the side, considering. “You’re still talking to me, so I don’t know that we do.” Most corporate types would have left by now. They didn’t usually like to be teased or challenged and she’d really pushed the limits with Jay. But she couldn’t help herself. There was something about him that made her want to take the risk, to dig deeper and see what lay beneath that stoic exterior. No matter the cost.

“When is the last time your heart pounded with excitement, Jay? When is the last time something took your breath away?”

She heard shouts and laughter behind her. Someone bumped into her from behind. She stumbled forward, hands flying up to brace against his chest. Too late she remembered the glass in her hand. And then she was enveloped in warmth.



* * *



? ? ?

When Jay had started his weekly visits to his mom’s daycare, he’d worn his suit. On the first Friday, one of the toddlers painted a happy face on his bespoke Italian wool jacket. The second week, a first grader cut off his tie. He sat on green paint on his third visit and was drawn into a water pistol fight—Adrian had started it—on his fourth. Given his experience with sartorial mishaps and the fact he always had a change of clothes in his car, a spilled glass of champagne was hardly a disaster.

At least not until his brain registered that Zara was in his arms.

“Watch where you’re going.” Jay scowled at the dude who had bumped into her, sending him scurrying back to his friends with a mumbled apology.

Willpower and an awkwardly placed champagne flute kept Jay from pulling her closer. She felt right in his arms, her soft curves fitting perfectly against his body. He drew in a breath and the scent of her perfume, sexy and bold, clouded his senses—as did the light brush of her hair against his cheek when she pulled away.

“I’m so sorry.” Her breath hitched, long lashes fluttering over soft cheeks. “Let me clean you off.” Before he could respond, she whipped off her dupatta and patted his chest.

Jay glanced up, wary of attracting attention. He went to great pains to avoid this type of humiliating situation. And yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think of anything but her gentle hands on his body.

“You don’t have to—” His words caught in his throat when her hands moved downward, a light pressure over the ridges of his abs and then across his belt. When the tail end of her long scarf brushed his fly, he silently cursed the salesman who had insisted that pleats were out and tight dress pants were in fashion.

“My dad has this same belt.” She polished the buckle and the situation down below became critical. Could he distract her with conversation?

“You mentioned he plays in a bhangra band.” His voice was so rough and hoarse he almost couldn’t believe it was coming from him.

“Yes.” She looked up, the scarf dangling from her fingers. “He almost lost his life in a car accident and had an epiphany. He gave up his career to pursue his passion for art and music.”

Passion. Bad word. His body tensed as his blood rushed through his ears like a freight train. He tried to draw deep calming breaths through clenched teeth and made a hissing sound instead.

“It destroyed my parents’ marriage.” She sighed, balling the scarf in her hand. “It was one of the reasons I didn’t pursue theater at college. That and the fact I would have been disowned. Now I have to get my fix by acting in community theater in my spare time and dancing and singing at weddings.” She glanced toward the door and the courtyard beyond, where the festivities would take place. “Are you dancing with the groom’s squad tonight?”

He steeled himself against regret. “I don’t dance.”

“Bad experience?” Her face creased with sympathy. “Did you try it one time? Mess up the steps? Were you stumbling around the stage not knowing what to do, and people were laughing, and you were utterly humiliated, so now you’re afraid to do it again?”

Jay frowned. “No. That’s not—”

“An old girlfriend, then?” She put a hand over her heart, and her dark eyes glistened. “Did you two dance beautifully together until she ran off with someone else and broke your heart? Did you vow you’d never dance again because every time you heard ‘The Humma Song’ you thought of her and it hurt too much?”

Jay’s mouth opened and closed again. He was a practical person who lacked even a shred of imagination. How did she come up with these ideas so fast? “Absolutely not.”

“So, you’re just insecure,” she said. “Otherwise, you’d be dancing tonight to support Tarun.”