The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(39)

“She must be something if she managed to get you out of the office.” Elias chuckled. “This place is smokin’. The women are hot. There’s free food and drinks. And I could look at these paintings all night.”

“Has anything caught your eye?” A tall, slim woman in a long black dress joined them near the door. She introduced herself as Indra, the gallery director. Elias gave Jay a subtle nod of approval before excusing himself to talk to two women engrossed in a painting of a split avocado.

“Not yet,” Jay said. “It’s a lot to take in.” Where was Zara? Wasn’t she supposed to be here making the introductions and smoothing things along?

“Come,” Indra said after a moment of awkward silence. “I’ll show you the banana. It’s more relatable for men.”

Fifteen minutes with Indra, and Jay knew she wasn’t the woman for him. Although on the outside she was everything he’d thought he wanted—cultured, sophisticated, poised, and elegant—he didn’t feel even a flicker of attraction. There was only one woman he wanted to talk to tonight and she was on the other side of the room, drinking like there was no tomorrow.

He excused himself the moment they were interrupted and joined Zara and Parvati at the bar.

“Look who it is.” Parvati blocked his path, glaring so fiercely he stopped in his tracks. “Where’s Indra?”

“She’s talking to someone who’s interested in buying the strawberry.”

“Maybe you should go and wait for her in the prickly fruit section,” she snapped. “Or better yet, go check out the lemon.”

“Parv. No. It’s okay.” Zara finished her drink in one gulp and gave Jay an uneasy smile. “So what do you think of her?”

He didn’t get a chance to answer before Indra swooped out of nowhere and clamped a hand around his arm. “Darling, come. I want to introduce you to the artist and his muse.”

“His muse?” Zara stared at Indra aghast. “Are you serious?”

“Oh yes.” Indra beamed. “She inspired this celebration of womanhood.”

A sound erupted from Zara’s lips. Half groan. Half moan. “No,” she said quietly. “No. No. No. No. No.” Without any warning, she bolted across the gallery to the entrance and hit the glass door at a dead run.



* * *



? ? ?

He found her in the alley, one hand on the brick wall, the other braced on her knees, body shuddering with every breath.

“Are you okay?” He reached for her hair and gently pulled it away from her face. The thick strands slid like silk across his palm. “You hit the door pretty hard. Parvati’s trying to find some ice.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“You might have a concussion . . .”

“A concussion?” She straightened and frowned. “Are you kidding? I’ve run into glass doors before. That was nothing. I’ve knocked myself out twice, and once I even broke my nose. I’m very hindbrain driven. Very primal. The barest hint of danger and I’m gone. My prefrontal cortex doesn’t even have a chance. If there was a zombie apocalypse, I would definitely be a survivor.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He ran a hand gently over her head, feeling for a bump as she rambled about instinct and the psychology of fear and something about jumping out of a moving car when she was a child.

“Yes. I mean, it was humiliating, but not as humiliating as inviting everyone you know to your father’s art exhibition only to discover it’s . . .” She shivered, her face crumpling. “Vulva fruit.”

He wasn’t used to seeing her like this—raw, unguarded, vulnerable, real. And cold. There was a chill in the air and he kicked himself for not noticing the goose bumps on her arms right away. “It’s not that bad. People seemed more intrigued than offended.” Jay slid his jacket off his shoulders and wrapped it around her.

“This is the kind of thing you see in movies.” Her face softened. “Old-school chivalry. I’ve never had a guy give me his jacket before.”

“You just haven’t met the right guy.” His hands were still on the lapels. He meant to bring them together. Instead, he drew her closer, so close he could almost see the electricity arc between them in the dimly lit alley, feel her energy ripple over the fine hair on his arms.

“What are you doing?” Her husky voice sent a shiver of desire down his spine.

He gave in to his protective urge and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his body. “Keeping you warm.”

With a sigh, she melted into his chest. “You give good hugs.” She burrowed closer and all he could think about was how perfectly she fit against him, her head tucked under his chin, soft curves molded against his body.

“Not only do they have a warming effect,” she mumbled against his shirt, “they also make everything seem less dire. So what that my dad painted vulva fruit? Or that he had a live muse who is wandering around the gallery right now eager to talk about her experience with my bosses, my postman, my local grocer, my friends, and my family? It’s no big deal. Am I right?”

Warmth flooded through him. She loved her dad and he understood that love, the willingness to do anything for the parent who’d raised you. The gallery was full because of her. Indra couldn’t say enough about Zara’s efforts to support her father. And now that she was over the shock of finding out there was a muse—he still couldn’t wrap his head around that one—she was planning to go back inside because it was the right thing to do.