The Art of Inheriting Secrets(50)

I warmed to the idea. “I participated in the organization of food fairs several times, and this could be done on a much smaller scale, just for the locals.”

“That’s brilliant!” Pavi said and leaned forward eagerly. “You said you’re doing stories in Egg and Hen on English food, right? What if you do stories on each of the chefs who come cook?”

“I love it.” I could see the spread of magazine pages in my imagination—the velvety green countryside, an English food truck, some gorgeous crumble on a plate. It felt good to have something I felt competent about, something in my actual world, to focus on. “We could just use the lawns, set up tents and lavatories.” I looked at Harshad. “Every fourth Saturday, huh?”

He beamed at me. “Yes.”

“That might be biting off more than I can chew, but I’d love to do it a couple of times this summer, just to see what happens. Will you help me, Pavi? It might be challenging to get it ready by May, but definitely by June.”

“I’m in.”

I allowed myself to look at Samir, who regarded me with a reserved expression. “What do you think?”

“People will love it. It’s a great idea.”

I raised a brow. “And maybe one day we will have a literary festival too.”

Overhead, a gigantic clap of thunder rattled the roof, and we all laughed. “Nix that idea, I guess.”

After dinner, Pavi headed down to the kitchen, and Samir insisted on taking me to the hotel. I didn’t really want to walk in the cold rain. This time, it was he who was quiet, and I let him be. My mind was filled with ideas, plans, hopes for the future.

When we pulled up in front of the hotel, I said, “Thanks for everything, Samir. I don’t know what I would have done here without you and Pavi.”

“You are quite welcome.” He worked his hands on the steering wheel. “Listen, do you want to have a beer or something?”

“Like at the pub?”

“Not there. Everyone will talk too much.”

“Talk too much?”

“Gossip. About us.”

“Does it matter?”

He nodded, staring out into the rain. “I think it might. There’s another pub down the road a bit.”

“The rain is awful.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Never mind.” He tossed his hair out of his face. “I just—”

“Why don’t you come in? We could go down the hall. There’s a little room down there, and we could have Allen bring—”

“Same trouble. Everyone will start gossiping. The last thing you need right now.” He moved his hands back and forth on the steering wheel. “The thing is, I just want to explain about the book. Books.”

Inside the car, we were enveloped in the sound of the pouring rain, our breaths making the air moist and warm. His arm rested against my shoulder, and I had to shift a little, putting my back to the door, to look at him properly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Our eyes met. We were at such close quarters, and that waft of his skin filled my head, and I wanted to touch his curls, his jaw. I thought of his bare feet.

“That’s not really why,” he said softly and shifted, sliding a hand around my neck to pull me closer. A rush of both wild yearning and abject terror wound through me, and then my hands were on his shoulders, and his other hand cupped my face. His fingertips touched the line of my cheekbone. For an endless, charged moment, he only looked down at me. Then he tilted his head, closed the gap.

Kissed me.

My head whirled, and I had to hold on to him, or I would have spun right out of the car into the night and the rain. His lips were pillowy soft yet firm, warm and lush, and I could not help but open my mouth, wanting to drink him in as if he were a potion, a potion that tasted of candied fennel from the dish on the table, the brushes of his mustache tickling my lip. The sensation made me giddy, and I wanted to laugh, but I only touched his face, the lines of that facial hair, moving closer, then closer still, both of us leaning in harder, going deeper, tiny noises escaping me and him and me again. I lifted my hands to his hair, and a curl embraced my finger, glossy and cool and silky. His thumb moved on my throat, up, down, settled in the hollow between my collarbones.

And then suddenly, I was thinking of that picture of him at twenty-five, looking so young, and the fact that I would be forty at the end of the summer—and the town and the gossip and the weirdness of the situation. I panicked, wondering if I would lose his friendship, his company, and I pulled away inelegantly. Sharply. “I don’t know if—”

“Don’t think.” He bent and caught my mouth again. His thumbs tilted my chin upward. “Come back with me to my house.”

My palms fit themselves to his shoulders, and as we kissed, I shuddered to imagine him in bed naked. All of him and all of me and—

I pushed away, pushed away again, hands on his chest. “Samir. Stop. Think. This is craziness.”

“Why?”

“You’re so much younger than me!”

He laughed softly. “Five years is nothing.”

“Seven.”

“Still nothing.” He leaned closer, brushed his lips over my chin, traced my shoulder.

“But . . . everything is so chaotic. I don’t know what’s going to happen or . . . anything.”