The Art of Inheriting Secrets(72)

Because fallen I had. Fallen for his beauty and his sunny nature, his sexy bare feet and his brains and the way he made love to me and now the way he cooked.

“I forgot limes!” he cried. “They’re in a bowl over there. Cut two into quarters. And we need a cup of milk in the chai.”

I followed instructions. Mesmerized, I watched as he strained the chai into mugs. “Secret recipe.”

The scent alone would have seduced me, but the flavor was sharp, hot, peppery, very sweet. “Wow,” I said.

“I knew you would like it.” He took a sip, nodded, then turned to the big skillet, piling plates high with rice he’d heated in the microwave and the chicken and peas and, at the very last minute, a big handful of fresh coriander, all served steaming hot and fragrant and perfect with the limes. We were both so hungry we dove into eating like little kids, completely focused. I even found myself swinging my foot.

At last, I rose for a breath. “Samir, this is so delicious.”

“Need to keep your strength up.”

I grinned.

He poked at the dish, sobering, then looked up at me. “I keep thinking about our grandmothers, in love all those years. What that meant for them.”

“I know. It’s the epitome of star-crossed. Not just different classes. Not just different cultures, but same sex at a time it was completely unacceptable,” I said. “How’s your dad going to feel if he finds out?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Maybe we don’t tell anybody.”

“Okay,” I said with a little frown. “I mean, I guess it seems prudent to wait for answers, see if we can piece it together first.”

“What if we never tell anyone?”

“Ever? That seems so sad, that their story would never see the light of day. It seems at least part of what my mother wanted me to know.”

“Yes, but why?” His hands were still on the table. One was in a fist. “Why did she want you to know that particular thing?”

“I don’t know.” I covered the fist with my hand. “Not yet.”

He turned it over and opened his hand to me. “I just don’t want my father to be hurt. Or any of the people who loved my grandmother and wouldn’t understand.”

“I promise that we’ll make the decision together. Let’s put all the pieces together before we decide anything.”

“Not even Pavi,” he said.

“Okay.” I crossed my heart. “It’s our secret.”

I stood up to take the plates to the sink, and on my way back, he caught me by the waist and tugged me between his legs. His big hands moved on the back of my thighs, then under the shirt to my naked bottom. “Maybe this should be our secret too,” he said, and I could see by the set of his mouth that he meant it.

“Why?” I pressed my hands into his shoulders. “Are you embarrassed?”

“God, no! Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. I’m older than you. The detective made a comment yesterday about it.”

Samir smiled slowly, that sexy, knowing grin. His hands skated upward, following the curve of my waist, then back down again. “He thought we were together?”

“Yes.” I leaned in closer. “And commented on the age difference, which means I don’t even kind of look close to your age.”

“You’re the one who is embarrassed, not me. I don’t care in the slightest.” His palms came out and rested on my waist. “When I was a boy, I stole the photo of our grandmothers, a copy of the same one you have now, and hid it in my room.” He swallowed, lifting a hand to twine his fingers through my hair. “She was so beautiful, like something I made up. That day I saw you at Rebecca’s the first time, I thought I was imagining you.”

I pressed my forehead into his, deeply touched. “I’m not embarrassed.”

He brushed the tip of his nose over mine. The tenderness nearly buckled my knees. “Good.”

I closed my eyes, wishing that I could capture this moment in a bottle and revisit it whenever I wanted. I breathed in the scent of his skin and the sex all over us and this new thing we’d created, the fragrance of us.

“Listen,” he said quietly, hand brushing the side of my neck. “You’ve never lived in a little village like this. The gossip can be murderous.”

“Why would they care?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not seriously asking that question. You’re a countess, Olivia, heir to a family name that the village has held dear for centuries. I’m a thatcher.”

“A professor who chooses to be a thatcher. A writer who is waiting for his next book.”

“No,” he said with more force than I expected. “That’s not who I am. This”—he gestured to the cottage around us—“is who I am.”

“Okay,” I said, a little wounded. “I don’t care what you do. I really don’t.”

“Other people do.” He brushed the back of his fingers over my cheek. “They’ll want you to marry a lord, someone who knows all the rules. Someone they can brag about seeing in the market.”

“I hear you.” But I didn’t like it. “It’s ridiculous, however. It’s the twenty-first century!”