“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.
“It’s art,” he said. “I’m sure everyone understands that. They certainly were . . . stimulating.” He needed to put the brakes on any thoughts about the exhibit and the sensual suggestive displays that had served only to spark his desire.
“His paintings used to be very different.” She rested her head against his chest. “Mostly they were of his village in India, people he knew, events from his past, things he missed. They were calm and soothing, and there was so much depth to them, so many layers.” Her chest rose and fell with a sigh. “He doesn’t paint like that anymore. Not since my parents got divorced. I was only eleven and it utterly destroyed me. I think it destroyed him, too. My mom tried to limit his access. She thought he was a bad influence, but it turns out we share the same ‘impulsive hot mess’ genes and no one is to blame.”
“From what I’ve seen, neither of you qualifies as a hot mess,” he said. “Indra hardly had a moment to talk because there were so many interested buyers clamoring for her attention. Elias even wants one for our office.”
She looked up, her head tipped back in the perfect position for a kiss. He saw desire in her eyes that reflected the need in his. “You like them?”
“You might be surprised what I like.” He was almost overwhelmed with the temptation to stroke her cheek and feel the softness of her skin. He wanted to kiss his way down her throat, feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his lips. Some secret part of him burned for her, wanted to capture her essence and drink her in. His heart pounded wildly. Christ. If he managed to leave this alley without kissing her, it would be a miracle. When had he last felt this rush of adrenaline? When had he last felt so utterly alive? So out of control?
He pulled away abruptly, breaking the connection between them. “Your dad will be wondering where you are. I’m sure Parvati has found some ice by now.”
“Yes, you’re right.” She drew in a ragged breath, her voice high and faint.
“Ready to face the fruit?” He held out his hand, needing that small connection before they left the intimacy of the alley.
“I’m just holding your hand out of an abundance of caution.” She slid her palm against his. “I don’t want to crack my head twice in one night.”
“Perfectly understandable.” He liked holding her hand, but more than that he liked the idea that she was relying on him to keep her safe. Liked it a little too much, considering what had brought them together.