returned and his laundry would be getting wrinkled, so I opened the door of his dryer and got to work. I folded sweatpants, jeans, T-shirts. Nary a designer label. Nav’s clothes sense was pretty much “starving artist” even though I kept telling him about reasonably priced consignment stores that carried stylish outfits.
Into the hamper went the running shorts that showed off his lean, muscular legs and awesome butt. Faded rugby jerseys with their Cambridge red lion crest. A Cambridge man. How cool was that?
Boxer briefs. Black and navy, plain old Stanfield’s. Soft cotton that hugged his private parts. Damn, it would be so much easier if my best friend was a woman.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Nav’s package, but the thing was, he had an excellent one. In fact, his whole bod was pretty fine, as I’d discovered bit by tempting bit. Like, when I hugged him. Or when he ran down the street for his morning jog, and I just happened to be at the window when he left. Or when he stretched up to hang my new light fixture, or hefted my new desk, or fixed the plumbing under my kitchen sink…No, I wasn’t creating I need a man chores; it was just so much nicer to have his help than to figure things out on my own.
The view didn’t hurt one bit, either. He had strong shoulders, firm pecs, and a breathtakingly tight butt, as well as the aforementioned package.
Which I shouldn’t be thinking about. None of it. Not that, nor the drop-dead sexy English accent, nor that gorgeous skin the color of cinnamon. I should focus on the unstylish clothes, the shaggy hair that always needed a trim, the beard and mustache that hid half his face.
Even if he hadn’t been my best friend, and even if he had been into marriage, Nav wouldn’t be my type. I went for the polish of a successful, cosmopolitan man mixed with the edgy excitement and unpredictability of a bad boy. A man who’d grab me and kiss me senseless rather than give me a brotherly peck on the lips.
So, I was glad Nav had only done the peck thing. Of course I was. Because if he’d really kissed me, I might have kissed him back. And if we’d done that, we’d have crossed a line I had no intention of crossing.
Once, a few years ago, I’d fallen for a neighbor. When we broke up, I’d moved out of the building because I couldn’t stand seeing him. I wasn’t about to repeat the mistake and risk ruining the best relationship in my life.
All of which meant the size of Nav’s package was utterly irrelevant to me, and no way was I going to think about it.
“Kat, what are you doing?”
I swung around, boxer briefs in my hands, to see their owner, still clad in those skimpy shorts. Fighting back a flush, I said, “Folding your laundry.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You’re blushing.”
Damn. I folded his undies and put them in his hamper. Totally casually. And lied. “I was thinking about the wedding. My family.”
“Ah.” He turned toward his dryer. “They really get to you.” Muscles flexing in his forearms, he heaved the rest of the dry items on top of the ones I’d folded, guaranteeing wrinkles.
Distracted by his muscles, I tried to remember what he’d said. “Yeah. Isn’t that what family’s for?” I gave him a rueful grin. “In my family, love’s unconditional, but it sure isn’t nonjudgmental. There’s a reason I don’t visit more than every year or so.”
Home was no longer the family house in Vancouver. It was my apartment in this renovated brownstone off St. Catherine near the heart of vibrant Montreal, where I lived side by side with my best friend.
“I know exactly what you mean.” He leaned against a washer, all casual male strength and grace, albeit with faded running clothes and shaggy hair. Not that I, who hadn’t expected to see anyone this early in the morning, looked much better, though at least my sweats were Lululemon.
“Got another e-mail from Mum,” he said, “pressuring me to move to New Delhi. Since she and Dad moved back there, they’re getting more and more traditional.”
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head vigorously. “You’re not allowed to.” We’d repeated this exchange three or four times over the past year, and I knew—almost—that he’d never move. But I also realized that living in Canada was a bone of contention between him and his parents. Nav was continually getting flack for being a disrespectful son.
His face tightened, and I tensed. Surely he wasn’t considering moving. My apartment, Montreal, my life wouldn’t be the same without him.
Slowly he shook his head, his glossy black curls catching the light. “No, I won’t move to India. I love my family, but having half a world between us is a good thing.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Great. How would I survive without you?”
“You couldn’t,” he teased back. Then his gaze gentled. “Kat, you’ll always survive. You’re a strong woman.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Tough girl,” I joked. But he was right. I’d survived growing up in my weird family, moving to a new province, working in French, and I’d survived having my heart broken more than a dozen times. But I didn’t want to have to survive being without Nav.
One of my dryers went off, and I turned to deal with my load of delicates. As I was folding things neatly, my second dryer buzzed.
Nav opened the door and hauled out a pair of cotton pants and a tee. When he started to toss them on top of my careful pile, I grabbed them out of his hands. “Thanks, but I believe in folding clothes. Unlike some people, I’m not overly fond of wrinkles.”
One side of his mouth kinked up. “Some people put too much weight on appearance, material goods, all that crap.”
“Some people like to make a good impression.”
We’d long ago established that we were opposites in a lot of ways, and the appearance thing was a running joke.
I took over the folding, then glanced at my watch. “I need to get to the hotel and reorganize timelines, leave instructions for everyone, rearrange some meetings.” My job was challenging, but I loved it. Loved having a key role in the team of bright, dynamic people who were determined to make Le Cachet the best hotel in Montreal.
We hefted our laundry baskets and headed for the elevator.
When we reached the third floor, I put my basket down so I could fish in my pocket for my door key. “Got a hot date tonight?” I asked.
I certainly didn’t. It was only a couple weeks since I’d been dumped by my last dating mistake, Jean-Pierre. The handsome, dashing NASCAR champ had said he was seriously interested in me, and his flattery and expensive gifts told the same story. But he’d moved on—either because he was a deceptive bastard or because I’d bored him—and my heart still felt battered.
“You’re asking about my love life because…?” Nav raised his eyebrows.
“Thought we might get together for a late-ish dinner.” After a long, hectic day at Le Cachet, it would be great to unwind with him. Besides, we should celebrate his exhibit.
He studied me for a long moment. “One of our good old food-and-a-movie nights?” There was a strange edge to his voice.
Was he afraid I wanted another favor? “Yes, that’s all. No more favors to ask, honest. If you have a date or whatever, don’t cancel it.”
He reflected, perhaps mentally reviewing his social calendar. Not only did he date lots of women, his breakups usually seemed to be friendly and he’d as often be grabbing coffee with an ex as dating someone new. As well, he had three or four close guy friends he hung out with.
Finally he said, “Alas, no date. No whatever.”
Ridiculous to feel glad. As ridiculous as the fact that, on the mornings when I was leaving for work as he dragged home with the drained glow of a man who’d had sex all night and desperately