‘Good.’
‘What time Friday?’ I ask.
He throws his head back and laughs, a triumphant, satisfied laugh, and my gaze travels helplessly down his strong, brown throat. He’s special. I know then that we are not going to be just friends, even though this is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me to avoid at all cost. Men who are too beautiful have too much choice. And a man with too much temptation is like a pig in shit. It will roll around in it all day long.
Our food arrives, and Shane watches me ignore the fork and knife as I tear the crêpe-thin Neer dosa with the fingers of my right hand, then dip it into the creamy chicken curry, bringing it to my mouth.
‘Does it taste better like that?’ he asks with a crooked smile.
‘Actually, yes,’ I admit. ‘You can wash your hands in the men’s toilet.’
‘No need,’ he says, spreading his fingers out in front of him. He has beautiful hands. They are large and masculine, the nails square. ‘I’ve eaten things off the floor and survived.’
I watch him rip the delicate white dosa, dunk it in the curry and put it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully then raises one impressed eyebrow. ‘It’s good,’ he pronounces.
I smile. ‘I think so. It’s a dish from Mangalore.’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘Yes, as often as I can.’
He looks around at the deserted restaurant. ‘Is it always this dead?’
‘Yes, every time I have been here. Most of their business is at night. But, to be honest, I like it like this. It’s got vellichor.’
He takes a pull of his beer. ‘Vellichor?’
‘A place that is usually busy but is now deserted. You know, like that strange wistfulness you get in used bookshops. The dusty cries of all those forsaken books waiting for new owners.’
His lips twist. ‘And you like that?’
I shrug. ‘It suits me—my frame of mind.’
‘You’re a very strange girl, Snow Dilshaw. But I like you.’
God knows why, but I flush all over.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he invites, finishing the first plate and pulling the second plate toward him.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. Start with where you are from.’
‘I grew up in India. My mother is English and my father is Eurasian.’
He makes a rolling gesture with his left hand. ‘Must have been an amazing childhood.’
I shrug. ‘It was different.’
‘Tell me what it was like,’ he asks.
‘My father was an industrialist, a very successful one. He traveled a lot, and since my mother insisted on accompanying him everywhere, my two older siblings and I were left in the care of our many servants. Until I was almost five years old I actually thought my nanny, Chitra, was my mother. She did everything for me. I even crept into her room and slept in her bed when my parents were away.’
He raises his eyebrows in shocked disbelief. ‘Wow, you thought your nanny was your mother?’
‘Yes, I did. I loved her deeply.’
Shane stares at me with such shock and curiosity it is obvious that he must come from a very close-knit family where there is no doubt who the mother is.