over. As a potential bride.”
Dhara began to understand. Many Indian-American men went back to their home villages to search for a bride of the appropriate caste and clan. It was a venerated cultural tradition, as old as time.
“The poor girl was maybe fifteen, not a day older.” Desh made a strange sound, somewhere between incredulity and frustration. “She didn’t speak a word of English. And she was trembling like a bird. I would have married that girl and brought her back here,” Desh said, “if what I wanted above all was a virgin bride.”
Dhara lifted her gaze and found Desh looking straight at her.
“I did not choose that Ajmer bride, Dhara.” His gaze traveled with slow intent from her hairline, across her cheek, and to her lips, where she could feel the heat warming her skin. “I chose you.”
that weekend
H e’s a predator, Kelly,” Marta said. “You have to be especially careful. You’re more vulnerable than most women.”
Kelly shared a glance with Dhara and Wendy, silently wondering if they, too, sensed the irony in the statement. Marta hadn’t wanted to talk about her situation all month. They were trying to honor her wishes. But Marta, with feigned disinterest, had just pulled a box out of her pharmacy bag.
It was a home pregnancy test.
“You don’t have a bullshit detector.” Marta unfolded the instructions with deliberate calm. “If you did, you would have known that Trey wanted nothing more from you last night than a hookup.”
Kelly flinched. Her heart still didn’t believe that. Cole had delivered the bad news earlier today. She hadn’t believed him. Even when Marta backed him up by saying she’d witnessed Cole throwing a punch at Trey in the cafeteria, Kelly had just figured Cole must have overreacted to some casual remark.
But on her lap lay the truth. Three pages printed from pickupartists.com, where TreyW300 spilled all the gritty details of his amorous adventures with an easy redhead, posted only hours after he rolled his warm body out of their bed.
“He’s my brother but he’s still an asshole, Kelly.” Wendy struggled with her anger. “When I see him again, I’m going to rip him a new one. But, God, I just wish you’d waited for us before leaving with him.”
Kelly plucked at the papers, grappling with the knowledge that she’d brought this upon herself. Last night as she’d nursed a rum and coke at the bar, cooling her heels until her friends came, she’d glanced up and glimpsed a dream. She knew who was sauntering toward her, though she’d missed the rugby game that afternoon. She’d seen photos of him in silver filigreed frames on the grand piano in Wendy’s home. The living, breathing version far overwhelmed the image in her fantasies. She kept blinking, not believing that tall, ruddy-cheeked Trey Wainwright, still in his grass-stained rugby shirt, was approaching her with interest in his whiskey-brown eyes.
He’d slipped his elbows on the bar and given her a look that could melt bones.
Beautiful redhead, tell me you’re free tonight.
“Well, I’ve got another rule,” Marta added grimly. “Don’t get involved with a guy until he gets the thumbs-up from your friends.”
Kelly knew Marta was right. Trey was a thousand miles out of her league. But last night a descendant of vice presidents and shipping magnates had swung his arm around her shoulders as he led her out into the spring night. Last night, Trey Wainwright had tugged her into his room in the Alumnae House and gently stripped off her clothing. He’d traced her cheek like she was something as delicate and precious as the china that filled the breakfront in the Wainwright parlor. He kissed her like he loved her, all the more ardently when she whispered that this was her first time.
And for one brief moment, Kelly forgot that she was the infamous Gloucester orphan, the two-day-old infant abandoned on the firehouse steps.
“Yeah, and I’ve got another rule.” Marta pulled a
Dhara began to understand. Many Indian-American men went back to their home villages to search for a bride of the appropriate caste and clan. It was a venerated cultural tradition, as old as time.
“The poor girl was maybe fifteen, not a day older.” Desh made a strange sound, somewhere between incredulity and frustration. “She didn’t speak a word of English. And she was trembling like a bird. I would have married that girl and brought her back here,” Desh said, “if what I wanted above all was a virgin bride.”
Dhara lifted her gaze and found Desh looking straight at her.
“I did not choose that Ajmer bride, Dhara.” His gaze traveled with slow intent from her hairline, across her cheek, and to her lips, where she could feel the heat warming her skin. “I chose you.”
that weekend
H e’s a predator, Kelly,” Marta said. “You have to be especially careful. You’re more vulnerable than most women.”
Kelly shared a glance with Dhara and Wendy, silently wondering if they, too, sensed the irony in the statement. Marta hadn’t wanted to talk about her situation all month. They were trying to honor her wishes. But Marta, with feigned disinterest, had just pulled a box out of her pharmacy bag.
It was a home pregnancy test.
“You don’t have a bullshit detector.” Marta unfolded the instructions with deliberate calm. “If you did, you would have known that Trey wanted nothing more from you last night than a hookup.”
Kelly flinched. Her heart still didn’t believe that. Cole had delivered the bad news earlier today. She hadn’t believed him. Even when Marta backed him up by saying she’d witnessed Cole throwing a punch at Trey in the cafeteria, Kelly had just figured Cole must have overreacted to some casual remark.
But on her lap lay the truth. Three pages printed from pickupartists.com, where TreyW300 spilled all the gritty details of his amorous adventures with an easy redhead, posted only hours after he rolled his warm body out of their bed.
“He’s my brother but he’s still an asshole, Kelly.” Wendy struggled with her anger. “When I see him again, I’m going to rip him a new one. But, God, I just wish you’d waited for us before leaving with him.”
Kelly plucked at the papers, grappling with the knowledge that she’d brought this upon herself. Last night as she’d nursed a rum and coke at the bar, cooling her heels until her friends came, she’d glanced up and glimpsed a dream. She knew who was sauntering toward her, though she’d missed the rugby game that afternoon. She’d seen photos of him in silver filigreed frames on the grand piano in Wendy’s home. The living, breathing version far overwhelmed the image in her fantasies. She kept blinking, not believing that tall, ruddy-cheeked Trey Wainwright, still in his grass-stained rugby shirt, was approaching her with interest in his whiskey-brown eyes.
He’d slipped his elbows on the bar and given her a look that could melt bones.
Beautiful redhead, tell me you’re free tonight.
“Well, I’ve got another rule,” Marta added grimly. “Don’t get involved with a guy until he gets the thumbs-up from your friends.”
Kelly knew Marta was right. Trey was a thousand miles out of her league. But last night a descendant of vice presidents and shipping magnates had swung his arm around her shoulders as he led her out into the spring night. Last night, Trey Wainwright had tugged her into his room in the Alumnae House and gently stripped off her clothing. He’d traced her cheek like she was something as delicate and precious as the china that filled the breakfront in the Wainwright parlor. He kissed her like he loved her, all the more ardently when she whispered that this was her first time.
And for one brief moment, Kelly forgot that she was the infamous Gloucester orphan, the two-day-old infant abandoned on the firehouse steps.
“Yeah, and I’ve got another rule.” Marta pulled a
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