The Dimple Strikes Back Read Online Free

the official sexiest arrangement of shirtsleeves, the next being on your floor. “Precisely why am I giving thanks?”
    He huffed and scooted closer to me. His hand strayed to my knee under the tablecloth. He inched the black lace of my skirt high enough for me to be glad the tablecloth was long. “I’m certain your auditions for the role of art thief in your movie were successful because of my diligent tutelage.”
    I removed his hand and dropped it onto his own crotch.
    Oh, indeed—the story of how we met is the stuff of fairy tales. He’d used me to steal a Picasso that had hung in my then-boss’ office when I was a secretary at the Steak on a Stick corporation. Sure, he’d almost got me killed eight different ways, but I’d learned many valuable skills, such as how to deal with two different international art theft organisations, how to lie to the po-po and get away with it and why running in bunny slippers is not ideal.
    See? Most fairy tales are bizarre and laced with violence.
    I took a bite of palak paneer instead of answering. He didn’t seem to require one, but took a sip of beer while his dimple congratulated itself without my help. “Perhaps I got the part because of how talented I am.”
    “Okay, if that’s what we’re gonna call it.” He laughed and squeezed my knee. Somehow this entire exchange burrowed under my pride bone. Resentment pooled in my stomach. I put my fork down, and his arm snaked around my waist. “I’m kidding, Samantha. I’m sure you’re going to be wonderful—you always are. Hey.” He turned my chin so that I lost my step in his eyes, deep brown in the flicker of candles. “What’s wrong?”
    “How long are you here?”
    All his limbs retreated, and he deflated before answering. “I’m thinking a couple of weeks. If that’s okay.”
    “Of course it’s okay,” I said in a sugary voice that fooled no one. “When have I ever told you to go away? You do that by yourself.”
    A thorny silence fell over the table. The waiter came and went with fresh water.
    He threw his napkin on the table and said, “Let’s have a relationship talk. No, we’re going to. You obviously want one. Listen—” He shifted towards me, one knee up on the seat and pressing into my thigh. “I love you. I’m asking you to trust me when I say I’m trying to make things work with you.”
    Was being a couple this freaking hard for other people? It didn’t help that almost every moment we spent together, barring perhaps this one, was wonderful and fun and full of groping. But those moments were not coming any more frequently, even after a year. “So we can spend a month together sometimes instead of a week?”
    “God dammit.” He distanced himself. He stared at his sweating beer bottle, took a long pull and sighed. “I’m trying, Samantha. Are we really back in the place where you doubt everything I say? When was the last time I lied to you?”
    I thought to myself I don’t know , but had enough sense to understand that that sentiment wouldn’t play well to this audience. A tear slipped down my cheek, causing distress-grunts to overflow from my date like an unattended bath. I swiped at my face and said, “I’m just tired. I’m sorry. I want to be in the same zip code as you are.”
    “Do you love me?”
    I jerked my head up. His voice had sounded so sad and needy, but his countenance was a rumbling thundercloud, ready to burst. I did love him. I had, even when I called it ‘lorvst’, which is lust plus bonus emotions you aren’t ready to admit to yet.
    He hadn’t thought much of ‘lorvst’.
    “I…” I squeezed my eyelids shut—I never could cogitate and see that catastrophic face at the same time. Objectively, he’s a nice-looking, but not gorgeous guy. I, however, found even his pores to radiate beauty. With a stalwart breath, I braved his hazel eyes again. “I do love you, Sam. But I’m afraid you’re going to smash my heart sooner or later.”
    He sagged back