Unwanted Girl. MK Schiller

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СКАЧАТЬ but he could damn well make her a real cup of coffee.

      He brewed hot water and grinded fresh beans like a professional barista, explaining each step to her.

      “What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the glass mug with a silver lid.

      “A French press. I usually use my coffeemaker, so I’m giving it to you. I wanted to show you how to make it.”

      “Why?”

      “Because instant coffee sucks.”

      The skeptical look on her face melted as the rich aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the room. “I don’t have a coffee grinder.”

      He opened a top cupboard and took out a silver package. He tossed it to her. “That’s already ground.” He took out the three spice jars in the cabinet. “Do you like chocolate, cinnamon…nutmeg?”

      “Isn’t it cream and sugar?”

      “Not the way I do it.”

      “You choose. I should be angry with you for throwing away my coffee.”

      “Try this, and then tell me how angry you are,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. Their fingers touched briefly, making the exchange more awkward.

      She blew before taking a sip. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her full lips. The reaction so subtly demure and downright sexy, it caused Nick’s dick to twitch. She opened her mouth, but paused and took another sip as if trying to verify her appreciation.

      “Mmmm,” she whispered.

      “Yep.”

      “Touché, Nick Dorsey,” she said, clinking her mug against his. The best laughter came from the gut and worked its way up. And that was the exact laugh that came from him. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.

      Seated again at the dining table, half-empty mugs later, Nick waited patiently for her to start. “Shyla, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I figured I could give you some advice and make up for being an ass.”

      “The coffee made up for it. It’s not that. I haven’t told anyone.”

      “Every single book starts the same way.”

      “What way is that?”

      “With an idea. Sometimes you can have a great idea and a piece of crap book or vice versa. I promise, even if you don’t write it, you will feel better for talking it out.”

      “I’m not sure where to start.”

      “Chapter one unless there is a prologue.”

      “No prologue. Here it goes.” She took a deep breath and pulled her legs up, encircling her arms around them. “Once upon a time, a very long time ago in a land very far away, there lived a village woman.”

      “What the hell are you doing?” Nick interrupted.

      “Telling you the story.”

      “Are you writing a fairy tale?”

      “No.”

      “Is that how you would start it?”

      “Um…yes.”

      “Okay, let’s try something else. Tell me the story like you’re talking to a friend, not as if you’re reading it out loud.”

      “I am talking to a friend.”

      “Yes, you are.”

      Nick moved his chair closer to hers. There was still a distance between them, but he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent. It was subtle like her, but even more pleasant than the coffee aroma.

      She cleared her throat and began again. He jotted notes while she spoke. Soon though, he put down the pad and propped his head in his hands, listening to her lyrical voice. He wasn’t sure if it was the allure of her voice or the interesting story that held his interest—probably both.

      “I think you have something,” he said when she was done.

      “I don’t. It’s just an idea.”

      “Why don’t you try writing it?”

      “I’m not a writer. It comes off bland and emotionless on the paper. I want to do it justice.” She yawned again. “I should go. It’s late.”

      He walked her down, put her in a cab, paid the driver, and secured her agreement to come back the following night. He tried to go to bed himself, but sleep would not come. He either tossed and turned or studied the skylight over his bed. The window provided a framed visual of stars lighting the universe. He traced the scar across his abdomen. Finally, he closed his eyes, only to snap them open a few seconds later. The snippet of the tale she’d told replayed like a record set on repeat. She had the right words, but maybe not the adjectives and connectors to drive it home. Finally, at one in the morning, he flipped off the covers and staggered to the writing desk.

      Nick cracked his knuckles as he regarded his once friend and now foe—the blinking cursor. But this time, a new energy coursed through him. Before he could give the idea much contemplation, he began typing.

      Her story flowed through his fingers as they tapped and whirled on the keyboard in a frantic pace. The connection between his hands and brain lacked any hesitation. The words came effortlessly as they once did. She was the composer, he was the conductor, and the story was the music. It was a rough draft for sure, but he’d filled in the blank spaces and colored her outline. He saved it under his drafts with the working title Asha’s story by Shyla Metha.

      He swallowed, wondering what her reaction would be. Would she appreciate his help? Nick Dorsey had many critics. Perhaps they even outnumbered his admirers. His work experienced both hail and ridicule in some of the most prestigious media outlets by professional editors, passionate readers, and even celebrities, but he’d never been as nervous about a review as right then.

      Chapter 6

      Asha’s story

      Nalini Mistry hadn’t planned the long hike to the neighboring village to purchase vegetables, but she’d woken with one simple goal—to make her husband happy. The calluses on her feet throbbed with the extra steps she took, but it was worth it, because the farmer would have the cauliflower she needed to make Deval’s favorite dish.

      Their lives had taken on a dark depression since their only child, Dipesh, died the year before at the tender age of twenty. The image of her sweet boy caused a tear to slide down her weathered face. This would have been the year of the bride search. Now, she would never welcome a daughter-in-law into their home. Instead, Depal and she lived a lonely life, mourning their son and cursing the malaria for taking him away.

      As if the melancholy wasn’t enough, the burdens of heavy debt created further misery. They had called a doctor when Dipesh fell ill, draining their modest savings. Deval had purchased a new truck in preparation for his son taking over his route. In every village family, there was a passing of the torch where the sons go from beloved child to СКАЧАТЬ