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Something told him to lie, to be difficult.
To not give in.
“It’s not bad,” he said.
“Doable for three months?”
“Seems that way.”
She groaned. “Saraci, you don’t have to be combative all the time. You were the one who proposed staying hitched, offering yourself as a reward.”
“I am a reward. Me, my time, my expertise…these are all things that will be useful to you at some point.”
“The things I want to do to that ego of yours.” She pushed up off the counter. “I’m calling Miguel.”
“Wait.” He blocked her path. Finding any reason to touch her, he plucked a fake piece of lint from her hairline. “What if something breaks?”
“What happens when things break at the condo?”
“The HOA includes maintenance.” He held up both hands. “These are important. I can’t risk any harm to them.”
And he wasn’t handy.
At all.
In college, the IKEA furniture he’d purchased for his dorm almost sent him into counseling at the student services center.
She stepped forward, grabbed one hand, and kissed the knuckle of his middle finger. Instantly, his face flushed, and he took several steps backward until there was a sizable distance between them.
“Why’d you do that?”
“You said they were important.” She shrugged. “So, I gave one a little kiss.”
“Why would you…nobody kisses hands.”
“Me kissing your hand puts a hole in that theory.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe brush up on your literature, Dr. Saraci. Women have lips, and some even use those lips to kiss surgeons’ hands. Then those surgeons get weird and blush and run away.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You’re still blushing.”
“Tell Miguel we’ll take it, but I’m making payments for the ninety days.” He found the nearest AC vent and positioned himself so it blew directly onto his face. “We’ll start moving things in next week when you return.”
“You’ll be paying on the condo and this house?”
“Doctors don’t only make their salaries. There’s consulting, medical writing, teaching, hospital privileges…but I guess, to you, that’s pennies.”
She gave him a look she hadn’t used before, tilting her head to the side and lowering it as if peering over the rim of a pair of glasses. He almost heard the words, “Really, Saraci,” and barely managed to suppress a smile. It would be a weird reaction to have, considering they were currently mid-verbal scuffle, but the woman made his heart do all sorts of weird shit.
“My father’s the wealthy one,” she insisted.
“Turkish culture is extremely family-oriented, so forgive me if I can’t separate the two, especially seeing how you’re close with your father.”
“So is African culture, Black culture.”
“If you needed it, would he give it to you?”
She opened her mouth but then snapped it shut.
