One True Theory of Love (23 page)

Meg had been called
cute
and
perky
her entire life and thought the descriptions not only reduced her, but also completely lacked originality. Besides, Catherine had interrupted their wooing, so Meg narrowed her eyes and then did her best to ignore her.

“Anyway, my dad doesn’t golf, either,” she told Ahmed. “But if you ever want to teach Henry how to play, go for it.”

Ahmed, who’d said a pleasant hello to Catherine, brightened at the idea. “I’ll see if he’s interested. Thanks.”

“Calm and contemplative are two traits I’d love for him to work on,” Meg said.

Ahmed grinned. “I can see where that might be beneficial.”

He kissed her cheek, turned and headed onto the field, blowing his whistle to round up the boys. Meg sighed happily and for the remainder of practice tried to imagine how things would play out between them in bed. She’d bet there would be a lot of laughing. The first time, though, would have to be fast—
wham, bam
—because she had a lot to get out of her system—eight weeks’ worth of built-up lust. She wasn’t a prude and didn’t quite understand how they’d been together this long with so little sexual satisfaction to show for it.

In the middle of Meg’s quite pleasant daydreaming, Catherine sidled up. “Bradley has just
not
stopped talking about Henry,” she said. “He talks about him nonstop! We really should arrange that playdate for the boys.”

“We should.” Meg smiled weakly, thinking,
We shouldn’t.
She had enough stressors in her life at the moment without adding Catherine to the mix.

“Today’s great for us,” Catherine said. “How about after soccer? Henry could come home with us for dinner.”

“On a school night?”

“This week?” Catherine waved off Meg’s question. “Please. Teachers never really teach anything right before vacation.”

“Um, yes, they do. You do know that I’m a teacher, don’t you?” Meg was about to refuse on principle after the way Catherine had just insulted her profession, but then Ahmed ran by and flashed her that sexy smile of his and the contour of his thigh muscles was so very ripe for further exploration, and . . . “Having said that, I think Henry would love to spend some time with Bradley,” she said. “I’ll check with him after practice.”

“Great!” Catherine beamed. “That would give you and the coach some much-appreciated time alone, I’m sure.” She gave a sexually meaningful look in Ahmed’s direction. “I know what
I’d
do if I got that man alone for any length of time.”

Hey, Catherine, did you hear the one about thou shalt not covet thy fellow soccer mom’s boyfriend?
This woman was
seriously
inappropriate. Meg couldn’t stand her, actually.

“Do you keep any guns in the house?” she asked out of spite.

“Of course not!” Catherine recoiled at the suggestion.

“Any rottweilers for pets?”

“Goodness, no!”

“Let your kids play Grand Theft Auto?”

“No, of course—”

“Watch R-rated movies? Associate with convicted felons? Suspected child molesters? Any no-good uncles wandering around in their boxer shorts?”

At that, Catherine narrowed her eyes, and Meg realized she’d gone too far. “Kidding,” she said meekly.
Just wanted to get your mind off my boyfriend’s sex life.

At the end of soccer practice, Meg checked with Henry, who very much wanted to go to Bradley’s, and then approached Ahmed. “Guess what. Henry’s going to Bradley’s house for dinner. He’ll be there for several hours.”

Ahmed’s eyes sparked. “Whatever shall we do?”

Meg beamed X-rated thoughts in his direction and struck a blatantly transparent breast-swelling pose. “I have no idea.”

Laughing at her, Ahmed glanced at his watch. “I do,” he said. “Be at my house in an hour.”

F
orty minutes later, a freshly showered Meg stood naked in front of her closet with a glass of wine in her hand and considered her options. There weren’t many, unfortunately. She was a single mom and a kindergarten teacher, not a seductress, and she’d already worn her sole little black dress on her first date with Ahmed.

Did she even have a decent-enough matching bra and panties? She had enough black underwear to outfit a widow’s convention, but none of it was lacy or particularly lust-provoking, and while she didn’t think Ahmed would mind, it struck her as pathetic that she had nothing worthy of true seduction. She suspected that each and every one of Jonathan’s conquests while he’d been married to her had worn something other than all-cotton, not-even-push-up paraphernalia.

Meg sighed, and then it came to her. She’d go commando. It was most efficient, always a turn-on and perfectly solved the nothing-to-wear problem. As for outer garments, her lady-in-red dress with the built-in shelf bra would do just fine.

When Ahmed opened his front door, Meg almost lost her breath at the sight of him. He had on black jeans and wore a tucked-in rust-colored silky shirt, sleeves rolled up to three-quarters’ length. Glancing at his forearms, Meg realized what it was about them that so turned her on. It was, first, the light tan color of his skin, a shade she’d envied her entire pale-skinned life. More than that, it was how, even at rest, the tendons on his forearms flexed, hinting that his entire body would be similarly muscled and efficient, with no wasteful flesh, only solid muscle and bone to press against.
Please let this happen tonight,
she thought.
Let me see if my forearm theory holds true.

But as she stepped in and slipped off her sweater, Meg immediately noted the lack of romantic setup. Nothing looked any different than usual. The lights were bright, not a candle in sight. Ahmed even had a
TIME
magazine lying opened to an article about the bird flu—what kind of foreplay was this?

Meg scratched her head as she moved to take a seat on the couch. She made sure the hem of her dress, under which she wore nothing, was pulled down as far as possible. Two could play at this lack-of-foreplay game.

Ahmed sat two cushions over and casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch. “So, what’s new?”

Meg was confused by his lackadaisical attitude—she would have thought him the romantic type (he hadn’t even put on any blues music!)—until it occurred to her that maybe he’d somehow found out about Jonathan’s phone call and was about to bust her for not telling him. “Nothing,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation.” He said it lightly, but Meg sensed something more was going on.

“Are you mad at me about something?” Her heart pounded fearfully.

“I have yet to get mad at you,” he said. “In fact, I can’t imagine ever getting mad at you.”

“Oh, come on,” Meg said. “What if I stole money from you?”

He laughed. “I’d assume you needed it.”

“What if I borrowed your nice Mercedes and wrecked it?”

He laughed again. “I’d assume it was an accident, and I’d be far more concerned about you than the car.”

“You’re so sweet,” Meg said. “What if I lied to you?” She kept her voice light, but Ahmed’s eyes lost their laughter.

“Lying would be bad,” he conceded. “I’ve dated women who’ve lied, and it’s pretty much a deal breaker for me.”

Meg’s mood deflated instantly. Ahmed peered at her and saw how her swallow came hard. “Is there something you should tell me, Meg?”

She thought of her father’s advice not to tell him about Jonathan’s call.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I have something I don’t want to tell you, but it’s something I don’t want to
not
tell you, either, if that makes any sense.”

Looking pained, he exhaled. “You should probably tell me.”

“My ex-husband called me.” She blurted it out and then squeezed her eyes shut. Ahmed waited to speak until she opened them.

“And?” he prompted.

“And nothing.” Meg’s heart pounded as if she were lying.
But she wasn’t!
“He’s coming to town and wants to get together, but I told him no. I’ve got absolutely no interest in seeing him.”

“Okay, then,” Ahmed said smoothly. There was just the slightest bit of edge in his jaw. “Is that all? Was there anything else?”

Wasn’t that bad enough?

“That’s all,” Meg said. “Are you mad?”

“I don’t see anything to be mad about, Meg,” he said. “First off, honesty’s good. It means you trust me. Second, he called you, not the other way around. And third, you don’t want to see him. That’s all good, as far as I’m concerned.”

There was a tiny hint of unhappiness in his eyes, just enough to prove he was human and just enough to make Meg decide not to mention it had actually been Henry, not Jonathan, who’d initiated the contact.

He studied her intently. “Why does he want to see you?”

“I’ve got no idea.” Meg’s heart raced. “I don’t even want to know, because it doesn’t matter. I’m with you. These past months with you have been magical,” she said. “My whole world’s lighter and brighter and sparklier. I’ve had this new confidence ever since you came into our lives. I’ve stopped being so protective of my heart—I’m just putting it out there in a way I haven’t in a long, long time. But that leaves me exposed. Does that make sense? I’m always waiting for something bad to happen to cancel out my happiness, as if I’m not entitled to it.”

Ahmed took her hand. “I know that feeling, first from when my mom died and then from when I was sent away.”

“So are we okay?” she asked.

“We’re okay.” But his eyes conveyed that maybe he wasn’t, and his smile, meant to assure her, was heartbreakingly sad.

“Hey.” Meg scooted over to get close to him and softly stroked his cheek. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I love you, Meg,” he said. “I can’t help but worry.”

Meg’s heart surged. “You love me?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“I can tell,” she said. “It comes through in everything you do.”

I wish I’d been your first American teacher. I would have told you how smart you were. I wish I’d been your father. I would have told you how brave you were. I wish I’d been your mother. I would have told you how much you were loved. Whatever you missed in your life
—
whatever you needed and didn’t get—I wish I could have given it to you.

 

 

 

 

“I thought we were going to have sex tonight,” Meg said with a pout.

“Oh, we are,” Ahmed said.

“Well?” Meg looked around the romantically lackluster room. “Our first time together is kind of a big deal. I don’t need a candlelit dinner but . . . I don’t know . . . something?”

“I would’ve liked to hire a private jet and flown us to Venice and wined and dined you and taken you on one of those gondola rides. . . .” He shrugged. “But there wasn’t enough time to plan it.”

“A single orchid would have been lovely.” Meg picked up his
TIME
magazine and waved it as evidence. “I know the bird flu’s a fascinating topic, but if I may be so bold, I’d like to think that having sex with me might prove fascinating for you, too. Worthy of some preliminary effort, anyway.”

“Oh, Meg. You poor girl.” He made a sympathetic face. “You’re not asking for much, are you? A rose-petal trail to the bedroom. A fire in the fireplace. Just a little romance, right? I’m sorry. What a lousy boyfriend I’ve turned out to be.”