The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(70)

Leo was wrong. I knew what I was getting into with Rohan. Sex. The wolfish smile he conferred on me when I met him in the lobby confirmed it. All good. Still, I was quiet on the ride over to the restaurant located in an industrial complex filled with single story warehouses, most boasting foodie signs. Our destination, SaSaZu, didn't look like much until we got inside.

The restaurant was enormous. A black-and-white patterned wall ran along the right side. The others were painted red, with black exposed pipes traversing the high ceiling. Various table groupings in browns, oranges, and greens filled the space. But the showstopper feature was the myriad of huge lanterns suspended from the ceiling that bathed the room in a warm, low light. Flanking the doors were a live DJ on one side and massive wall map on the other, with pins depicting all the cities that patrons visited from.

Our server explained the philosophy of the South-Asian fusion street food and how we should choose dishes from each of the five sections of the menu to be taken on a culinary journey. He didn't need to tell me twice.

The food was incredible. Rohan didn't ask me what was wrong, but he did make sure the conversation was light-hearted. I felt myself relax, any residual hurt from my talk with Leo disappearing in the enjoyment of the evening.

Ripping off a piece of naan, I dipped it in my lamb and eggplant curry. Some of the spicy sauce dripped on my thumb so I dragged the pad across my teeth, my tongue flicking out to catch the errant drop.

Rohan froze, the grilled shrimp in his chopsticks forgotten, his eyes on my mouth. He cleared his throat. "That curry reminds me of this street vendor that I kept going to in Delhi."

"When was that?"

"I was about fifteen? Before the band hit. Mom was mixing an album for this group that blended traditional instruments like tabla and sitar with electronica. I'd grown up sitting in on her studio sessions but this was the first time she ever asked my opinion about something. Really listened to what I had to say and then incorporated one of my suggestions."



       
         
       
        

His eyes lighting up as he recounted the story was the sexiest thing about him and trust me, there were a lot of options on the Mitra sex appeal drop down menu.

"Did Maya mix any of your albums?"

"No. She swore there wasn't enough money in the world. Since her teaching me to ride a bike ended in bloodshed, Mom said our level of head-butting would lead to flat-out murder in one session." He held out the last, tiny, tea-infused duck roll in his chopsticks for me to eat.

I leaned across the table, grasping his wrist to tug him closer. The muscles in his arms and chest tensed as he leaned in.

"Open up." His voice was a husky murmur. He placed the roll in my mouth and I obediently chewed.

"Good?" he asked.

"Incredible." I didn't dare shift my weight, worried the sweat trickling down the backs of my thighs would make me creak against the leather seat.

"More tea?" Our friendly server broke the spell.

"Please." I held out my ceramic mug.

Two sips of tea and one bathroom dash to splash water on my face later, I'd regained my composure enough to continue our conversation. "You have to tell me the bike story. Were you pushing her to let you ride it before you were ready?"

He ducked his head, the fringe of his sooty lashes fanned against his cheek. "Not exactly."

"Snowflake," I prompted. "What did you do?"

He lay down his chopsticks. "I told her I wasn't ready but she kept insisting that I was riding my bike just fine." When it was clear I wasn't going to let this drop, he huffed at me. "Okay, but laugh and die."

I crossed my heart.

"To prove my point that I couldn't ride, I rode my bike with expert precision into some very thorny bushes and then screamed bloody murder when I got all scratched up, yelling ‘I told you! I can't ride!'"

"My God. Your control issues started so young." I pressed my lips together but couldn't help the laughter escaping me.

"You promised."

I stuffed some noodles in my mouth. "Chewing," I mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Rohan pointed his chopstick at me, an evil twinkle in his eye. "So. Dead." Then he leaned back with an affectionate shake of his head.

Clearly Rohan and I were friends. Possibly better than friends. Friends plus. But why the pressure to quantify it beyond that? Funnily enough, something had shifted. Rohan had gone from being the most obtuse person about the two of us to the only other one to understand us. He did understand, right? I felt like the ugliness of the past couple days had blown things open and allowed us to settle in this happy easy place and hoped he did too.