Sparrow's Story - A Girl Defiant

Chapter 14

Damon and Dad wait by the elevator. Dad holds the door for her. “You look nice.” 

It’s not the dress, but her excitement that Dad is picking up on, she realizes. She whips out her sunglasses. “I just wear what they tell me to wear,” she says, covering her eyes. 

Dad backs off, and Damon leaves her alone. Sparrow slows her breathing on the way down, but she can’t slow her heartbeat. 

The dining room is dark wood and tall red banquettes. She scans the room, barely moving her head, but the furniture blocks her view.  

The breakfast crowd is quiet. Men sit alone or in twos, their tablets propped up in front of them, scrolling through the news. There’s one other girl, and she is hugely pregnant. 

That guy she’s with is old enough to be her father, but I doubt that’s the story.

Sparrow shields herself with her shades and a screw you expression as the host threads her through the dining room. She glances at every table, but doesn’t see Imran. 

Something happened. Things aren’t going as planned. 

Men look up and their coffee cups stall in front of their mouths. They’ re rich and well-dressed, but they strip her with their eyes. Damon hugs Sparrow’s side, and shoots  her a look. If one of those guys says even a word to her, Damon will stop him. 

Sparrow lets Damon think it’s the unwanted attention that’s making her tense. But really, it’s seeing the unexpected obstacles that are derailing her plan-- the busy room and bad lines of sight, and the impossibility of connecting with Imran in front of Dad and Damon.

The host escorts the three of them to the back where the other tables are empty except for two businessmen sitting together. He leads them to a table by the one that’s occupied, and pulls out a chair facing the men. “Miss.”

Sparrow hesitates, because she can’t see the rest of the room from here, so how will she see Imran if he does appear. But the host is almost insistent the way he grips the chair and again says, “Miss.”

 She glances at the other table as she takes her seat, and realizes that the dark-eyed young man in the British cut suit and designer glasses is Imran. Her pulse quickens as his eyes meet hers, but a second later he drops his gaze to his tablet. 

Imran is seated behind Dad and Damon, and if she’s careful, they can look at each other without alerting her father or bodyguard.  She folds her sunglasses and slides them into her purse. 

 The waiter brings coffee, and asks if she would like tea. “The featured tea this morning is chai.”

She smiles to the waiter, but the smile is meant for Imran. “Yes, I will have the chai.”

“Would you like to order off the menu or try our buffet?”

Imran glances over his shoulder at the buffet.  

“The buffet.” This is her chance. Dad hates buffets. He wants his eggs freshly prepared and piping hot. Damon goes to stand up. 

“Please,” she says. “You think someone’s going to ambush me in the dining room of the Chatwal?”

Damon shifts in his chair so he can watch her. 

She glides towards the buffet, ignoring the stares, her eyes focused on a spot above the chafing dishes. Let the men look all they want. They can’t touch her.

At the buffet, she plucks strawberries with silver tongs from the iced bowl, and feels a presence to her left. She smells scent, masculine, but citrusy, spicy. 

“The strawberries look delicious.”

Sparrow flicks her eyes to the side. Imran stands a mere arm’s length away, and their eyes connect.  “Sparrow,” he whispers. 

She has never heard her name said with longing.

She drops the tongs, and they clatter onto the floor. She feels every head in the room turn towards them.

Imran bends down for the tongs as if he dropped them, and a waiter scurries to his side. “Let me get that, sir.”

Blood rushes to Sparrow’s cheeks, but she follows Imran’s lead, and flips open a chafing dish like she had nothing to do with the dropped utensil. 

Only a few inches separate them. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers. 

“Did you doubt me when I said I would come?”

“No. Not at all.” She moves slowly down the buffet. 

“I am in room 819.”

Her heart revs. “We’re on the same floor.” 

“I made sure of it. When is your appointment at Sotheby’s?”

“Nine.”

“Mine is at one.”

“Your appointment?”

“Bidders must be pre-qualified for the house to issue an invitation. Christie’s refused to meet me.” 

Her heart muscles squeeze. “But what if Sotheby’s--”

“Do not worry. Money talks. In every language.”

She is starving after her workout, and she scoops scrambled eggs and smoked salmon onto her plate. She almost passes on the croissants, but Imran taps her foot. “Shall we eat them together? Share the moment?”

We’ll sit apart, but we will share.

She puts one on her plate. “Enjoy your croissant,” Imran says, and he heads to the omelet table. Their interlude is over. Sparrow floats to her table.

When Imran finally sits across from her, he lifts a strawberry to his lips. 

She spears one on her fork. He bites into his, and she nibbles at hers.

The berries are forbidden kisses and she savors them, tasting, chewing, barely glancing at Imran, but knowing they are both experiencing the sweetness.

The waiter brings a tiny bowl of jam. “Homemade peach preserves for your croissant, mademoiselle.” He holds her eyes for a moment so she knows Imran has sent them. 

“Thank you.”

The jam glistens like liquid gold. The croissant flakes as she tears it apart. Imran brushes a crumb from his lips, and she bites into the pastry. It is peach and butter, light as air. She licks jam from the corners of her mouth. Crumbs stick to her lips, and she frees them with her tongue. 

Her heart beats as if they are alone together. And tonight they will be. If all goes well, she will go to his room at midnight. 

The chai perfume makes her almost giddy. She has defied her father. He thinks he is running the show, but she and Imran will not allow him to prevail. 

“You about done?” Dad says. 

Imran and his colleague get up from the table. “Almost,” she says. She licks her finger, and picks flakes of pastry off her plate and lets them melt on her tongue.