Page 13 of My Turkish Fling
“Turkish ones?” My voice rose in excitement.
“Tamam.I’ll buy some ingredients. Do you want to wait here?” Emir opened the car door, nodding at the entrance.
I froze, my hand on the seatbelt fastener. I had no reason to follow him, yet I wanted to. An emotionally unavailable, grumpyforeigner who possibly found me repulsive? I’d developed some questionable catnip.
“I’ll pick up something for breakfast,” I finally decided, releasing my seatbelt.
“I thought you didn’t need anything?”
I smiled sweetly. “No, but I want something.”
He shrugged and fell into step with me, entering the cool atmosphere of the store. Picking up a basket, he looked up something on his phone and headed to the fresh produce aisle. I hung back, watching him examine tomatoes, the frown on his face deepening.
“I grow tomatoes,” I informed him, stepping a bit closer. “Should use them before buying more.” Mine existed as a tangled heap I hadn’t managed to support with proper stakes, but they were sweet and ripe. Probably overripe.
He looked up from the pale piece of fruit. “Okay. Good. I’ll get some eggs and spices.”
“I have chickens,” I reminded him, feeling my face warming.
Was I trying to impress him with my hobby farm? Only half of my chooks produced any eggs, and half of those they hid around the coop so well I’d probably never find them—and didn’t even try too hard now that I was mostly a one-person household.
“Do you grow spices? Paprika? Chili pepper?”
“No. But I do have a pretty good selection at home, which you’re welcome to use.”
He took a deep breath, his expression wary. “Okay. What can I contribute?”
I could tell that he had to. If I dwarfed his every attempt, this man would overheat and burn a circuit board.
“Bread,” I said decisively, taking his arm and leading him to the bakery aisle.
Tingly warmth shot through me, and I questioned my own bravery. But I was also determined to establish a level of familiarity. Touching was my love language, and I couldn’t let his odd, standoffish attitude take that away from me. If he pulled away, I’d step back. But Emir let me keep my fingers on his forearm.
The scent of fresh bread filled my nostrils and his muscles twitched under the shirt fabric, sending a tingle up my arm. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled, hoping that nobody I knew happened to be around. I didn’t want to explain my relationship to this man. I only wanted to keep touching him.
We stood by the baguettes and loaves for a moment before I finally let go of him, scanning our surroundings. Only a group of kids milled about the iced doughnuts.
“I don’t have fresh bread and don’t feel like baking,” I said. “You choose whatever you think will work with… whatever you’re cooking.”
Emir reached for some flat bread. “So, you’ve been to Turkey?”
“Yes! I travelled around Europe when I worked in London for a while. I’ve only been to Antalya, which is obviously very touristy, but I had a Turkish colleague who taught me a few things, what to try in restaurants and so on.”
He looked at me for a long moment, head tilted. “How did you find it?”
I felt my cheeks warming. “I loved it. The food. The language. Everything. But I was younger, and single. I got a lot of attention. People were so friendly. Men…” I paused, looking for the right word.
Emir held up his hand. “You don’t have to say it. Turkish men can be very forward. Persistent.” Pain registered behind his eyes, as if he was apologizing for something he couldn’t change about his culture, or himself.
“It’s okay.” I smiled, remembering the Turkish man who’d joined my dinner table, harassing the waiters to refill my tea glass. “It was mostly very sweet.”
“Sweet?” His eyes narrowed.
“For sure! Everyone was looking after me, asking questions, feeding me… One guy asked me to marry him after a five-minute conversation.” I’d meant it as a quick joke, even if it was true, but Emir’s dark gaze sucked the fun out of my words. A hot, burgeoning blush crept up my cheeks, which at my age felt more like an alarming medical event than anything cute. “I mean, at least it feels that way now,” I rambled on. “Fond memories. I guess when you go years without it, you realize how special that attention is.” I’d entered a full body blush, my words coming out fast and frantic.
Something about his open gaze had loosened my tongue to the point that I felt slightly drunk. There was nothing flirty or playful about Emir. He was 6 feet and five inches of breathtaking intensity, like standing in front of an arcangel who towered over me, staring straight into my soul, cataloguing everything inside me. There was nowhere to hide.
“If you were harassed, say so. I can take it.”
