Page 25 of My Turkish Fling
Janie turned around, meeting my eyes across the kitchen island. “I’m ordering some materials for replacing the trellis on the deck and fixing the rest of the fencing. Do you want to have a look?”
I crossed the floor to look over her shoulder, grateful for the invitation. She scrolled through her shopping cart a little too fast, so I leaned in, replacing her fingers on the touchpad with mine, scrolling again a little more slowly.
Focus on the screen, I told myself. Don’t sound like an idiot.
I was no renovation expert. I’d done a bit of work on my grandfather’s property, and some maintenance on my own apartment in Istanbul, but I didn’t know the lingo. Whatever she gave me, I’d use. So, technically, I didn’t need to finger hertouchpad. Which sounded about as dirty as everything else that ran through my mind as my gaze swept across the drooping neckline of her silky top, and I caught a glimpse of a lacy bra.
“You still have a lot of nails and screws, and this looks like enough timber. Is this the same thickness you had before? Maybe you want to upgrade to something sturdier, for the next storm.”
She sighed. “I wish I could, but the heavier stuff is so expensive. And I can’t afford to replace everything, so it has to match.”
My hand landed on her shoulder before I could assess the smartness of the move. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I can reinforce it with some bits and pieces you have in the shed.”
She shifted sideways to break contact. “I have a film crew coming in soon to do some test shots for a documentary I’m producing.”
I glanced across the open space at the empty corner of the living room. Of course. “What documentary?”
“It’s about the aftereffects of the floods.”
“Okay.” I circled the kitchen island and popped a piece of bread in the toaster. “I’ll stay out of the way. I still have some work to do outside. The last stretch of the fencing up on the hill.”
“That’s great, thank you!” She ran her fingers through a strand of hair, avoiding my eyes. “Also, I won’t be home this evening. I have a… date.”
A sharp jolt travelled through me, realigning my spine. “A date? With a man?”
She finally looked at me, eyes full of defiance. “Yes. With a man.”
I gave her a slow-motion nod, to buy time. “Uh-huh. I hope he’s… good.”
Well, that was a retarded sentence. I wasn’t this unskilled at English. But her words had wiped my mind blank.
“I’m sure he’s better than my ex-husband.”
Desperate to close the awkward distance between us, I went back to gather my lunch —a coffee, a piece of toast and a boiled egg, and joined her at the table. I gently moved Gru one chair over and chose a seat right next to her, earning a sideways look. “I don’t think you should settle for a slightly better man than your ex-husband. I read the article.” I nodded at the trash can, which had since been emptied. “I think you deserve much better.”
She blinked at me, her eyes wavering between emotions I couldn’t quite read. “How would you know? It’s one article.”
I took a deep breath, silently advising myself to not get involved. To not, under any circumstances, open my mouth and share my thoughts about this woman’s past relationships. But words tumbled out regardless, as if sucked out of me by the vacuum of awkward silence between us. “You’re right, it’s one article. And maybe it’s misleading. But he did give an interview and unless they misquoted him several times, I detected, based on those quotes, that he’s a pleasure-seeking, short-sighted individual who needs a lot of outside validation. Is that how you put it in English? A person who would struggle to appreciate what’s right in front of them. Their eyes would always be set on something new in the horizon, anything that can fill the void. Anyone to tell them they’re attractive and relevant.”
She stared at me, unblinking, until I had to look away. “I apologize, Janie. I think I overstepped.”
“No. You’re scarily accurate.” Her voice wobbled. “How do you do that? Based on one article where he’s gushing about his new love and his new baby? You don’t even know how our marriage ended.”
The article hadn’t covered the divorce in detail, yet I’d instinctively known this Shaun guy had been playing away for a long time. It was him. I could almost smell it through the cheap ink on that page.
“There were hints,” I said softly. “Everything he said was about the future, what he envisioned and how excited he was about it. Nothing about the present. What he has right now doesn’t excite him. The words he used, like ‘surprise’ and ‘fate’. Like he’s a mere token in a cosmic game of love. People who speak this way, they are trying to evade responsibility, to manufacture freedom for themselves… They don’t have a strong sense of right and wrong. It’s all relative, they say. They want to think they are helpless targets of the Cupid’s arrows.”
She dropped her chin to her chest, releasing a sad laugh. As her body language confirmed my words, my chest flared in anger. I wanted to hurt that guy. Badly.
I raised her chin with my fingertips, catching her eyes, making sure she was listening. “But I’m not basing this on one article. I also have solid, undeniable evidence of him being an absolute moron.”
“What evidence?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Come on. He gave up on you.”
Tears burst out of her eyes, and she slapped my hand away. “God dammit, Emir! Why are you doing this to me?”
I shifted backwards and turned back to my breakfast. Cem wasright. I should never talk to women. I’d tried to encourage her, to help her see her worth. But no. I’d made her cry.
