Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

‘
That
I can well imagine,’ he replies, adding depth to his smile and a squirmy feeling to my insides.

At that point, the music changes, filling the room. Recognizing the song, my mouth returns to a gaping sort of panic as I anticipate the opening line—something about pants being around feet and not, I sense, to put on clean ones.

Suggestive lyrics swirl around us as Kai tilts his head, fixing me with a considering sort of look. His eyes shine almost gold in the light, the eyes of a cat basking in the sun and enjoying itself just a little too much.

Heat unexpectedly crawls its way from the pit of my gut, torching every inch of my skin. I force myself away from the effects of his gaze, turning as his hand catches mine.

‘The pleasure was all mine.’ With a last cryptic smile, he turns to leave, dark coloured slacks hugging his narrow hips and coating his fine behind.

I release a quiet breath, low and long, feeling a bit wobbly. Not
quite
done with humiliating myself, I’m fanning my face with a hand—possibly a reaction to the heat from the now open door, or his GQ worthy butt—when he turns, catching me mid-flap in the act. Hand wrapped around the door handle, his smile turns to laughter.

‘I’ll close it, shall I? It is a little hot in here.’

Seriously, I wouldn’t know subtle if it was stamped on my head.

I’m done for the day, quite literally, as I pack away my laptop, my heart beating just a little too fast. I wonder if he’s a teacher from the boy’s campus; it’s plausible, though he must be a very well paid one judging by the cut of his clothes. Definitely more boardroom than the classroom, I love a man in French cuffed shirts. I suppose he could be their principal though he looks a bit on the young side, and surely a principal wouldn’t flirt with staff?
Yeah, like that’s never happened.
Maybe he’s a parent here for a teacher conference.
Eww
, I hope not. There’s nothing worse than a pervy dad.

Strange, though it is after hours, so there are no cultural issues to address; a lone man wandering around the campus
should
be okay. Men arriving at Al Mishael during school hours are announced over the P.A. system before they’re allowed into the building, giving staff practicing the dress code of hijab the opportunity to cover. I’ve learnt a lot this week, things I’d never considered before. Like how some Muslim women cover, in varying degrees, their hair and their bodies when outside the home. At first it seemed odd but I suppose early Christian women did it, and to a certain extent, nuns still do.

Still, the first time “men on campus” was announced over the air, I had to swallow the bubbling urge to shout
woot!
The announcement was so surreal, it seemed like a valid response. Somehow, I don’t think my colleagues would’ve seen the funny side.

I’m learning fast, but this was the first real conversation I’ve had with a man since arriving in Dubai, if I discount the frequently
odd conversations I’ve had during my daily taxi rides. This morning’s was a classic, culminating in me very firmly informing the driver—Ronald, let’s call him, in honour of his bright orange hair—that
my very good self
was indeed
having a boyfriend
and not interested in attending
the parties and the discos
on his arm.

I’ve never been into gingers, especially not the badly hennaed ones.

But maybe I’m reading way too much into my conversation with this gorgeous man. Had I imagined the stranger’s innuendo? I certainly enjoyed it, despite my best attempts, but I think I read the nuances just fine. Maybe he’s like that with all the girls. But all the girls in a conservative school?

Ridiculous. I’m behaving like a schoolgirl myself, having been dazzled by a man so hot he’d melt the undies right off any girl’s butt.

Enough!
I need to remember why I’ve taken this job, maybe even re-read a few chapters of that awful self-help book. Look for the chapter on getting your head and cooch to achieve some kind of simpatico. I’d best reacquaint myself.

Grabbing my bag, I head to the exit.

There was definitely something about him, though, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Oh, but I think you’d like to,
sings a small voice in my head.

Chapter Three

‘I know a guy who lives in this building.’

Niamh pushes oversized sunglasses onto her head as we step into the foyer, resplendent with cream tiles and gold accents, but more importantly, fabulously cool after the oppressive heat outside.

‘Lives with his roommate in a two bedder.’ Her toes are dangerously close to my unruly trolley-case as she holds the door open, moving adroitly to one side.

‘Is he a teacher?’ I ask, pocketing my own sunnies.

‘Nah, building surveyor or something like that. Quite fit, mind, and I saw him first.’ As we enter the elevator, she brings out her phone, tapping the screen.

‘Niamh, pay attention.’ I say this like I’m talking to a grade two kid. ‘I’m off men and I really can’t be arsed to keep repeating myself. Not interested, not looking and not at my best, see?’ I hold an index finger in the direction of my hair, the humidity giving it twice its usual volume, and not in a good way. It’s an affliction I avoid acknowledging in the elevators mirrored walls.

‘Erm, hello? Babetown,’ Niamh replies, grabbing the waistband of my Capri pants. ‘Population: You.’

An apartment is part of my employment package, and I’ve been housed in a building a few blocks from a mall so large it even has a ski slope inside. Skiing and shopping in the desert does seem just a little bit mad, but Niamh says the weather is so extreme most of the year that outdoor pursuits are almost impossible. I suppose it makes sense that there are alternatives, but snow in the desert is a bit over the top. Thankfully, I’m not the outdoorsy type, and my building has both a pool and a gym for its residents’ use. I don’t suppose I’ll be skiing anytime soon, but I’ve promised myself I’ll visit the gym. Who knows, maybe I’ll even step inside. In aiming for a whole new me, Kate the gym bunny still seems a step too far.

‘Who vommed porridge?’ Niamh places her bag on the hall table as she enters the very neutral room.

‘It’s . . .’ I struggle for the appropriate adjective as I try to pull the key from the lock.

‘Padded cell.’ She sniffs, unimpressed. ‘Porridge walls, floors and furniture. Complimented by eau d’ turpentine. Open a window, would you?’

I eye the sofa which is remarkably like the one I’d left in Australia. ‘The lady in admin said they were renovating, that’s why I couldn’t move in last week.
Oof,
it’s stuck.’

‘Get yourself some bright throw cushions,’ Niamh says, walking around the room. ‘Introduce a bit of colour. Bring a bloke back here and he’ll think you’ve brought him to the psychiatric ward.’

Again with the man thing. As if. ‘It’s fine.’ More than fine. ‘Just a bit impersonal, that’s all.’ I wheel in my solitary case, placing my handbag on the kitchen worktop, which happens to be very close to the front door.

‘At least it’s all new,’ she says, lifting a throw pillow from the sofa, plumping it up and distractedly placing it back.

‘Are they all like this, do you think?’ It is small and very plain. And a bit like a dentist’s waiting area. Not that I’m complaining, just curious. ‘What about your friend, the one who lives here?’

‘Remember that old movie with Tom Hanks where he’s a little boy trapped in a grownup’s body?’

‘Big?’

‘Is he ever!’ And now I know more than I need to. ‘I dunno,’ she says with a sigh, ‘I’ve only been inside his place once and it was far too messy to tell.’ Her gaze travels the room. ‘We’ll go to Ikea or something at the weekend, and I’ll come and pick you up for a bit of grocery shopping tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Thanks. I saw a mini-market on the corner on the way in, that’ll do for now.’

‘Grand. I’ve gotta love and leave ‘ya, babes. I’m off to have my brows threaded, and I’ve a facial booked later. The traffic’s bound to be mad.’

I push the hair back off my forehead, eyebrows comically high. ‘Why do your brows need sewing back on?’

Unimpressed, she picks up her purse. ‘A social life, Kate, requires effort and grooming, especially out here. Now, haul arse and make a bit of effort yourself. Go catch some rays by the pool. Any paler and you’d be on the slab.’

‘Pale says the ‘ranga from Dublin. That’s rich.’

‘I’m
auburn
, not feckin’ orange. I do not in any way resemble an orang-utan. And I’m supposed to be pale. Or freckly, and I know which I prefer. You, on the other hand.’ She eyes me disparagingly. ‘Aren’t you Aussies meant to be all bronzed and gorgeous after living on the beach?’

‘You know I hate the sand,’ I mutter.

‘Then you moved to the wrong place, didn’t you? Bathers. Pool.’ She makes a shooing motion with her fingers. ‘And by the way, your new neighbours are keepin’ an eye out for you.’

‘They are? But I don’t . . .’ My shoulders sag, sensing rather than seeing her smug expression. There’s no point arguing, especially when she isn’t listening.

‘Grand,’ she says, delighting in my defeat. ‘Consider them crash test dummies; a chance to practise your social skills. Good for a nice hard bang all in good time. ’

The latter is muttered in an undertone and I pretend not to hear.
Banging, as if. And dummies, even worse.
Best not build my hopes
too high, for intelligent conversation, I mean. Yes, that’s what I mean, because the image of Kai hammering me into my headboard
did not
just flash through my mind.

‘It’s called a break-up not a break-down.’ I flop into a chair. ‘My conversational skills remain unaffected.’ Libido not so much, but I won’t tell her about what happened in the classroom. The less she knows, the better. She’d probably take an ad out in the local paper.
Desperate in Dubai Seeks a Second Saving?

‘Look, Dubai isn’t some po-dunk woop-woop town out near bush.’

‘It’s
the
bush,’ I correct, in reference to outback Australia. ‘Not near one and before you say it, I know it makes it sound like we’ve only got one.’

‘Yeah, well,
the bush
is out and
the Hollywood
is in, and I’ve seen the spider-legs hanging out your knicker legs.’

‘Maybe it’s a statement.’

‘Maybe you need to cop on.’

‘All right, I get the point! Dubai’s sophisticated, and I’m not.’

‘You’re totally missing the point.’ With a sudden gleam, she grabs my hands, pulling me up from the chair. ‘Alls I’m saying is you need to prepare yourself for a bit of fun.’

And with that, she leaves me standing in my very plain apartment, the sticky imprint of her lips plastered against my cheek.

I spend the next twenty minutes unpacking my case, trying to ignore the fact that I’m officially alone and destined to be so from now on. I’ve never lived by myself and as much as I hate to admit it, I feel lonely, which is ridiculous, considering I have enough fingers and toes to count the minutes since Niamh left. As sadness creeps into my throat, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself, sad for the loss of my relationship, filed now under
what could’ve been
. For a mad moment I think about calling Shane, even going as far as pulling out my phone, the chasm between us suddenly filled with nostalgia and memories. Well, at least those not involving his gland-to-gland contact with someone whose work uniform covers as much as a couple of Band-Aids and a bit of string. I don’t call, of course, because that would be mad. Instead, I wander around the small rooms, heavy with a sense of loss and feeling absolutely bereft. Eventually, I give into a cathartic sob on the bed.

Self-indulgence over, I take a good look at myself in the dresser mirror, trying to ignore my swollen and blood-shot eyes. My complexion is pale and kind of dull, and my hair darker than its usual honey blonde. I suppose a bit of sun-baking won’t do either any harm. Spotting my swim-togs in the haphazard pile on the bed, I pull them on and wrap myself in a huge towel. Stepping into the elevator clutching my sunnies, I immediately push them over my eyes, hopefully channelling Kim Kardashian rather than the puffy-eyed Kim Jong Un staring out at me from the mirrored walls.

On the rooftop, I snag a bed with a little shade and unfurl my towel, finding myself appreciative of the early end to school days for the first time since my arrival. I don’t think I’ll ever
appreciate the early starts. Only masochists roll out of bed at 5 a.m. with a smile.

The pool is quiet, just a couple of women lounging on the far side and no sign of the guys Niamh mentioned. I plug in my earphones and pick up my trashy novel. There’s nothing like indulging yourself in a bit of chick-lit to while away the hours. Though as this is a book I’ve borrowed from Niamh, clit-lit might be a better match, especially judging by the buff-bloke-hint-of-butt-crack cover.

Damp heat tingles against my skin almost immediately and my last conscious thought is that my iPod is playing Nickelback again.

It’s dark in the classroom, the metal ladder cold at my back. He’s pressed tightly against me, the length of him hard against my thigh. Like a villain about to seduce the damsel, he arches a brow, the hot drag of his fingers suddenly between my legs.

My breath hitches and I begin to mewl, but not at all in distress.

‘Shh.’ His breath brushes my neck. ‘You must stay quiet . . . if you want to come.’

I bite my lip, the words curling and exploding in pure sensation inside. My body begins to bow and shift as I grind against him, seeking satisfaction, an ease to the aching as I’m . . .

Awake. Jerked upright. On the edge of the bed.

Flushed, panting and . . .

I’m wet.

Soaked through.

Yes, I’m wet
there
but I’m also soaked to my skin
externally.

A sheet of wet hair lies across my face, ear-buds dangling from my shoulder as my book lies limp in a puddle on the tiles. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the lustful miasma, to calm the pounding inside as whispers and images barely linger, unlike the throb between my thighs
.