Where the Lotus Flowers Grow Read Free Page A

chest as if it could shield me from his voice, deep and husky. I shrank back farther, praying the floor would quake open and swallow me up.
    His eyes shifted to my hands. He blinked, staring at the book. As much as my eyes were absorbing, my mouth refused to work. What could I possibly say to him? There were no excuses. I’d trespassed and, as a result, I’d be sacked.
    “I’ve frightened you,” he said, his voice a shade softer. He held up his hand. “Wait.”
    He picked up a few articles of clothing from the open suitcase on the bed, then looked back at me. “Stay.” He closed the bathroom door behind him, disappearing into the diminishing poufs of steam.
    I should run. But my feet were stuck to the floor, even though my legs were shaking. For once, I was grateful the sari would hide that.
    When he came out a few minutes later, he wore soft, faded jeans and a green rugby shirt. He stood a few feet away, but I could smell fresh soap and sweet mint radiating from his body.
    He slapped his chest three times. “My name is Liam Montgomery.”
    I continued to stare, dumbfounded. Was he introducing himself to me as if we lived on the same plane? I had found comfort in being a maid because the attention paid to me was on par with my paycheck. That was my preference. My choice. Perhaps a penance in a way. But now…I had all his attention and no idea what to do with it.
    He sighed, shaking his head with disappointment. “Lotus Girl, why would you pick up a book you can’t read?”
    Lotus girl? Was he talking to me?
    “Let’s try this again. Mera Nam , Liam Montgomery,” he said in poorly pronounced Hindi.
    “You don’t speak Hindi either?” When I didn’t respond, he picked up his phone and pressed a few buttons. “So many languages in this country. Rest assured, I’ll find yours.”
    As if rest were a possibility.
    “Ah, here we are.” He repeated the introduction in Punjabi, Gujarthi, Marthati, Tamil, Bangali, and even Sanskrit. Each time, he looked at me with a hopeful expression. With my continued silence, he grew more disappointed. Somehow, his desperation to talk with me made the tension dissipate just as the steam had. Finally, he threw his phone on the bed.
    He shook his head in resignation, offering me a self-deprecating smile. “That’s all I got. I suppose we shall never speak.” He stared at the book again. I held it out to him with both hands. He stepped closer, his bare feet oddly beautiful. Later, I would wonder why I didn’t just lay the book back on the bureau. His hands, large with long fingers, gripped the other edge and stilled the wobbling tome. I tilted my chin, forcing myself to look at his face. I knew I’d regret the moment if I chose to…squint.
    He nodded toward the book, but kept us at a distance. “It’s a shame, really. This is my favorite Dickens’s novel. It’s almost an autobiography.” He tugged on it. I wouldn’t let go.
    He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why the hell I’m still talking to you when you can’t bloody-well respond, I have no idea.” He gestured to the door. “Either it’s heatstroke, or I’m going mad.”
    “You’re wrong.”
    He swallowed, his eyes widening. “I’m not going mad?”
    “It’s not an autobiography. Dickens said his most autobiographical book was David Copperfield . Not Nicholas Nickleby .” I thought I’d said it in my head, but the way his jaw dropped made it clear I’d articulated the statement.
    Liam smiled again, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “She speaks. And what interesting things she has to say.”
    I closed my eyes tightly. Now that I’d spoken, and in English, an avalanche of words tumbled out of my mouth. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to steal it, sir. I was only looking at it. I’ll resign, sir. You don’t have to bother yourself with sacking me.”
    His voice was cool but strong, a rush of water quenching an out-of-control flame. “Calm down. No one is getting