by Nicola Marsh
“Why not?”
Manny shot Samira a playful wink, enjoying playing up to her cousin, who seemed to be enjoying it less so, if her compressed lips were any indication.
“Because you know I’m married and my husband will kick your ass.”
With a smug smirk, Pia pushed past him and stomped away, managing to look incredibly graceful in her silver stilettos and powder blue salwar kameez while doing so.
“You shouldn’t tease her like that. She’s going through a rough time,” Samira said, pleased that her cousin still proudly referred to Dev as her husband. It looked like Pia’s plan to jolt Dev into considering counseling had worked and he’d booked an appointment. They had a long road ahead of them, but Dev had taken the first step to dealing with his insecurities regarding his sterility, and she knew Pia would fight hard for the reunion she so desperately wanted.
“I thought you said she’s communicating with Dev and things are looking up?”
“They are, and I’m hopeful, but she seems fragile to me, and your incessant teasing of every woman within a five-foot radius isn’t helping.”
“Okay, I’ll tone it down,” he said, suitably chastened for a moment, before flashing her his signature cocky grin. “Anyway, that favor you asked me for has just arrived.”
“Great.” Samira rubbed her hands together, more to quell her nerves than anything else. “Let’s do this.”
“You sure you want Rory? Because I’m still available—”
“Shut up, you idiot, and go tell your friend we’ll be ready to start in a minute.”
Manny gave her a rakish salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he strode away, she stood on the back step of her childhood home and glanced around the garden. It had never looked so beautiful, with orange and magenta lanterns threaded through the trees, and matching chiffon draped from branch to branch. Fairy lights were strung along the veranda and the fence line, while monstrous bouquets of crimson, fuchsia, and sienna gerberas stood atop tall pedestals.
It looked like a Bollywood dream, complete with the gossiping crowd and shrewd eyes. Samira had wanted them all here. What better way to embrace tradition yet show them a cultural assimilation by marrying Rory in a surprise ceremony?
“Ready, betee?” Kushi appeared by her side, looking resplendent in a peacock blue sari, her hair slicked into a tight bun perched high on her head.
“Ready, Mom.”
Samira bent down to kiss her mom’s cheek. “I love you, Mom. Thank you for everything.”
Tears shimmered in Kushi’s eyes as she brushed her fingertips along her cheek. “I’m proud of you, betee, and I’m so glad you’ve come home for good.”
The first haunting strains of a sitar had them both glancing toward the far corner of the garden, where Rory stood in front of one of Manny’s friends, a marriage celebrant.
Rory wore a navy suit with an ivory shirt open at the collar. Big. Bronze. Broad shouldered. Blue eyes. Casual sexy. All hers. His dad stood beside him, a stern man she’d only met a handful of times, but Garth seemed to adore his grandson as much as Kushi did.
As Samira linked arms with her mom and they strolled toward the celebrant, her heart expanded with happiness, filling her chest to bursting.
When she stood beside the man she adored, professing her love in front of everyone regardless of their judgment, she knew falling for Rory had been unexpected and complicated but oh so right. They had a wonderfully exciting life ahead of them.
She could hardly wait to start living it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While I can identify with Samira in many respects (same profession, mixed race, fertility issues, home city), it is Rory I truly connect with in The Boy Toy.
Like Rory, I have a speech impediment.
I’ve stuttered since I was a child and, like Rory, went through many sessions with various speech therapists. I can empathize with his feelings of frustration, embarrassment, and that bone-deep mortification when you stammer in front of a crowd.
Like Rory, I’ve had to deal with people “helpfully” finishing my sentence for me, providing a word I’m stuck on, and the slightly impatient look they get on their faces when it takes me longer to enunciate. And like Rory, while I try to master my stutter most of the time and put techniques I learned many years ago into practice, having to speak in front of a large group or in an interview always terrifies me.
Being an author is the perfect introverted profession for me. And while I’ve never done any drama training, I understand Rory’s confidence when he mentally rehearses before speaking because I do that too.
I hope you enjoyed The Boy Toy and had as much fun with these characters as I did creating them.
Nicola x
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Seeing The Boy Toy published is a dream come true. I had the glimmer of an idea for it many years ago and wrote three chapters before putting it on the back burner. It wasn’t until I connected with my agent, Kim Lionetti, that this idea come to complete fruition. We brainstormed a lot, tweaking the synopsis, swapping characters around, clarifying motivations, until we got it right and thankfully, Cindy Hwang thought so too. So my immense gratitude to the following people:
Cindy Hwang, editor extraordinaire, I’m still pinching myself we get to work together. Thanks for seeing the potential in this story and helping me polish it into a gem. I love working with you. And I’m thrilled Dr. Manny gets his story soon too.
Kim Lionetti, my agent, who is a brilliant brainstormer and always in my corner with sage advice. Shaking things up with this one really hit the mark, Kim. Thanks for the back-and-forth until we nailed it.
Angela Kim, editorial assistant, for being prompt and professional.
Sonali Dev, Spurthi Gowda, and Ritu Bhathal, for their assistance in translating the Hindi words. Any mistakes are mine.
My parents, Olly and Millie, for instilling Anglo-Indian tradition—especially traditions involving food!—in me.
My writing buddies, Natalie Anderson and Soraya Lane, for their ongoing support. Being on the publishing roller coaster with you is fun!
The speech therapist I had over forty years ago. I may not remember your name, but I remember having several before you, and when I walked into your office, you were patient and kind. You’re the inspiration behind Amelia in this story.
My hubby, who likes to think he’s my boy toy but isn’t. Laughs like this are important daily.
My boys, who light up my life every single day. Love you always.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Nicola Marsh’s next contemporary romance . . .
THE MAN BAN
Coming soon from Jove!
Harper didn’t believe in karma.
Unlike her best friend, Nishi, the most beautiful bride she’d ever seen, who waxed lyrical at length about how meeting Arun at a Diwali celebration in Melbourne’s South East had been fate, how they’d taken one look at each other and fallen madly in love, how a psychic had predicted this when doing her chart at the time of her birth.
Nishi had been her best friend since high school, so Harper didn’t disillusion the loved-up bride. Her cynicism could easily explain Nishi’s version of “fate”: meeting Arun was random, it was lust at first sight considering they ended up shagging the night they met, and the tall, handsome, rich doctor the psychic predicted was a generic promise given to thousands of hopeful Indian parents after the birth of a daughter.
But Harper had to admit, being maid of honor and witnessing Nishi and Arun exchange vows earlier that day, there’d been something almost magical about the couple who’d been so sure of their love they committed to each other in front of five hundred guests.
Five hundred guests who would hopefully take one look at the food she’d styled and gush on every social media app.
Harper needed work. Food styling may be her passion,
but it didn’t pay the bills half as much as her previous career in catering. She needed a big break, and Nishi had assured her that among the throng of five hundred were many online influencers. All it would take was one photo, one perfect pictorial image of her beautiful bondas, precise pakoras or vivid vadas, and she’d be on her way.
As the guests mingled in the outer foyer of the Springvale Town Hall, she cast a final critical eye over the buffet tables. Two trestles lay end to end along an entire wall of the hall, laden with enough food to feed a thousand. The crimson tablecloths were barely visible beneath gold platters piled high with delicious Indian finger food, with squat ivory candles casting an alluring glow over everything.
She’d never styled a job this big and had balked when Nishi first asked. But her bestie had insisted, and it had been her gift to the happy couple. Everything looked perfect, and she blew out a breath, rolling her shoulders to release some of the tension. The edge of her sari slipped, but before she could pull it up, a hand tugged it back into place.
She turned and locked gazes with one of the groomsman. She couldn’t remember his name after being introduced earlier in the day, what felt like a lifetime ago, but she remembered his eyes, a mesmerizing, unique gray that were currently lit with amusement.
“Can’t have you unraveling and distracting the guests,” he said. “Though personally, I wouldn’t mind a little entertainment along with my entree.”
Harper bit back her first retort, that his flirting was wasted on her. She had a firm man ban in place, ensuring the last twelve months had been angst-free, leaving her to focus on her career and not a never-ending parade of dating disasters.
“Sorry to disappoint, but the only entertainment you’ll be getting tonight is from the ten-piece band playing later.”
If he heard the bite in her words, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned, and something unfamiliar fluttered deep. That was the only downside to her ban: she missed the sex.
“Too bad.”
His glance flicked over her, a practiced perusal from a guy who probably flirted with anything in a skirt. At six-two, with thick, wavy black hair, sharp cheekbones, broad shoulders that hinted at gym workouts, a killer smile, and those stunning eyes, this guy would be used to women preening under his attention.
When she frowned and didn’t respond, an eyebrow quirked and he thrust out his hand. “We met earlier. Manish Gomes, but my friends call me Manny.”
“Harper Ryland.” She shook his hand and released it quickly. “Don’t you have to go help the groom, Manish?”
He laughed at her sarcastic emphasis. “Arun’s got everything under control. Besides, we’re not exactly best buds. I think the only reason he asked me to be a groomsman was because we pulled two all-nighters in a row around the time he proposed to Nishi and I had biryani leftovers I shared.”
Figured. Manish’s confidence came from saving lives alongside Arun in the ER.
“Nishi’s my best friend.”
Her response sounded judgmental, like she couldn’t figure why Arun would ask some fellow doctor to be part of his wedding party when they obviously weren’t close.
“You work together?”
She shook her head. “High school.”
“Right.”
They lapsed into a silence that bordered on awkward. She may not be the most extroverted at the best of times but she could hold her own in social settings. But something about this guy had her on edge and she didn’t like it. Not his fault he was gorgeous and charming; her latent insecurities made her want to rush to the bathroom and check her hair and makeup.
“Well, if you have any further sari emergencies, you know where to find me,” he said, pointing at the head table set just below the stage. “I’m chivalrous that way, in case you were wondering.”
“I’m not,” she muttered, earning another grin. “Besides, you should be thankful I didn’t slap you for fixing my sari when I didn’t ask for your help.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise at her snark as he held up his hands in apology. “You’re right, my bad. I’ll see you later.”
Harper bit back a sigh as she watched him stride toward the foyer, all long legs and impressive shoulders shifting beneath a perfectly fitted kurta. She’d been envious when Nishi had told her what the guys were wearing; the slim-fitting pants and flowing top combo looked a lot more comfortable than the saris chosen for the women. She’d been in a perpetual state all day for fear of tripping over and causing the unraveling Manish had mentioned. But she had to admit the bridesmaids looked stunning in the cream silk shot through with gold thread, and she’d never felt so glamorous, even if she was one step away from a revealing disaster.
She’d been curt with Manish to the point of rudeness and he hadn’t deserved her brusque treatment. She blamed her nerves. This job meant everything to her, but deep down she knew better.
His perfection rattled her, and a man hadn’t unnerved her in a long time.
Not that it mattered. Once this wedding was done, she’d probably only see him at the occasional function Nishi and Arun hosted: birth of their first child, baptism, that kind of thing. By then, she’d feign forgetfulness of their first meeting.
What Manny thought of her didn’t matter. She had a job to do, and with the revelers soon lining up for the food, that’s where her focus should be.
Bold men with unusual slate eyes should be forgotten.
Photo by Jemm Photography
USA Today bestselling and multi-award-winning author Nicola Marsh loves all things romance. With seventy novels to her name, she still pinches herself that she gets to write for a living in her dream job. A physiotherapist for thirteen years, she now adores writing full-time, raising her two dashing young heroes, sharing fine food with family and friends, cheering her beloved Kangaroos footy team, and curling up on the couch to read a great book. She lives in cosmopolitan Melbourne, Australia.
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