Lovey hooted at his wit. “I’d say sure, but she seems to be taken, pal.”
Krish coughed and nearly choked on the morsel in his mouth, his throat suddenly and oddly tight. “She’s kidding about Hasaan. They’re not together. The media is just sensationalizing their business relationship.”
And why was he defending her when she was going out of her way to prove otherwise?
“I got that. I meant you, silly,” Lovey said.
Krish’s burrito-holding hand froze in mid-flight with his mouth open as big as a plane hangar. For the life of him, he couldn’t move or shut his mouth or breathe.
Lovey raised her eyebrows. “What? You think I wouldn’t guess? I suppose you guys have to keep it a secret because she’s a celebrity. But anyone can tell you’re together. You’re so possessive of her, and she turns green every time you even glance at another woman.”
Except for going red with anger, Krish hadn’t noticed any color on Diya’s face that evening. Not even a stray green from the disco lights.
Lovey is wrong, he decided. She was a die-hard romantic, just like Diya, and was seeing things that weren’t there. He’d known the two women were alike. It was why he’d wanted them to meet, hadn’t he?
Besides being a real estate agent, Lovey part-timed as a masseuse at a spa and was enrolled for night classes to get her master’s in anthropology at UT Dallas. She was a whirlwind of energy and ambition and a self-proclaimed observer of mankind, and as such, she had been observing the byplays between Diya and him, apparently.
Krish set his half-eaten burrito on the paper plate, his appetite vanishing. For the rest of the evening, he sat alone and stared and brooded. He stopped brooding for the two seconds it took him to say good-bye to the gang and then resumed brooding all the way home. Diya didn’t prattle on as usual either.
She wasn’t in love with him. No way. He wasn’t her Prince Charming. They’d established that nine years ago. She’d said it herself when she broke their engagement.
“I’ll never marry a dictatorial, unfashionable, ungallant workaholic,” weren’t the words of a woman in love.
He’d been relieved by her avowal, even as their families gasped in shock and tried to change her mind. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. He didn’t want to marry anyone ever, but he hadn’t been able to refuse Kamal Uncle’s dearest wish. How could he refuse the man he idolized?
Love hadn’t entered the equation. Not when he’d proposed and certainly not when she’d broken things off.
But what had Lovey meant about him being possessive of her? He wasn’t possessive of Diya. He was protective of her. Someone had to be since she clearly had no sense of self-preservation.
Krish tried to unravel his confusion all the way home. But the giant Gordian knot inside his head kept getting knottier, and he spent the worst night of his life in bed, not sleeping. His thoughts were so tangled up by the night’s drama that they rushed headlong in the direction he’d placed roadblocks on years ago. He wasn’t even going to bring up the half-mast boner he’d been sporting all night with no relief in sight.
Okay, so he’d brought it up. It was one of the things on his mind, clearly. But he was in no mood to take care of it. Not tonight. Not by himself and definitely not with Diya.
He bolted up in bed, his gut twisting. What the hell kind of idea was that? Taking care of his boner with Diya? Was he mad? He was her protector. Her brother … well, her brother-like protector. That was all.
Krish got out of bed and paced in front of the bed. When that didn’t help, he prowled into the den and attacked his work. Eventually, he succeeded in streamlining his thoughts and his life plan back on track again. Bonus: he got a shitload of work done.
At the crack of dawn, when he’d only just made it into the kitchen, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Diya bounced in and started doing jumping jacks in front of him. Krish hunched over his coffee mug, unable to meet her eyes.
“I’m still mad at you,” she coldly informed him. “But anger should never come in the way of good health.”
Krish looked up, bleary-eyed, as two mugs of black coffee swam in his veins.
One thing became crystal clear though. Diya wasn’t in love with him. She barely looked fond of him.
Reassured that the line of protocol was in place once more, Krish allowed her to drag him to the gym room. He let her contort his body into positions no sane man—especially a frustrated and fatigued one—should ever contort his body into, no matter how badly his “chakras begged for realignment.”
Damn his masochistic tongue, but he had promised to be her knave through her visit. And he was coming to the hard-to-ignore conclusion that he was being slowly murdered for his many manly sins.
Fine, if that was what it took for them to get to Sunday—when, God willing, she’d fall in love at first sight with the Neil chap and be his problem forevermore—Krish would suffer a slow-cooker death.
He made a mental note to phone his lawyer and update his will. Just in case.
Chapter 8
“You can take the Indian out of India, but you can’t take the game of cricket out of him.”
Diya smiled fondly as Krish explained about the Dallas–Fort Worth cricket leagues that scrimmaged every weekend and the monthly one-days and the yearly test matches they played. Krish was an all-rounder for the Dallas team, which meant he bowled, batted, or wicket-kept as required. Cricket had been his one true passion since childhood.
There still remained a tiny bit of tension between them from last night. But, apropos to her forgiving nature and her mentor, Scarlett O’Hara, the majority of Diya’s annoyance had dissolved in the light of a new day. The sprint on the treadmill had helped, too. Considering the volume of endorphins in her bloodstream on a daily basis, she could never stay upset for long.
She’d spent the last hour massaging Krish’s scalp; that was how not upset she was.
He’d complained of a headache, so she’d offered to massage his head and give him acupressure points. To make the experience relaxing for both of them, she sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the sofa, while Krish was stretched out on the carpet with his head in her lap.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come watch? It’s turned into a beautiful day,” he said with his eyes closed, his expression blissful.
Post-lunch and pre-massage, they’d been lounging in the living room. The Beast was chugging his vile coffee and working on his laptop while she sipped bergamot-flavored Countess Grey tea—her favorite from Fortnum and Mason—her attention divided between a show on Food Network, her phone, and Krish. He had just received a text message from the captain of his cricket team, informing him that the canceled match was on again.
Diya glanced out of the panoramic windows of the living room to the bright and busy green woodland outside. The gloom of the last two days had dried up without warning. But, not a cricket enthusiast to begin with, she had zero interest in channeling a baked potato for three hours under the afternoon sun.
“Quite sure. I’m going to chill in front of the TV … or wait! Will you drop me off at Lovey’s spa? I’ll get a detox massage while you go play with your balls,” she quipped, pulling a snort-laugh out of him.
“Of course, Dee.” He stifled a yawn. “I need to change,” he mumbled but made no move to get up.
“Slather on sunblock, okay? And wear a ball cap. A bald, sunburned Beast will not make a charming companion tonight.” She ran her fingers through his thick mop of hair with nary a bald spot in sight.
Krish sat up with a sexy groan, his hair sticking up every which way. She instantly went goosefleshy all over.
Stop it, she told herself. Enough with the shivers. Do you want another lecture? Another rejection?
He stretched one way and then the other, popping his vertebrae. Then, he ran both his hands through his hair to smooth it out.
Her fingers itched to join his. Oh Lord, please make him stop!
“Are you sure you’ll be up for an evening
out after the game?” Maybe going out tonight was a bad idea. Maybe they needed a break from each other. “What if your headache comes back?” She prayed he’d take the excuse and run with it.
He didn’t.
“The headache’s gone, thanks to you.” His lips slashed upward in a smirk. “You’ll give me a bigger one if you’re trapped at home on a Saturday night.”
Not untrue.
“And you’re okay with whatever movie and restaurant I pick?” she asked again, eyes narrowing.
He’d said as much when Lovey called earlier and invited them out with Miguel and her. As guest of honor, it was up to Diya to choose the evening’s entertainments.
“Yes, Diya,” he growled in exasperation.
She wagged her finger at him. “I’m going to hold you to that when you start snarling and complaining.”
“I won’t,” he said, rising to his feet and pulling her up.
“We’ll see.”
They parted company at the top of the stairs, Krish making his way down the hall to gather up the cricket gear. Cricket seemed to be serious business in Dallas. Both teams were registered leagues and had sponsors and uniforms and whatnot.
Diya skipped into the master bedroom to change her clothes and grinned at the cat snoozing on the bed.
“It’s his way of apologizing, you know. He never says sorry. He simply shows it. And it’s charming and sweet and—stop it!” she scolded herself as she went into the bathroom and began stripping out of her kimono-kaftan. “Do not start crushing on him again. Remember last night? Remember what happened at Leesha’s wedding?”
But the devil inside her brain refused to stay silent.
Yes, those incidents were awful, but what he said isn’t untrue, is it? You are impulsive. You don’t think before acting. Your brashness does land you in trouble. He is harsh with you only out of concern for you and not because he means to be hurtful.
Wasn’t her she-devil supposed to be on her side and not the Beast’s?
Diya exhaled heavily and walked back into the bedroom. She would not get carried away tonight. She would have a great time with the gang, and that was it. She would treat him like a friend, nothing more. And, if she found herself mooning over him or wishing for impossible things, she would think about the suitor she’d agreed to meet tomorrow.
The thought of the suitor instantly cleared up her confusion. That was right. She was here to meet a potential husband. Krish was helping Daddy set her up. He had absolutely no interest in her.
She shrugged on a long jersey dress appropriate for the spa and slipped her feet into a pair of pink-and-purple rubber platforms. She had a little flashier something in mind for the movie-dinner double date.
She groaned at herself again. “It is not a date. Say it till you believe it.”
Repeating the phrase like a mantra, she began to gather spa essentials in a large tote, including her AirPods, her wallet, a Kindle, the change of clothes. Ready, she walked back into the kitchen to hydrate her body by drinking two tall glasses of water in preparation for the sauna.
Krish had forgotten his cell phone on the kitchen counter. She noticed it when it began vibrating with an incoming call. She instinctively glanced at it and saw Aya Ahuja flashing across the screen in bold letters.
Diya spat out a mouthful of water back into her glass and looked about for Krish, expecting him to jump out of the woodwork to pick it up. He didn’t. And the phone kept vibrating. Finally, it stilled, making Diya sigh in relief. Almost immediately, it started buzzing again.
Wow. Impatient much?
The she-devil on Diya’s shoulder ordered her to pick it up. So, without fully grasping what she’d possibly say to the woman, Diya answered the call.
“Hello? You’ve reached Krish Menon’s phone,” she chirped extra cheerfully. Be cool. Just be … cool.
A long pause followed. Then, “Who is this?”
Aya sounded a bit taken aback—naturally—but wholly American. There was no desi in her voice at all.
“This is Diya. Krish’s friend from India. He’s putting on his clothes, um … changing into his cricket gear. Ha-ha. Not … like putting on clothes as if he was not wearing any. Sooo, can I take a message?” Nice, polite, a bit ditzy but friendly. Diya mentally patted her back for handling it well.
A slightly longer pause this time, punctuated by soft breathing.
“Diya?” Aya asked as if she couldn’t quite place the name.
Bitch. There was no way this woman didn’t know who Diya was or that she was visiting with Krish for a couple of weeks.
“Krish’s childhood friend?” Diya reminded pertly. She wanted to add, The supermodel, but that would be tacky.
“Ah! I remember now. The troublemaker. Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just trying to place your name. Sorry again. It was impolite of me.”
Diya’s mouth had fallen open at “troublemaker.” She didn’t know whether to be shocked or outraged at the woman’s temerity. Leesha would tell her she deserved to be called names for stooping so low as to answer Krish’s phone like some snoop dog. Even so, the awful woman was snarkiness personified.
This was Krish’s girlfriend? Holy crappola!
Diya began to see why he didn’t want her anywhere near the family.
“Would you tell him I called, please? And that I need to speak to him urgently. And … never mind. I’ll send him a message. Can you make sure he reads it immediately? Well, nice talking to you. Good-bye.”
Diya nodded and hummed a good-bye, too flabbergasted to respond coherently. Before she even pulled the phone away from her ear, several message notifications popped up on the phone screen in quick succession.
* * *
Wisco won’t negotiate.
* * *
Liked the speech for Dillo. Have made minor tweaks and comments.
* * *
Let’s revisit what we discussed on Thursday night.
* * *
Three short, cryptic messages, but Diya had heard and seen enough to put two and two together and come up with shock.
The Beast and Aya Ahuja were made for each other.
Who could be more perfect for him than a corporate headhunter willing to mix business and pleasure—super-duper gag reflex—while on a Valentine’s Day date?
“Ready?”
Diya jumped a foot in the air at Krish’s question. She whipped around, stifling a shriek. “Stop sneaking up on me like that.”
He was standing so close that she could count the individual hairs that had sprouted along his upper lip and jaw in a five o’clock shadow. Amusement flashed in his brown eyes, through his spectacles, before they dropped to the phone she clutched to her bosom as if she’d never let it go.
Embarrassment exploded inside her at being caught red-handed with it. She’d not only invaded his privacy; she now had to confess everything.
She thrust the phone in his hands and blurted out, “Your girlfriend called. She asked you to call back ASAP.”
Gah! How did she always manage to put herself in these situations where she was forced to hold weird and uncomfortable conversations with the girlfriends and would-be fiancées of her male friends?
Just this morning, Saira had called her to ask point-blank if there was anything romantic between Hasaan and her. Diya had tried to stay noncommittal and vague and had urged Saira to speak to Hasaan about it. If there was going to be an engagement and nikaah between Saira and Hasaan, she didn’t want to mess it up.
Diya hoped things were working out between Hasaan and Saira. He hadn’t called or e-mailed about anything dire, so it seemed everything was fine, and she crossed her fingers that it remained so. Saira had sounded sweet and sensible over the phone, and her tendency to add jaan—darling—after every sentence was adorable. Saira had asked Diya to keep their phone chat a secret from Hasaan.
Wait a minute, Diya thought as something struck her. Saira calling her for assurances was one thing—she and Hasaan were s
trangers, and the baby rumors would concern a would-be fiancée. But why had Aya asked her to play messenger girl between her and Krish?
“Aren’t you going to call your girlfriend back? She said it was urgent,” Diya said, watching Krish narrowly.
He rarely spoke about his girlfriends to her even though she always waxed poetic about her boyfriends and lovers—real and invented—to him.
He read Aya’s messages with a poker face, and then he stuffed the phone in the back pocket of his white cricket pants. “I’ll call her later. If you’re ready, let’s get going.”
That’s it? “I’ll call her later,” and zip?
Diya couldn’t believe the Beast hadn’t ripped into her for answering his phone. And that he wasn’t even texting his girlfriend back. Something was off.
She slung her tote over a shoulder and began walking toward the garage, pondering the mystery. By the time she parked her butt in the Porsche’s passenger seat, she was bursting with questions.
“What’s Wisco?” The name rang a bell. “Isn’t Wisco the food market you took me to? Small-time rival of Armadillo?”
“Wisco Organic Foods has bought out Armadillo Farms and Foods. The takeover is underway,” he replied after a beat.
O-kay. “And Wisco won’t negotiate what with your company?”
Why was he so calm? Why wasn’t he at his office? The old Krish would’ve been a bundle of energy at such a time, dashing about, crossing all the T’s, dotting all the I’s.
He flicked her a cool look and sighed. “Not with the company. With me personally.”
Gah! Trying to pull information out of him was like stuffing your feet into shoes two sizes smaller—nearly impossible and horribly painful.
“What won’t it negotiate?” she persisted.
“Nothing to worry about, Diya. It’s not important.”
Of course it was important. She realized then that his stillness was just the calm before the storm. He was worried about it. He was … unsure. Krish was never unsure. She also realized that he didn’t want to talk about it with her. But he had discussed it with Aya Ahuja.
Bootie and the Beast Page 9
