by Sajni Patel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Sajni Patel
Cover design by Sudeepti Tucker
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First edition: May 2020
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019957180
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3333-2 (trade paperback edition), 978-1-5387-3335-6 (ebook)
E3-20200402-DA-PC-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One: Liya
Chapter Two: Jay
Chapter Three: Liya
Chapter Four: Jay
Chapter Five: Liya
Chapter Six: Liya
Chapter Seven: Jay
Chapter Eight: Liya
Chapter Nine: Jay
Chapter Ten: Liya
Chapter Eleven: Jay
Chapter Twelve: Liya
Chapter Thirteen: Jay
Chapter Fourteen: Liya
Chapter Fifteen: Jay
Chapter Sixteen: Liya
Chapter Seventeen: Jay
Chapter Eighteen: Liya
Chapter Nineteen: Jay
Chapter Twenty: Liya
Chapter Twenty-One: Jay
Chapter Twenty-Two: Liya
Chapter Twenty-Three: Jay
Chapter Twenty-Four: Liya
Chapter Twenty-Five: Jay
Chapter Twenty-Six: Liya
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jay
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Liya
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Jay
Chapter Thirty: Liya
Chapter Thirty-One: Jay
Chapter Thirty-Two: Liya
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Praise for THE TROUBLE WITH HATING YOU
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Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you! Thank you for being excited about romance, for picking up this book and joining Liya and Jay on their tumultuous, sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, always adventurous journey as they navigate falling in love.
Although The Trouble with Hating You is a romantic comedy steeped in Southern sass, mouthy banter, hardheadedness, and Indian traditions, the story also deals with (non-graphic) references to sexual assault, death, and trauma.
Some aspects of Liya and her life stem from my personal experience, but Liya is also someone I’d want to be more like. She’s opinionated, confident, and resilient. She’s also kind and protective, and has a heart as big as Texas that she’s ready to share with y’all. And maybe even with Jay if he can keep up.
I sincerely hope you enjoy!
Many thanks and so much love,
Sajni Patel
Chapter One
Liya
My mom absolutely loved the crap out of WhatsApp. She didn’t know how to text, but she could do anything on WhatsApp—including sending me a half dozen pictures of the guy she and my dad had chosen for me. And by chosen, I meant the one guy who had even agreed to meet me. Which was a feat in itself, to be honest. He must not have heard about me.
Now my parents were convinced that he was the one, because he’d been the only one to not turn and run from the mere whisper of the name Liya Thakkar.
I had absolutely zero interest in allowing my father to arrange my marriage to anyone. While my friends may have ended up in perfectly content matches, I couldn’t give in to the archaic practice of this whole arranged marriage business. Or marriage in general. Or commitment, for that matter. No. Freaking. Thank. You.
If I wanted to answer to a man for the rest of my life, I’d just live with my father. Thanks to a culture where our twenties meant draconian aunties swooping in to play matchmaker, I had to battle the nauseating notion of lifelong commitment.
Speaking of the devil from whose loins I came, Dad’s name flashed across my cell phone screen for the twentieth time this week, but I muted the ringer. This was likely another demand that I meet this suitor he’d so precisely picked. After all, as one of his multiple voicemails pointed out, finding a qualified man who would even consider me had been a strenuous five-year hunt. Given my reputation and all. We had to act fast to secure this guy before another woman lured him away. I mean, hell, let her drag him away. It would make my life that much easier.
Yet…here I was, at my parents’ house because Momma promised this was just an ordinary dinner, just the three of us, and nothing more.
I checked the rearview mirror of my gray Lexus as I drove to their house in the Woodlands on the outskirts of Houston. The car had been a gift to myself, a reminder of how far I’d come and all that I’d accomplished, including my recent promotion. Also, it was physical proof that I didn’t need a man to take care of me.
The sun was out, but the towering tree canopy shaded almost every inch of my parents’ charming street. When the houses were built years ago, the developer made a point to cut down as few trees as possible, thus pairing fairly contemporary homes with as much untouched nature as possible.
Even though I hadn’t always enjoyed spending time with my parents growing up, I loved the neighborhood, and the nostalgia thrust me back to all those mornings running with other kids—the wind in my hair, the faint smell of cedar and cypress trees, and the giggles of girls.
Nostalgia was the past. The present held a different meaning, as was apparent when I parked on the street, providing plenty of room to escape. Why? Because Dad and I had our differences. So I drew a breath, in and out, and reminded myself that Momma was my sole purpose for coming today. She was the calming one, the nurturing one, the only person in my family worth spending time with, and the source of my unconditional love.
The walk up the pebbled concrete driveway was much too short. Leaves crunched beneath my brown Prada riding boots, and the breeze offered a hint of iciness, almost like a foreboding chill telling me to turn around.
I shivered, adjusted the scarf around my neck, and knocked.
Momma swung open the newly polished oak wood door. The woman barely reached my chin, yet she threw her hands around my shoulders and forced me to lean down. My back gladly bent to her command and my senses lit up with pure joy from the smell of her coconut hair oil and rosewater perfume. She smelled like home.
We hugged a few seconds longer. It always hurt to let her go, like maybe she’d wither away. Hugging her was the only way I felt like I could protect her.<
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She pulled back and swatted the air, her eyes moist. “Why do you always knock? You have a key.”
I removed my boots outside the door and followed her inside, the decorated tiles cold beneath my socks. “I know, but it’s your house, your privacy.”
“We knew you were coming. What were you going to interrupt, huh?” She smiled that genuine, heartfelt smile of hers, the one that made my heart ache because it had become a rare sight over the years.
The spicy aromas of curried vegetables and buttery roti wafted from the kitchen, rolled through the hallway, and greeted me in the foyer. My mouth instantly watered. Who didn’t melt a little when they smelled their mother’s home cooking?
As I made my way down the hall, I saw Dad sitting on the couch in the family room across from the kitchen. His khaki-covered legs were crossed, and a newspaper was in his hand. The gentle swish of turning pages filled the silence as I waited for his acknowledgment, but after a few cold seconds, I said, “Hey, Dad.”
“Liya,” he stated in that impassive, flat tone of his.
Nice. Not even a smile or eye contact. Something in that shuffling newspaper must’ve been pretty important.
I walked to the stove and peered into pots and pans, my nostrils greedily inhaling many wonderful scents. Momma pulled down plates and cups from the cabinets and set the table. We didn’t usually eat at the table, which should’ve been my first clue.
“You outdid yourself,” I said, popping a seasoned slice of radish into my mouth. A pinch of salt hit my tongue. Curried vegetables in muted hues of green and orange were piled high in a bowl. Spicy dhal with a swirl of paprika-induced red glistening on the surface simmered in a pot next to a platter of saffron-infused yellow rice. On the granite countertop, crispy papad with hot spots of fennel were stacked on a metal dish beside an open container of creamy raita with bright pieces of mint leaves. My stomach growled something fierce.
“Just the everyday.”
“I can’t believe you cook like this twice a day, every day.” I dipped a piece of cucumber into the raita and relished the taste. There was something calming about the refreshing crunch mixed with the tangy yogurt.
“You should spend more time in the kitchen with your mother and learn how to cook,” Dad said, his eyes glued to the paper. “What will you feed your husband and children?”
“Food,” I replied as I grabbed a spoon, dipped it into the piping hot dhal, and took a tentative sip of the tomato-heavy sweet-and-sour soup.
He scoffed. “Takeout, you mean? A woman should be able to cook three fresh meals a day. You don’t want your husband to starve.”
“I’m sure if it came down to starvation, he could figure things out,” I said, annoyed that his comments took me away from the beauty of Momma’s cuisine.
“He would be too tired after a long day of work. The least you can do is have a hot meal ready when he steps through the door to show your appreciation.”
“You do remember that I have an MBA and was recently promoted to lead in my department, don’t you? Which means I work long days. Maybe he should have dinner ready for me.”
“Absurd. The plight of a woman is to work in order to make money, but the purpose of a woman is to help her husband by taking care of the home and his needs…” he said in that condescending voice.
I tuned out the rest of his rant about the proper place for women, but unfortunately, my ears wandered back to his babbling when he asked, “Do you even care that people give us such a hard time at mandir about my unmarried daughter residing on her own?”
“I’m not going to argue with you, just like I’m not going to move back into your house. I’ve been on my own since freshman year in college.”
He huffed. “Ha. Ms. Independent.” Then he said to Momma, “Make me some cha.”
Momma, flustered as she put the finishing touches on an elaborate meal, went to grab yet another saucepan to make cha. I lunged for a ladle to ease down the piping hot dhal before it spilled over and asked, “Can I turn this off?”
She gave a brief nod as she moved gracefully across the kitchen to get milk, sugar, cha, mint, masala, and water, all the fixings for a warm, aromatic drink.
“And hurry,” Dad added. “You know I like a cup at this time of day.”
So while she sprinted to make a grand meal—and made sure it was just the right temperature by the time he ate—Dad sat there with nothing else to do except read a paper that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I didn’t glance at Momma, because she’d give me that curt shake of the head that said let it be.
I tried.
For about two minutes, until Dad said, looking at me, “And get me water.”
I held up a hand, embracing my unruly, opinionated self. “You get on me for not knowing how to cook three Indian meals a day, but you can’t possibly get off your butt and make your own cha? Or get some water? It’s right there. The fridge even dispenses it for you.”
Dad glared at me. Boy, if eyes could light things up, I’d be on fire right about now. Momma gently slapped my arm as I brought items to the table.
“Watch your mouth,” he growled.
“Don’t be so bigoted. Momma, bless her heart, cooks so much because you can’t tolerate leftovers. You could help out by making your own cha.”
Dad crumpled the paper, his knuckles white. “Liya, you are a girl, perhaps the most rebellious one I’ve ever known, and you should bridle that tongue of yours. I don’t know what I’ve done in my past lives for the gods to curse me with you.”
I raised a sharp brow, my bangled wrist on my hip. “I don’t know about your past lives, but you’ve done enough in this lifetime to deserve some affliction.”
Momma paled at my side. She turned stiff and stared at her feet while Dad glowered. In his head, he knew damn well what I meant, but somewhere in that black-and-white mentality, he still did not think badly of his actions.
I took in a long breath. There was absolutely no one in the world who made me lose my crap the way Dad did. And I thought for sure that sometimes he did it on purpose. But if he was the rash-inducing irritant that set me off, then Momma was the Tiger Balm ointment to my wounds. She had a quiet way of calming me, which inspired me to defuse things, if for no one else, then for her.
“I just mean, Dad, would it hurt for you to get your own water once in a while when Momma is running around? You’d never lift a hand in the kitchen, but maybe a little to get a drink?”
Instead of acknowledging my question, he said, “We have company arriving any minute. Go touch up. You look unpresentable.”
By “any minute,” he meant any second, because the doorbell rang. Since this company was apparently anticipated, Dad answered the door himself instead of expecting Momma to.
I unclenched my aching fists and looked to her for an opening to talk about the “forbidden things,” but she escaped my gaze and took a pitcher of water to the dining area. The table, now fully adorned with five settings, explained why Momma had made so much food.
She rubbed my arm. “Why must you test him like this?”
“What about what he does to me? Don’t you find his attitude demeaning?”
“He does have a point. You must not let your mouth run wild and goad your elders, your parents much less.”
My jaw dropped, but I wasn’t sure why.
Lots of people said things could always be worse. Sure. He could physically abuse Momma, in which case losing my crap would be an understatement. But it could be a lot better.
Dad’s over-friendly voice carried through the hall as it mixed with the upbeat, laughing voices of his company: a man and a woman.
I popped another sliver of radish into my mouth. “I thought it was only us tonight. Who’s here, and do I have to eat with them?”
“Jayesh Shah and his mother, and yes, you do have to eat with them.”
My eyes widened as I recognized Jayesh’s name from Momma’s many WhatsApp messages. “Are you kidding me?”
Her expression turned to pleading, a look I couldn’t ever seem to deny, but this was far beyond acceptable. “Momma, please,” I whispered, “I told you I did not want to meet this guy.”
She clutched my arm, and every instinct in my body told me to do whatever it took to make her happy. She needed someone in her corner.
“Just meet him, please. You can reject him after dinner. But I don’t think you will want to once you meet. Did you see his photos? Isn’t he a handsome boy? I thought you would like him.”
“You know that’s not how things work. There’s even more pressure to say yes after agreeing to meet. You can’t use passive aggression to force me to marry someone.”
I scoffed at the voices mingling in the foyer. I still had time to grab my purse and slip out the back door.
“Please,” Momma begged, her voice trembling. “Dad will be so upset if you leave like this.”
I clenched my eyes shut, struggling with the prospect of Dad berating Momma because of me.
“He cannot manipulate me every time I come here. I told him no. I’m sorry,” I breathed. The words splintered my heart the moment they left my lips.
Before the shadows in the hallway crested into the family room, I fled out the back door. Ignoring my instantly damp socks, I cut through the gate and went around to the front yard. I grabbed my boots on the front porch, slipping one on and hopping haphazardly on one foot before securing the second boot. I hurried to turn the corner of the front porch, around the granite pillar, my attention caught on the stupid pebbles in my right boot instead of looking straight ahead.
My quick, clean getaway hit a wall. A very hard, solid wall of flesh as I bulldozed all six-foot-plus of finely tailored man to the grass. I wish I could’ve fallen gracefully, or at the least knocked him down and somehow remained on my feet. But no. My body was splayed on top of this stranger, the air knocked from my lungs as I fought to catch my breath. Sugary laddoo and saffron peda rolled across the front yard.
The man beneath me had a hand on my waist and the other above his head holding a red-and-gold box with the lid crushed open. His blue, fitted, button-down shirt scrunched up at the collar.
