by Sonali Dev
In all these years he hadn’t googled her, or kept track of her. He’d put all his attention into his game. Into proving her words about him wrong.
Don’t you see? When you look at it from my father’s point of view, you have no future.
Well, he’d ended up proving her father wrong, hadn’t he? Even a washed-up prince too full of himself to see that they didn’t live in the eighteenth century anymore would have to admit that Rico’s future had turned out rather spectacularly.
He had returned to California only once, to bury his aunt. If the guys hadn’t wanted to throw Zee the mother of all clichés, Rico would never have gone back to the US at all. And his head would never have turned inside out. The day after the party, he thought he had set it straight again. He’d come home. He’d tried to stop thinking about her and everything she had taken from him.
Moving his laptop to his lap, he propped his leg on the coffee table. On the surface, what he was contemplating seemed like a terrible idea; he was fully aware of that. This wasn’t him googling an ex. What he was doing was actively working on bringing closure to something he had ignored for too long.
Look at where it had landed him. Thirty years old with a string of lovely women who hadn’t stayed with him because he didn’t know how to give them what they needed. Every one of his exes was happily married to someone else. Actually, strike that, not every one of them. He had no idea what the girl who had set him on the path of “emotional unavailability” was up to.
He could imagine her as a society wife. Married to some doctor, or corporate bigwig, or lawyer, someone her father considered appropriate.
How had he gotten her so wrong? It was a question he hadn’t asked himself in a very long time. His fingers hesitated only another second before typing her name into the magic box that was Google.
The first thing that came up was her father’s restaurant, Curried Dreams. Apparently she ran it now. Had the old bastard retired? Executive chef, indeed! Who would have thought Green Brook High’s star goalkeeper would be off making tandoori chicken? He certainly had not seen that coming. She’d wanted nothing to do with cooking. The picture of her was fuzzy, something someone had taken from a distance without her permission, but the bearing was unmistakable.
Next, Rico’s eyes landed on an Entertainment Weekly link about a new show on Food Network. Ashna on TV? He supposed she’d grown out of her obsession with privacy and her shyness off the pitch. Getting her to take a picture for the yearbook with the girls’ soccer team had been hard enough. She was going to be on TV? Really?
The calm that spread through him as he scrolled through the piece was impressive. Time was a healer after all, because he felt nothing.
The article said she was going to be one of the professional chefs who was going to team up with a celebrity and compete with five other pairs to win one hundred thousand dollars. It was all a bit crass for the Rajes.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to be a chef, so this is a dream come true!” Something about the quote made him want to toss his laptop across the room. He slammed it shut and pushed himself off the couch. Anger rolled in his chest. He was pacing again. Hobbling like a bloody idiot.
The last thing she had ever wanted to be was a chef.
Rico never let himself get angry. At least not angry enough to raise his heart rate and heat his earlobes.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up his phone and dialed Rod.
Yes, having an agent with a name like that was a bit of a ridiculous cliché as well, but Rod was the best Hollywood sports agent and Rico happened to be in a position where he had access to the best. Rod was responsible for the fact that Rico had been one of Calvin Klein’s longest-serving underwear models. At first he’d done it on a dare, but he didn’t mind the money it brought in.
“Hey, Rico, my man, how’s the knee?” Rod boomed, because his name wasn’t the only cliché about him.
“You know anything about Food Network shows?”
“Okay, let’s skip the small talk, then. Food Network is becoming bigger than it’s ever been. But no, I’ve never worked with them. Anything in particular you want to know about?”
“Yes, they have a new show, Cooking with the Stars. I want to be on it. As one of the celebrities.”
There was a full minute of silence. Which was a good thing, because, holy bloody hell on toast, what was he doing?
This was probably the first time in his life that anyone had made Rod Singh speechless.
“Why?” Rod managed finally.
A brilliant question.
Rico dropped back on the couch. “I’m tired of modeling underwear. I think it’s time to learn some cooking.” And because anger was still hammering in his heart and heating his ears from that quote and that picture, and the shit ton of memories exploding inside his head.
“No, seriously. Is this a dare, like the Calvin Klein thing?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t think they can afford you. Let me ask around, but I’m guessing it’s more for failed boy band stars, retired soap opera actors, struggling comedians, authors who are looking for sales. That sort of thing. Too far beneath your pay grade.” You had to love agents. Rico said a grateful prayer for his.
“I don’t need to be paid. If we win I’ll donate my part to that animal rescue your little girl couldn’t stop talking about the last time you brought her to London. How does that sound?”
“The second half sounds great. Ami will be thrilled. But not the first part. We’re not doing unpaid gigs.”
“Fine. Work it out any way you want. You can get your commission and we’ll give the rest to the charity. I don’t give a shit, Rod. Just make it happen.”
“Are you feeling all right, Rico? I know the surgeries and retirement suck. But listen, we’re flush with offers. If you’re open to reality TV, we have a hundred options. I can get you on Big Brother.”
Rico would rather stab himself with an ice pick, in the knee even. “I know I just threw you, so I’m going to let the Big Brother comment slide. But if you bring me any reality shows other than this, you’re fired.”
“Right. I’m terrified. But okay, no reality shows except something on”—he cleared his throat—“Food Network.”
“Nope, not something on Food Network. Cooking with the Stars.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Yup. I need to be partnered with a particular chef.”
Chapter Six
Ashna rummaged through her jewelry drawer. The only way she could get through meeting the celebrity she would be partnered with was to wear the ruby earrings her grandmother had given her when she moved to America. Aji had worn them when she met Ashna’s grandfather for the first time. They were supposed to help with new beginnings. And, well, today was the day for them. It had been three weeks since she had called China and said yes. A wasted call, because China had assumed that’s what Ashna would do and sent out the press release already.
The earrings were sitting next to a mother-of-pearl box in the far corner of the drawer. With a shaking finger, Ashna traced the gold inlaid roses on the box. Inside it, Shobi’s engagement ring sat ensconced in folds of white satin. Ashna had dug the ring out of the garbage after Baba had dropped it there after the last fight Ashna had witnessed between her parents.
“Everything okay up there?” Trisha and Nisha bellowed from downstairs in one voice. The Raje girls bellowing, a historical day indeed.
“Almost done,” Ashna bellowed back, because why not? She hooked the rubies into her earlobes.
Nisha was the keeper of the family’s fashion profile. Which meant none of them had developed the ability to go out into the world on important days without Nisha picking out their clothes, whether it be for weddings or job interviews. Except the ruby-red prom dress that hung at the very back of Ashna’s closet. Nisha had no hand in buying that one. Her family didn’t even know she had gone to prom, or that her date had bought her that dress.
If Ashna had a penny for every time she had thought about burning the dress, she could have paid off Curried Dreams’s debts. Now that she had come unhinged and was doing things that were drastically out of character for her, maybe she’d finally get around to it. Burn the dress, burn the betrayal that went with it.
Goose bumps prickled across her skin, and she rubbed her arms. When would this stop? This sudden jolt of memory at the most unexpected times. The worst possible thing for her to do right now, just before the filming crew arrived at Curried Dreams to shoot her first meeting with her celebrity, was think about any of that.
Shutting the drawer, she gave herself one last inspection in the mirror.
Nisha had picked out heather-gray trousers for her to go with the red chef’s jacket that all the chefs were going to wear on the show. A stroke of luck, because red was Ashna’s favorite color and it always made her feel just a bit stronger. Nisha had tried to convince her not to pull her waist-length hair back into a bun. But they were shooting in the kitchen, and Ashna would never leave her hair down in a kitchen. Her bun was, as usual, as wide as her neck and so heavy that her head felt weighed down with it. Given that she had never had hair shorter than this, her head should be used to the weight by now. Not unlike the mind, the body could get used to living with things without becoming entirely comfortable with them.
Ashna had often considered cutting her hair. Freeing herself from this thing that everyone who had ever loved her seemed to define her by. Maybe when she burned the prom dress she’d also cut her hair and sell Shobi’s ring and donate the money to her mother’s beloved foundation and then tell her what she’d done.
Yup, she had definitely come unhinged. Although, amazingly, she felt entirely calm. So calm, in fact, that it was almost disconcerting. She shook out her hands, then patted down her hair and smudged the black kohl she had lined around her eyes. Kohl made her already freakishly large eyes expand to nocturnal-animal proportions. She touched up her favorite red lipstick. The show was about how she cooked, not how she looked, she knew that, but she needed every piece of armor. Not that it would help her get around the little problem of passing out when faced with a cooking challenge.
She lifted up her chef’s jacket and reapplied deodorant, then touched a dot of rosewater behind her ears. There wasn’t actually going to be any kind of real cooking happening today as far as she knew, so a hint of perfume wouldn’t hurt. Plus, the special rosewater that was extracted at the Sripore palace was designed specifically to not interfere with your normal olfactory functioning like the oil-based perfumes they sold in stores.
Finally done, she found Nisha and Trisha standing at the bottom of the stairs, obviously contemplating having to go up and drag her down.
“We should be at Curried Dreams by now,” Nisha said in her big-sister voice. She was Mina Kaki’s mini-me. Poised to a fault but somehow also incredibly warm.
Both sisters tucked strands of Ashna’s hair that had come loose from her bun behind her ear, a favorite Raje gesture for showing affection.
“Stop it! Stop acting like it’s my wedding day. You’re making me nervous.”
“You’re wearing trousers and chef’s robes. I think Aji and Ma might have a coronary if you even thought about getting married in that,” Trisha said.
Since Ashna was never, ever planning to marry—given her genetic predisposition for failure—she’d never have to think about what kind of wedding dress would not give her aunt and grandmother joint coronaries.
“You look lovely,” Nisha said.
“You have nothing to be nervous about,” Trisha added with the confidence of someone who wasn’t about to make a complete ass of herself on camera.
“I let you talk me into going on television and competing with some of the best chefs in the country with an unknown and possibly crazy celebrity. Why on earth would I be nervous?” Ashna said.
Trisha looked not the least bit guilty. “Stop it. You’re going to rock this, and DJ will be on the set with you.”
Ashna laughed. “In that case how can it be anything but amazing? I mean, who would not embrace public humiliation just to spend time with your DJ?” Never in a million years would Ashna have imagined that her impatient, entirely too self-sufficient cousin would be so moony over someone. Honestly, though, Trisha was right; having DJ on set was the only comforting thing in this entire nerve-racking mess.
“I’m dying to know who your celebrity is,” Nisha said, heading to the back door. “Do you think it will be one of those NFL players? They’re my favorites on Dancing with the Stars.”
“Yes! There’s nothing quite like a big man being dainty,” Trisha said as all three Raje girls picked their shoes off the shelf and slid them on.
“Ugh, no athletes, please. This isn’t a contest of endurance or strength. Or, um, daintiness?” Ashna adjusted the strap on her kitten-heeled sandals. She had considered wearing sneakers, as she usually did in the kitchen, but it was just introduction day, so why not?
“Maybe one of those ex–boy band types. A Jonas brother? Who was the cute one?” Nisha conjured a brow brush out of thin air and gave Ashna’s eyebrows a sweep as Trisha held the door open.
Sunshine flooded into the house. Early spring in Palo Alto used to be Ashna’s favorite time of year. Before it became the season of bad memories and she forgot how to love it. Yearning for the simplicity of a love like that—for the way light filtered through trees, for the smell of air saturated with possibility—unfolded inside her.
“Nick?” Trisha tucked her arm into Ashna’s and pulled the door shut behind them.
They followed Nisha, who was pregnant-waddling purposefully down the path that led to the gate in the fence.
“Nope. Nick’s out. He just married Priyanka Chopra so he’s too big for this now,” Nisha threw over her shoulder. “The other cute Jonas, the one with the great hair.”
“I’m pretty certain it’s not going to be any of the Jonas brothers.” Could it be, though? She hated not knowing. She had begged China to tell her, but of course China’s favorite line at the moment was “I’ll lose my job.”
Trisha made a face. “I’ve been badgering DJ about it. Either he doesn’t know or he won’t tell me. You know what’s annoying? I can’t figure out which it is, and he loves that. Do you think there’s something wrong with British men?”
Nisha and Ashna rolled their eyes.
“You just want us to tell you again how perfect we think DJ is,” Ashna said.
Trisha’s response was a dreamy grin.
As they cleared the thicket of jacarandas and got to the deliveries parking lot, Nisha’s phone beeped. “It’s China. They’re on their way. We have to be inside before she gets here with your star. Hurry up.”
“Eeek! Is the star with her now? Ask her, ask her!” Trisha grabbed Nisha’s phone “WHO IS IT??? TELL US!” Trisha read off as she typed in all caps. Nisha jumped up and down, baby bump and all.
They stared at the screen, waiting for a response.
Can’t tell you. But . . . S C O R E!!!
Yes, China had put a space between each letter. Given China’s legendary texting laziness, that made the butterflies in Ashna’s belly turn into bats.
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” How had Ashna thought herself calm? Now she couldn’t even think the word calm without getting light-headed.
Trisha linked arms with Ashna. “Let’s get in there and find out.”
Nisha took her other arm and the three of them marched across the parking lot. They had walked down this path thousands of times, but Ashna had never before been this conscious of each step.
A Food Network van was parked by the ramp. The crew was already in her kitchen, and the door was propped open.
The bats in her belly grew rabid. Her heart had never beat quite this hard.
“It’s going to be a sweet southern grandma,” she muttered. “God, please.”
“What?” both sisters said together without pausing
in their march.
“I’ve had my fingers crossed for a sweet southern grandma–type celebrity. It’s my best shot.” She had been chanting it to the universe. Please, please, all I need is a sweet southern grandma. Not to deal in stereotypes, but maybe a southern grandma would know what she was doing enough that Ashna might not need to cook in front of the cameras at all. “I told China that I wanted a sweet southern grandma as my celebrity. So, ‘S C O R E’ has to mean she found me one, right?”
Nisha and Trisha shook their heads at her and disappeared into the kitchen. Ashna followed them, mentally chanting the shlokas Aji had taught her for when she needed to calm down.
There was equipment everywhere, lights and cameras on giant stands. Trisha and Nisha were already introducing themselves to the crew.
Only today’s meeting with her star would be shot in the Curried Dreams kitchen. The actual show was going to be filmed on a set in San Francisco over five weeks. Two episodes a week—a cooking episode shot over two days and an elimination episode, and then a grand finale with the two teams that made it that far. A young man in a hat that said FOOD NETWORK and a very Secret Service–looking earpiece jogged up to Ashna. “I’m Jonah,” he said with an excited smile. “They have your star circling the block. We want to get some anticipation footage of you waiting to see who it is.”
He snapped his fingers and everything lit up like a movie set. Suddenly Ashna’s kitchen felt nothing like her kitchen. She took it in, mouth slightly agape, and tried to contain her nervousness.
“Perfect!” Jonah grinned at her as though she’d somehow given him the exact expression he’d been hoping for. “Can you go in and pretend it’s just another day? How about chopping something. Maybe vegetables?”
“You want her to chop vegetables and pretend it’s just another day?” Trisha said with all the drollness of someone who was not being asked to act normal. Whatever the hell that even meant. “I think she has the acting chops for that.”
“Great!” this Jonah person said with disturbing alacrity, and zero awareness of Trisha’s sarcasm. “That’s what I thought. Let’s find you some vegetables!” He headed off to the pantry.
