by Alisha Rai
Dedication
For the girls who are “too much.”
(Actually, we’re just right.)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Also by Alisha Rai
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
JIA AHMED knew how to make herself look good. Angles, lighting, makeup, clothes, poses, postproduction editing. She could manipulate eternal factors to the point where cameras caught only the best parts of her, the funny, charming, clever, beautiful parts.
They didn’t catch the parts like now, when she was so anxious and insecure she was hiding in a bar’s bathroom and applying and reapplying her lipstick ten times.
She carefully traced her lips with the pink liquid. It’s perfect.
Except for the bow of her upper lip, which was blobby. Blast it. Her hands were getting more shaky, not less.
Leave the blob. Leave it!
Like she wasn’t a perfectionist when she wasn’t meeting a potential love interest. She pulled out yet another makeup wipe and swiped the pink off.
She needed to chill. No need to be nervous, couples met on apps and then in real life all the time. True, this was a little different, given that she was crashing a party to get face time with the man who had slid into her DMs.
What was a girl supposed to do! It had made sense to only talk via text when they’d first started chatting over a year ago, given he lived so far, and they were rarely awake at the same time. Though she’d been smitten, without physical interaction, the conversation had fizzled out after six weeks.
She’d been so busy with everything going on in her life and exploding career, she hadn’t really spared him much thought until she got sick a couple months ago. She was recovering, he was across the world; she’d accepted that he wanted to see her face for the first time in person.
But he’d been in America for a week now, within driving distance of her. She’d pressed to see him, but there was always some reason he couldn’t.
Do you want to get dinner?
How’s life in America treating you? Want to get a drink?
Do you like bowling?
And his responses:
I’d love to, but am tied up with work this week.
We can meet once I get adjusted.
Jet-lagged right now. Rain check?
So she’d done what any normal red-blooded woman would do. She’d used her frightening Google skills to track down where the cast for his new show was having a little party, scored an invitation through her various influencer connections, et voilà. Here she was.
Jia leaned closer to the mirror and applied the lippie again, going slow and steady. Finally, no blobby blobs. She critically inspected the rest of her face for any other possible flaws. She’d gone with a smoky eye for the evening and paired it with a light bronzer and nude lip. Her God-given cheekbones didn’t require much contouring, but she’d done a heavy beat tonight regardless. One of her sisters had once accused Jia of using makeup as a shield, but it wasn’t that deep. Art had always been her favorite class.
The bathroom door opened and a beautiful redhead walked in. She came to stand next to Jia at the sink, her own compact in hand. Jia gave her a smile and dropped her lipstick in her purse. She washed her hands again, though she’d already done it. One could never wash their hands enough. Plus, it would delay her having to leave the bathroom and put on her big-girl pants. Metaphorically speaking, since she was wearing a dress.
Jia caught the sideways glance the woman gave her, and then the double take. “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?”
A little thrill ran through her, the same thrill she always felt when she was recognized in L.A., a city where half the population was vaguely familiar. Internet famous was a weird thing, one where it was easy to forget that people might recognize her. She spent most of her time filming on her own or with a single cameraperson. There were modeling gigs and sponsorships, but those had dried up lately.
Part of her wished she could feel weary about attention—that was how humble people reacted to that sort of thing, right? But she loved attention, especially now. It was a nice reassurance that her recent mandatory illness-induced social media absence hadn’t totally tanked her career.
“You might.” Jia used a napkin from the classy stack on the counter to wipe her hands. “Are you plugged into the beauty side of social media?”
The woman brightened. “You do makeup tutorials! You’re that model!”
That model, which was better than oh you! or is that a real job? “That’s me.”
“So cool. You’re not as tall as I thought you’d be.”
Jia resisted the urge to straighten up. When one was five foot nothing in an industry where height was a conventional beauty standard, one grew accustomed to such comments. “Uh, thanks.”
“I love meeting influencers. I’m an entertainment reporter.” She named an outlet, but Jia had never heard of it. “Can we take a selfie, and can I tag you?”
Something else to delay her crashing a party? “Sure!”
“Oh my gosh, thank you!”
“No problem!” One of the big benefits of this industry was that she got to indulge her love of speaking in exclamation points. “Wait, move like this.” Jia scooted so the toilet stalls weren’t behind them, but a more flattering red wall.
“Ha, I forgot we were in a bathroom. Do you want to step outside?” the woman asked.
No, Jia did not want to step out of the protective force field that this bathroom was providing. If she stepped out, she might explode from anticipation and anxiety. “Fun fact. Bathrooms often have the best selfie light.” Jia feared her smile might be more strained than not, but the woman seemed satisfied with their pic.
“Thanks again,” the redhead enthused. “Are you going to the party? I’m covering it. Hoping to snag a pic with Richard Reese.”
“I am going to the party.” Jia hesitated. If she said the words out loud, maybe she could manifest it. “I’m hoping to meet Dev Dixit.”
The woman gave her a blank look. “I don’t know him.”
“He and his family are kind of legendary in Bollywood. Vivek Dixit? Shweta Dixit? Arjun or Rohan?”
“Nope, nope, nope, nope. Sorry, I bet he’s more popular for Indians.”
Jia could explain that she was Pakistani American and had known about the Dixit clan despite being not very familiar with Hindi cinema, but she had too much on her mind tonight to sweetly explain geography and the popularity of a foreign film industry to outsiders. “You’ll get to know him. Anyway, Hope Street is his U.S. debut.”
“Ooh cool.” The redhead
glanced at her phone, her interest exhausted. “See you up there?”
“Yup.” She just had to . . . leave the bathroom and take the elevator up. Her new bathroom selfie friend made it look easy.
“You got this,” Jia whispered to her reflection, then bounced on her feet and lip-synched a few bars of Destiny’s Child. Surely if anything could get her motivated, it was Beyoncé telling her she was a survivor. She was gonna make it. She was a survivor. Keep on surviving.
No, that didn’t help. She had never felt like this before, terrified and excited and nervous. All those feelings separately, yes, she’d had them, but never all together.
Was this what infatuation felt like? Was this what she’d missed all those years when she’d been studiously avoiding distractions?
Jia pulled a wireless earpiece from the hidden pocket of her dress and stuck it in her ear. Then she navigated to her audio files and hit play on the latest one.
“Hi, Future Jia!” came her own cheerful voice in her ear.
If anyone knew that she taped affirmations for herself, she would die. Which was why it was a closely guarded secret, shared only with her twin.
Jia glanced around warily, but the bathroom was empty now. “You’re nervous,” said Past Jia, “and that’s okay. You’re meeting Dev face-to-face for the first time tonight, and that’s weird.”
It was weird, to feel like she’d connected so deeply with someone she’d never even been in the same room with.
“Are you scared you won’t feel the same connection when you’re physically in the same place?”
Yes.
“Are you scared you’re going to hate the sound of his voice? Or he’ll hate yours?”
Yes.
“Are you scared he’s not even real and this has all been fake?”
“No,” she whispered, with a conviction that she knew would cause her older, more cynical roommates to exchange a glance.
One of her many talents was stalking people on the internet, but there hadn’t been any stalking necessary here. Dev had messaged her from his official account. She wouldn’t have even responded to him if that blue checkmark hadn’t declared his authenticity.
You want him to be real so badly, it may be clouding your judgment. That was possible. He’d been kind to her for the weeks she’d been sick and the weeks after, when she’d been too fatigued to get out of bed. His words had given her something to look forward to while she’d been quarantined from her roommates, on the opposite coast from her family.
“It’s weird he’s being so hesitant about seeing you right now, which is why it’s even more important you bite the bullet and get in there. Things don’t happen, you have to make them happen.”
Yes, that was her mantra.
“Whatever your fears are right now, remember how sweet he is, and the beautiful romantic stuff he’s sent you. Time is nothing but a way to mark the beat of your heart.”
She straightened and smiled, as she had when he’d said the romantic words. Yes, her roommates could keep their cynicism. She liked him.
Hopefully, he liked her! Liked her for who she was, unconventional and goofy and successful and not humble and an attention seeker. The pretty parts and the not-always-pretty parts. The parts he’d only get to see in real life.
A burst of confidence had her popping her headphone out of her ear. She did one last mirror check for any pesky wrinkles or blobs. She’d decided on a simple gold scarf for her hair today. The material caught the bronzer on her cheeks and matched the gold threads in her black-and-gold dress, and the matching dupatta she’d draped and pinned over her shoulders as a shawl.
She’d worn this dress for a party over a year ago, and it was the reason he’d messaged her that first time. You look like you were dipped in gold.
Her smile now was genuine. Of course this would work. He would be excited by this surprise, happy she’d taken matters into her own hands. That was one of the things he’d liked about her, he said. Her assertiveness.
It was time.
Jia took the elevator to the rooftop bar. She got why this was an It Place, with its greenery and flowers wrapped around the chandeliers and dripping off the ceiling. At any other time, she’d be joining the people over at the balcony, taking photos and selfies with all the concentration of an accountant doing taxes. Because for most of them, this was probably their job.
Not tonight. She wanted to speak with him before the party grew too crowded. That way, if it was wonderful, they could talk the night away. If it was terrible, she could escape.
The hostess’s gaze flicked over Jia as she approached, and Jia knew what the woman was doing: calculating the cost of her clothes and shoes and cross-referencing it with her demeanor. There were plenty of important people in L.A. who dressed down. “Hello, I’m here for the Hope Street party.”
“Lovely. Your name, miss?”
“Jia Ahmed.” She surveyed the restaurant. It was still cool for March, and the windows that surrounded the room were all open, bringing in a nice breeze. Some people were wearing jackets, but Jia was fine in her long-sleeved dress. She’d grown up in the frigid Northeast; she could handle sixty degrees when it was salt-tinged ocean air.
She recognized more than a few faces. This wasn’t her first Hollywood party. She got invites fairly regularly since she’d signed her last spokesmodel contract a couple years ago. The guest lists were usually a combination of influencers, young actors, models, sports stars, and Twitterati. Her roommate Katrina had been a model, and she’d told Jia she’d hated these soirees. Jia loved them, every single glittery, slightly fake part of them, from the laughably pretentious people to the gift bags. Ooooh, the gift bags. Dumping those adult goody bags out on her bed after the party and pawing through the loot was a delight, though she usually just gave away most of the stuff to her followers.
Tonight, the gift bag was the second-best attraction, though.
The hostess found her name on her tablet and her demeanor changed, becoming less haughty. “Welcome, Ms. Ahmed.”
She’d known she’d be on the list, but impostor syndrome was a struggle. Jia inclined her head in what she imagined a classy gesture to be and tried to glide nonchalantly through the indoor spring wonderland of flowers and lush greenery like she belonged.
The bathroom selfie redhead was here, ordering a drink at the bar. Jia recognized a few of the actors, including the salt-and-pepper Richard Reese, the star of the show, who was animatedly talking to a rapt audience.
She stood up on her tiptoes, though the extra half inch of height wasn’t enough to be effective. The crowd around Richard parted, and there he was.
A single spotlight falls on the hero, and the rest of the crowd ceases to exist.
Tall and dark and handsome, he wore a black suit with a stark white shirt and a skinny blue tie. No contouring needed for his face. It was too sharp and angular to be conventionally handsome like the rest of the famous men in his family, but the others could keep their handsome. Stern had its own thing going for it.
His lean lanky body wore that designer suit with casual elegance, like he’d been born to couture, which he had, as the eldest Dixit grandson.
He’s far too sophisticated for little old you.
No, he wasn’t. He was older than her, yes, thirty-two to her twenty-nine. She didn’t have much experience with men, between school and med school and quitting med school and her internet side hustle becoming her main hustle. In her sleuthing, though, she’d discovered little in the way of an excessive or extravagant life for him.
All she wanted to do was gallop toward him eagerly, but she settled on a sedate walk. When she was a couple of feet away, Dev turned his head. Their eyes met, and Jia swallowed the lump of excitement in her throat. “Hello.” Her voice was breathier than she’d ever heard it. Almost sexy. Not her usual vibe.
Dev’s gaze dipped over her, and a flush worked its way to her cheeks. She could put to rest her worry about the physical attraction, on her end, at least.
>
Since she’d decided to crash this party, she’d played this scenario out in a dozen different ways. He’d be shocked, delighted, annoyed, angry, panicked.
Not one of those expressions was on his face right now. Which made sense! He was an actor and good at controlling his emotions. Of course he wasn’t going to rear back in surprise or wrap her up in an embrace here in public.
“Hello,” he said, his voice low, and that was all she needed to nearly swoon. He had such a clipped and sexy accent.
“Hi,” she nearly responded, then mentally kicked herself. She’d already said that.
He held out his hand, and she accepted it automatically. His skin was a darker brown than hers, and a scar ran across his thumb. She almost jumped from the spark that leapt between them as flesh met flesh.
“I’m Dev Dixit. And you are . . . ?”
The spark extinguished at the splash of cold reality, and her hand slipped from his. He wasn’t possibly going to . . . pretend he didn’t know her?
Nobody. Didn’t. Know. Her.
Lots of people don’t know you.
She hushed her tiny voice of logic. That wasn’t what he meant. He has a reason for this. It’s a joke. It’s an act, for . . . reasons.
Her heart supplied excuse after excuse, even though her rapidly growing logic shot them all down. He’d offered her a casual handshake, then asked who she was. If it was an act, he was committed.
She had to know. “Are you serious?”
His hair brushed his high cheekbones. It was longish, carefully cut to frame his face. “I . . . yes. I’m sorry. Have we met?”
She breathed deep, her brain racing. “You— We’ve been conversing.”
“I converse with any number of people, I’m afraid.” His smile was painfully polite, showed no teeth. “Apologies. Could I trouble you to give me a reminder?”
What on earth? He’d done this to multiple women? Found them on the internet, sent them messages? Wormed his way into their hearts? Why? Why do that?
“You’re really saying you don’t know who I am?” Her voice was hoarse.
His smile faded, and wariness replaced the charm in his eyes. He placed his glass of wine on the high-top table between them. “Uh. No. I don’t think I do.”
