by Sara Desai
“Then you know why you’ll just have to take my word that my father intended to terminate the lease.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said firmly. “I’ve already made moving arrangements. Signs and stationery are on their way, and I have a client coming to see me first thing in the morning. When your father recovers, I’m sure he can sort the matter out, but in the meantime, I have a business to run.”
She tipped her head to the side. “What kind of business?”
Cute and sexy. Too bad about her prickly personality.
“Corporate downsizing.” He crossed the room and pulled a stack of files from the box, thumping them down on the tragically modern Eagerson desk. “Companies call us in when they need to restructure or downsize, when they are in financial difficulty, or if there is a merger and acquisition that involves the reevaluation of staffing needs. We review their financial position, make recommendations for cuts and restructuring, and assist in the termination of unnecessary employees. My partner handles the international clients. I deal with domestic companies with a particular focus on health care. We also have a staff of six who work remotely.”
She gave a disdainful sniff. “How ironic. I’m setting up a recruitment consultancy. I find jobs for people and you take them away. Figures.”
“Companies can be more efficient when they get rid of the deadweight.” He removed the pencils from his box one by one, lining them up neatly on the right side of his desk. “That means faster production, and better products and services for customers. It’s a win-win for everyone.” He willed her to move from the desk so he could see if she had an ass to go with those curves. If he was going to waste time indulging himself in this pointless conversation, he might as well enjoy the view.
“Except for the people who lose their jobs.”
Ah, a bleeding heart. He should have guessed. “That’s why there are people like you. I cut them loose, and you turn them into someone else’s problem.”
She sucked in a sharp breath and glared. He’d definitely hit a nerve with that one.
“They aren’t a ‘problem.’ They are people who are out of work because cold, callous, corporate vultures like you only care about the bottom line.”
He flinched inwardly. Not because he was ashamed of his choice of career—he was proud of what he’d accomplished in the last two and a half years—but because she’d hit too close to the heart. He had never been able to shake the guilt of working with Ranjeet day after day and not seeing who he truly was. He had pandered to the man who had made his sister suffer instead of protecting her like a brother was supposed to do.
“That’s incredibly naive. No business can retain their staff indefinitely. Technology changes, jobs can be automated, and people lose the incentive to innovate or excel when their position is secure.”
Her hands found her very generous hips. If it was a ploy to draw attention to her soft, lush curves, it worked because he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“My father has never fired an employee and they are just as hardworking and efficient as they were when he hired them.” She rounded the desk, and he suffered a moment of brain freeze. Damn, she was the whole package. Beautiful face. Sexy body. Long legs. And those boots . . .
“Don’t bother unpacking the rest,” she said, tearing the lease in half. “I’m kicking you out now.”
She was almost as strong willed and stubborn as he was. But he had much better taste in furniture.
He snorted a laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m sure you would,” she snapped. “It’s probably the only way you can get a woman near you with that giant ego in the way.”
“I am hardly lacking for female companionship.”
Layla rolled her eyes in an overly dramatic fashion. “I’m not interested in hearing about your visits to the nail bar. I just want you gone.”
“It’s not going to happen, sweetheart. I have the document in digital form, and the law on my side.”
“Family trumps the law.” She folded her arms under her generous breasts. Sweat trickled down his back. Karen had nothing on this woman, even with her creative use of a toy blood pressure cuff.
“Not in the real world. My attorney works upstairs. If you need further proof, I can ask him to join us and confirm that the lease is valid.” Sam’s attorney and close friend, John Lee, had connected Sam with Nasir Patel when he found out Nasir was looking for a tenant.
Her gaze flicked to the partially open door, a smug expression spreading across her face when a woman walked in carrying a multicolored tote bag containing a fluffy white dog, its neck adorned with an enormous blue bow. Everything about the visitor screamed trouble, from her torn Slayer T-shirt to her deconstructed jean skirt, and from her strategically torn purple tights to the thick black shoes that looked like they had been nibbled by mice. Her shoulder-length dark hair had been dyed pink on the bottom, and she had a small silver ring in her nose.
“Daisy!” Layla rounded the desk to greet her guest. “And you brought Max! Let me give him a cuddle.”
Sam’s pulse kicked up a notch, and he readjusted his line of pencils, ensuring they were perfectly even.
“Hey, babe. How’s the new digs?” Daisy released the animal to Layla, who gave it a quick hug before putting it down to wander unfettered around Sam’s office.
“Unexpectedly occupied.” Layla gestured to Sam, and Daisy turned to face him as if noticing him for the first time.
In that moment, as her gaze roamed shamelessly up and down his body, Sam realized three things: first, they would never get along; second, his path to quiet possession of the office had just become exponentially more difficult; and third, neither his charm nor his good looks were going to soothe this savage beast.
“Who’s this?” Daisy narrowed her gaze as the dog sniffed his Italian leather shoes.
“Sam Mehta.” Layla answered for him. “He says my dad leased the office to him before he had his heart attack, and he refuses to leave.” Layla gestured to her curious friend. “Sam, this is my cousin Daisy Patel. She’s a software engineer, but currently between gigs.”
Sam had never met a woman more ill-suited to the name of a flower normally associated with happiness and joy. He gave her a curt nod and received a snort in return.
“He’s got a stick up his ass. No wonder he’s having trouble getting out the door.”
Sam gave an affronted sniff. “I beg your pardon?”
“Out.” Daisy pointed to the door. “Away with your handsome face and perfect hair and expensive suit and mouthwatering body. Her father just had a heart attack. Have you no sense of human decency?”
“Absolutely not.” He pulled another file from his box and thumped it on the desk, the force more for effect than necessity.
“Is that Absolutely not, I won’t get out or Absolutely not, I have no human decency?”
Sam didn’t deign to answer her ridiculous question. “I have work to do.”
“Should I call someone to rough him up?” Daisy asked, turning to Layla. “What about the Singh twins? They’re home on leave from the National Guard. Or how about Bobby Prakash? He’s head bouncer at that new bar in Chinatown. He said to call if I ever needed anything.”
Sam tried to tune them out as they launched into a conversation about criminal-turned-bouncer Bobby Prakash, his childhood, brushes with the law, gangster friends, girlfriends, family, and pet boa constrictor. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid when he signed the lease. He wasn’t interested in a busy office full of chatter, chaos, and noise. He wanted to work in a calm, peaceful environment where there would be nobody wandering the halls, banging doors, talking beside the water fountain, or flushing toilets when he was trying to work.
“Sam has a lease,” Layla said, drawing Sam’s attention with the use of his name. “Bobby can’t throw him out if it’s legal.
”
“The name is Mr. Mehta,” Sam interrupted. “Sam is for friends.”
“Do you have friends?” Daisy inquired. “You don’t look the type.”
“Of course I have friends.” He’d lost touch with many of them after Nisha’s accident, but he still saw John regularly at the gym, along with his sparring partner Evan.
“Are they imaginary or real?” Daisy gave him a condescending smile. “I’m guessing imaginary because no one wants to be friends with a jerk.”
Sam scowled. “This is a place of business. If you wish to socialize, I suggest you go elsewhere.”
“He’s cute when he’s annoyed,” Daisy said. “Maybe you should keep him around for eye-candy purposes.”
Layla gave him a sideways glance through the thicket of her lashes. “Don’t compliment him. His ego is already so big, his top shirt button is about to pop.”
The women chuckled and Sam’s jaw tightened. Women adored him. Men admired him. Employees detested him. But no one ever, ever dismissed him. “He is, in fact, sitting right here.”
“We’re very aware of your presence.” Daisy flashed him a sultry smile. “It’s hard to miss the steam coming out of your ears.”
Layla sighed. “What am I going to do with him?”
“Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away. I think he’s just desperate for attention. Max was the same when he was a puppy. Always whining, thumping his little tail, peeing in the corners . . .” She grimaced and looked around the room. “How long has Sam been here? Maybe you’d better do a sniff test.”
Layla’s gaze lifted to Sam and then away, but not before he caught the barest hint of a smile. Despite the poor taste in clothes, relatives, and furniture, she seemed somewhat stable. If he could just get her alone, he’d have no difficulty convincing her to move her business. Daisy, on the other hand, was clearly going to be a problem. He knew her type. Too shrewd. Too worldly. And too damn talkative.
He emptied his box while the women continued to talk about personal matters not meant for a man’s ears. Daisy, it seemed, had undiscriminating taste when it came to hookups and an endless supply of anecdotes of encounters gone wrong. Layla spoke disparagingly about someone named Jonas and an unfortunate event she called “Blue Fury.” He leaned a little closer, although he didn’t know why.
“Do you know what Jonas did when I was on my period?” Layla asked, making no effort to lower her voice for what clearly was going to be a discussion about intimate feminine matters.
Sam stood abruptly, shoving his chair back from the desk so hard it hit the wall.
Daisy smirked. “Something wrong?”
“I have a prior engagement, but rest assured I will be back in the morning to sort this out.” He returned his pencils to the box one by one before grabbing his gym bag.
“If you must come back, bring coffee,” Layla called out.
“Two creams and two sugars for me,” Daisy shouted. “Layla takes hers brown.”
“Brown?” He looked back over his shoulder.
“Like her men.” Daisy laughed so hard she fell off the desk, spilling Layla’s papers and pens all over the floor. The dog barked in alarm and knocked over a wastepaper basket as it ran to Daisy, jumping on her and licking her face.
Sam stared at the scene behind him—his perfect office now chaos in its purest form.
He couldn’t imagine a greater hell.
• 4 •
USUALLY, the simple routine calmed her.
Knead the dough—squeeze, roll, press, and massage—until her hands ached and her fingers stiffened. If the kitchen was too warm or the dough was too soft, she would have to knead for up to twenty minutes to get the right firmness. Stopping to rest wasn’t an option. Roti, a thin round bread similar to a tortilla, was an unforgiving beast. Slack off and it wouldn’t puff up in the skillet. Then she would have to start the routine over again.
Today, however, she wanted to punch the dough. Not just because she’d celebrated a little too hard with Daisy last night, but because her perfect plan for reinvention was being thwarted by her father’s failing heart and a good-looking ass.
The smell of tadka, as the spices hit the smoking oil in Pari Auntie’s pan, distracted her from thoughts of her unwanted office guest. There was no scent so inherently Indian, and it brought back comforting memories of playing games with Dev in the kitchen after a long day at school.
“How’s your dad doing?” Daisy sliced into an onion on the counter beside Layla. Despite being hungover, she had come to help out that morning, along with some aunties, while Layla and her mom were at the hospital.
Layla shrugged. “He’s in a medically induced coma to help him heal from the heart surgery. The doctor said it’s routine, but it’s hard to see him lying so still.”
“It’s weird to be in the kitchen with only your mom shouting,” Daisy said. “It seems almost quiet.”
Longtime assistant chef Arun Shah handed Daisy another bag of onions. “Our new assistant chef calls her Mrs. Gordon Ramsay behind her back.”
Layla laughed at the reference to the British chef known for verbally abusing his staff. Although she came across as quiet and soft-spoken in public, her mother had a big voice in the kitchen and was abrupt and unforgiving when she was stressed. She expected a lot of her staff, but no more than she expected of herself. And although she could be harsh, she was always fair and unfailingly kind. As a result, staff turnover was low and many, like Arun, had been with the family since The Spice Mill first opened its doors.
“Where’s the prawn?” Layla’s mother shouted out, adjusting the Giants’ cap that she always wore when she was cooking, her long braid tucked underneath. She was a longtime Giants fan and had passed on her love of the team to Layla.
“One minute, Chef.”
“Arun, I’ve seen snails move faster than you. Pick it up.”
“Prawn in the window.” Arun put a plate on the counter, ready to be served.
Layla’s mother tested it with a fork. “Overcooked. What’s wrong with your eyes? Are you getting too old for the kitchen?”
“No, Chef.” Arun raced over to the gas stove. “Sorry, Chef. Three minutes and I’ll have another plate ready.”
“And you.” Layla’s mother poked the dough as she walked past. “More massaging. Less squeezing.”
“That’s what I said last weekend in bed,” Daisy whispered.
Layla laughed as her fingers sank into the soft, warm dough. “Who were you with?”
“My Bollywood dance instructor. I couldn’t help myself after he taught us ‘Dard-e-Disco.’ He looks just like Shah Rukh Khan, who is the only old Bollywood actor I legit have a crush on.”
Daisy wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. There were tricks to cutting onions and she’d forgotten to use them. “You have to come to the next class. You’re an amazing dancer. I always thought you’d be the next Mehar Auntie when you were old enough to be an auntie.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Layla had always loved Bollywood-style dancing. She’d learned her first dance from Mehar Auntie and had taken lessons for years, culminating in a performance of “Nagada Nagada” at her high school talent show with Daisy and a handful of friends. “Anyway, I haven’t danced in ages.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Daisy said. “Remember this?” She put the knife down and danced a few steps, hands swinging from side to side as she hummed the chorus of the familiar song. Layla stopped kneading to sing, and for a moment there was no Jonas or “Blue Fury,” no sexy-but-irritating man in her office, and her father was about to walk through the door and hug her troubles away.
“Is this Bollywood or a restaurant?” Layla’s mother shook her head. “Now you’ll need to start again. Do I need to separate you two like I did when you were small? Alone, you are good girls. Together, you are rascals.”
&nb
sp; Daisy hung her head in mock shame. “Sorry, Jana Auntie.”
“Hey, baby girl.” Danny Kapoor, her mother’s new assistant chef, joined them at the counter. With his big, brown, puppy dog eyes, sensuous lips, thick dark hair, and high cheekbones, Danny was more suited to walking down a runway than standing behind a stove—and he knew it. Even in the middle of meal prep, his shirt was open one button too many, and his hips moved in ways that were respectable only in a Bollywood film. Layla had met him a few times when she’d come home to visit, but they’d never had a real conversation.
“I heard you’re going through a rough spot,” his soft voice flowed over her like sickly sweet liquid caramel as he edged between Layla and Daisy. “Just wanted to let you know I’ve been there, and if you need to talk—”
“She has me,” Daisy snapped.
“Of course she does,” he said smoothly. “I just meant if she wanted the guy perspective or needed extra support, I’m always here.” He flashed his charming smile at Daisy, who was now busy spelling fuckboy in onion slices on the cutting board.
Layla had met more than one fuckboy in her quest to numb the pain of Dev’s death. Attractive, charming, yet notoriously selfish and careless with their overall actions, they didn’t care how they affected other people as long they got what they wanted and had fun while doing it—and it was very clear where Danny’s interests lay.
“That’s very nice, Danny. I appreciate it, but I’m not—”
“You’re still hurting, babe. I get it. Tomorrow, when you’re ready, I’ll be here for you.”
“How’s your girlfriend?” Daisy asked loudly.
“She’s good.” He leaned against the counter, seemingly unconcerned about being called out. “She travels a lot for her job. I think she’s in Paris right now, so there is an empty space in my bed waiting to be filled.”
