Zara gave a light laugh. “It’s a mutual decision. We’re having a good time just hanging out and enjoying each other’s company but it doesn’t mean anything. Isn’t that right, Jay?”
No, it wasn’t right. But clearly he’d misinterpreted the pause in their arrangement. Zara just wanted a good time. He’d been hoping it was something more.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “That’s right. Neither of us has time right now to get involved in anything serious.” He sipped his wine but didn’t taste it, looking everywhere except at his mother. He didn’t think he could stand seeing the sympathy in her eyes. She knew him too well.
“Maybe Padma should start telling stories about when Jay was young,” Rick suggested. “Or pull out an old photo album to really embarrass him.”
Jay’s mother laughed. “I’ve never had a chance to do that before. Next time I’ll come prepared.”
Next time. He looked around the table, at his mother and Zara laughing together, at Rick looking up Days of Our Lives facts on his phone, at the way they had filled his apartment with warmth and light and the delicious scents of his mother’s cooking. He wanted a next time so desperately an ache bloomed in his chest. A next time with Zara sitting by his side, smiling at his mom, and squeezing his leg under the table every time Rick threw out a little nugget about his pre-biker days.
Jay couldn’t deny it. He had feelings for Zara. Feelings so strong they threatened to crack the walls he’d built to keep himself safe. He hadn’t had feelings for a woman in—never. But they were feelings she didn’t share.
? 19 ?
Instead of going directly to the table for her mother’s birthday dinner, Zara went to the restaurant restroom. She had five minutes before her mother was expecting her, and she needed to get everything under control. There could be no accidents tonight. No falls, spills, breaks, or burns. She couldn’t jump up from the table if she saw someone, or wave, shout, smile, or gesture. Even though it was an Indian restaurant, she would have to use her fork and knife instead of tearing her naan to scoop up her dal, and crunchy pappadams were out of the question.
She couldn’t imagine a greater contrast to the dinner she’d shared with Jay’s mom only two nights ago. So much laughter. So much warmth. They’d talked musicals and soap operas, swapped recipes, and shared stories. She’d been able to relax and be herself without worrying about what to say or how to act or what disaster was going to happen next. Drinks spilled and they cleaned them up. Rick overturned a dish of biryani and no one batted an eye. If not for the awkward moment when she told them she and Jay weren’t really together, she could have stayed there all night. She was falling for him and nothing had ever scared her more.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hair in the mirror. Parvati had helped her straighten out the wayward waves and curls and now her hair hung in a smooth, glossy curtain around her shoulders. To complete the business-professional look, she’d worn a shell pink blouse over black jeans and her favorite black boots. Parvati had lent her an authentic Gucci bag and she’d accessorized with a pearl necklace and a pink watch. No bursts of color. No fancy scarves or intriguing patterns. And not a sparkle in sight. Except for the boots, she was as close to corporate perfection as she could get. Hopefully it would be enough.
Forcing her lips into a smile, she pushed open the restroom door. Breathing in the familiar scents of sweet cinnamon, pungent turmeric, and smoky cumin, she made her way past the abstract paintings, gold metallic walls, and saffron-colored booths to the table where her mother waited with her longtime partner, Peter Roberts.
She greeted her mother with a kiss to the cheek and gave Peter a nod before sitting down. Her mother couldn’t fault her appearance tonight, and yet looking at her with her dark hair pinned up in her signature twist and an elegant scarf draped over her chic black dress, Zara still felt awkward and unkempt.
“What a lovely surprise. You made it on time.” Her mother glanced over at Peter and lifted her eyebrows as if she’d told him to expect Zara to be late. A lean man with a weathered face and graying hair, Peter was an anesthetist at the hospital where Parvati worked. He was easygoing and generally a nice guy who was happiest spending an evening at home cooking and watching detective shows on TV. To his credit, he never got involved in Zara’s spats with her mother. Instead, he would excuse himself and return when the dust had settled.
Zara kept her hands in her lap so as not to accidentally knock over a glass, drop a fork, or drum her fingers on the table. After they ordered their food, she smiled politely as her mother told her about her new cases, the firm’s planned expansion, the birthday breakfast Peter had prepared, and the cake her colleagues had brought to her office.