Every heist needs a crew. Simi relies on people with whom she has a connection—however tenuous. Did all the crew members fulfill the roles expected of them? Did the members grow over the course of the story? Did you have a favorite?
If you had to assemble a heist crew from the people in your life, who would you pick and why?
Jack thinks of himself as a good guy akin to Robin Hood. He retrieves stolen jewelry and artifacts and returns them to their rightful owners. Nothing annoys him more than being called a thief. By law, two wrongs don’t make a right. But is it morally wrong to steal back something stolen from you or, alternatively, to steal something to return it? Where does Jack fall on the spectrum of right and wrong?
Despite seemingly opposite personalities, Simi and Jack fall for each other over the course of the book. What fuels their attraction? Is it purely physical, or is there something more? Simi also had a flirtation with Detective Garcia. Do you think Garcia or Jack is the better fit for Simi?
Simi and her friends are saddled with debt; unable to accumulate wealth; and stuck in low-benefit, dead-end jobs. They see the reward money as a means of achieving the financial security that their parents, grandparents, and even older siblings enjoyed. For each member of the crew, how do you see the money changing their life? Do you think it will pave the way to a better future, or will they blow it all at once?
Near the end of the story, Bella steals the necklace and then callously shoots her lover. Do you think the theft was impulsive or planned? Did she truly love Ben, or was he simply an escape or diversion from familial obligation? Would you give up $25 million for love?
Keep reading for a preview of
THE MARRIAGE GAME
by Sara Desai, available now from Berkley Romance!
When Layla walked into The Spice Mill Restaurant after yet another disastrous relationship, she expected hugs and kisses, maybe a murmur of sympathy, or even a cheerful Welcome home.
Instead, she got a plate of samosas and a pitcher of water for table twelve.
“There are fresh poppadums in the kitchen,” her mother said. “Don’t forget to offer them to all the guests.” Not even a glimmer of emotion showed on her mother’s gently lined face. Layla could have been any one of the half-dozen servers who worked at her parents’ restaurant instead of the prodigal daughter who had returned to San Francisco, albeit with a broken heart.
She should have known better than to show up during opening hours expecting to pour out her heart. The middle child in a strict, academic, reserved family, her mother wasn’t given to outward displays of affection. But after the emotional devastation of walking in on her social media star boyfriend, Jonas Jameson, as he snorted the last of her savings off of two naked models, Layla had hoped for something more than being put to work.
It was her childhood all over again.
“Yes, Mom.” She dutifully carried the plate and pitcher to the table and chatted briefly with the guests about the restaurant’s unique decor. Decorated in exotic tones of saffron, gold, ruby, and cinnamon with accent walls representing the natural movement of wind and fire, and a cascading waterfall layered with beautiful landscaped artificial rocks and tiny plastic animals, the restaurant was the embodiment of her late brother’s dream to re-create “India” in the heart of San Francisco.
The familiar scents—cinnamon, pungent turmeric, and smoky cumin—brought back memories of evenings spent stirring dal, chopping onions, and rolling roti in the bustling kitchen of her parents’ first restaurant in Sunnyvale under the watchful army of chefs who followed the recipes developed by her parents. What had seemed fun as a child, and an imposition as a teenager, now filled her with a warm sense of nostalgia, although she would have liked just one moment of her mother’s time.
On her way to the kitchen for the poppadums, she spotted her nieces coloring in a booth and went over to greet them. Her parents looked after them in the evenings when their mom, Rhea, was busy at work.
“Layla Auntie!” Five-year-old Anika and six-year-old Zaina, their long dark hair in pigtails, ran to give her a hug.
“Did you bring us anything from New York?” Zaina asked.
Layla dropped to her knees and put her arms around her nieces. “I might have brought a few presents with me, but I left them at the house. I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Can we go with you and get them?” They planted sticky kisses on her cheeks, making her laugh.
“I’ll bring them tomorrow. What have you been eating?”
“Jalebis.” Anika held up a bright orange, pretzel-shaped sweet similar to a funnel cake.
“Yesterday we helped Dadi make chocolate peda,” Zaina informed her, using the Urdu term for “paternal grandmother.”
“And the day before that we made burfi, and before that we made—”
“Peanut brittle.” Anika grinned.
Layla bit back a laugh. Her mother had a sweet tooth, so it wasn’t surprising that she’d made treats with her granddaughters in the kitchen.
Zaina’s smile faded. “She said peanut brittle was Pappa’s favorite.”
Layla’s heart squeezed in her chest. Her brother, Dev, had died in a car accident five years ago and the pain of losing him had never faded. He’d been seven years older, and the symbol of the family’s social and economic strength; expectations had weighed heavy on Dev’s shoulders and he didn’t disappoint. With a degree in engineering, a successful arranged marriage, and a real estate portfolio that he managed with a group of friends, he was every Indian parent’s dream.
Layla . . . not so much.
“It’s my favorite, too,” she said. “I hope you left some for me.”
“You can have Anika’s,” Zaina offered. “I’ll get it for you.”
“No! You can’t take mine!” Anika chased Zaina into the kitchen, shouting over the Slumdog Millionaire DJ mix playing in the background.
“They remind me of you and Dev.” Her mother joined her beside the booth and lifted a lock of Layla’s hair, studying the bright streaks. “What is this blue?”
Of course her mother was surprised. She had given up trying to turn her daughter into a femme fatale years ago. Layla had never been interested in trendy hairstyles, and the only time she painted her nails or wore makeup was when her friends dragged her out. Dressing up was reserved for work or evenings out. Jeans, ponytails, and sneakers were more her style.
“This is courtesy of Jonas’s special hair dye. His stylist left it behind for touch-ups. Blue hair is his signature look. Apparently, it shows up well on screen. I didn’t want it to go to waste after we broke up, so I used it all on my hair. I had the true Jonas look.”
Unlike most of her friends, who dated behind their parents’ backs, Layla had always been honest about her desire to find true love. She’d introduced her boyfriends to her parents and told them about her breakups and relationship woes. Of course, there were limits to what she could share. Her parents didn’t know she’d been living with Jonas, and they most certainly would never find out that she’d lost her job, her apartment, and her pride after the “Blue Fury” YouTube video of her tossing Jonas’s stuff over their balcony in a fit of rage had gone viral.