Busted in Bollywood (25 page)

“Come on, I’m starving.”

He held the door open for me and gripped my hand as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Immediately jostled by the bustling hordes, the rustle of plastic bags banging against my legs, stray elbows, and curry powder aroma heavy in the air instantly transported me back to Mumbai.

“Can’t believe you’ve never been to Sassoon’s,” he said, tugging me toward the nearest doorway, leading into a brightly lit shop.

“I can’t believe it either,” I said, stepping into the shop and feeling like I’d come home.

The aromas hit me first and I inhaled deeply, the heady mix of cumin and mustard seeds and
garam masala
making me salivate. Food covered every surface, from the
samosa
-filled platters on the spotless stainless steel counters to the layered shelves in glass cabinets lining every wall. I didn’t know where to look first: the tiffin snacks, the street vendor food, or the sweets, arranged in towering pyramids that made my waist as well as my eyes bulge by looking.

“What do you fancy?”

“Apart from you?”

He squeezed my hand. “I love a good comeback. But right this minute, I want you to make a fast choice so we can head to your place, where I’m going to—”

He ducked down and whispered in my ear exactly what he was going to do. In exquisite, erotic detail.

I gulped, the heat from ghee sizzling in
kadai
s nothing to the heat surging through me.

“Choose. Quickly.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. I’d made my choices by the time we reached the counter a
long
five minutes later.

“You choose savory, I’ll grab sweets, my treat,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze before he released it and moved down the counter, looking delightfully out of place in his suit, tall and commanding and utterly gorgeous.

My stomach flipped—not from hunger—as he sensed my stare and half-turned, his lop-sided smile making me want to shove aside the people separating us and fling myself into his arms.

I was in over my head with this one.

Floundering and yearning and craving a happily-ever-after that probably wasn’t feasible.

With a wistful sigh I swiveled toward the counter and ordered
singharas
(Bengali version of a samosa),
masala vada
(deep-fried spicy lentil snacks),
vegetable bhaji
(vegetables mixed with chickpea flour and fried),
shrimp pakoras
(same as bhaji but with shrimp),
kachoris
(fried flat bread stuffed with spicy dahl), and
aloo tikki
(potato patties).

Enough food to keep us fed for ages. Enough food to keep us locked away in my apartment without having to venture out.

My shoulders sagged as I snagged the heavy bags a second before Drew joined me.

I eyed the boxes of sweets stacked in his arms and laughed. “A man after my own heart.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to leave the apartment for a while.”

I jiggled the bags. “Same here.”

His eyes darkened with passion and my body buzzed in anticipation. “Let’s go.”

I’d wanted to memorize the route from the shop to my apartment so I could revisit but the fifteen-minute limo ride passed in a blur of unbridled tension and loaded glances and whispered promises.

By the time we made it back to my brownstone I could barely stand, my knees wobbling with the thought of what was to come. Admirably chivalrous, Drew managed to hold the bags, juggle the sweet boxes, and hold my hand as we stumbled up the steps, through the main door, and into the elevator.

We didn’t speak. The air between us crackled with expectation, and when the elevator doors slid open we tumbled out in our haste. My hand shook as I juggled the key, once, twice, before sliding it home. Flinging open the door, we bustled in.

Drew dropped the bags and boxes on a nearby hall table.

I dropped my handbag.

We dropped all pretenses at taking this slow as we reached for each other.

Hands clawed at clothes. Fingers fumbled with buttons. Bodies strained.

We stripped in record time, the tearing of expensive cotton and the satisfying pop of buttons not bothering us as he protected himself and slid into me on a long, drawn out moan.

My back hit the nearest wall and he supported my butt as I hooked my legs around his waist, taking him in deeper, taking him all the way.

With every thrust my muscles clenched.

With every caress my skin hummed.

With every exquisitely torturous grind of his hips against mine, I lost myself in the out-of-control, pinwheeling, escalating eroticism.

Our mouths found their way to each other, a desperate fusion of lips and tongues, hot, long, wet kisses lasting forever. He shifted a fraction, changing the angle and within three thrusts I shattered, bit down on his shoulder, swept away in the throes of a mind-blowing orgasm.

He came a moment later, yelling my name, the sweetest, most satisfying sound I’d ever heard. He cradled me, supporting my weight, and in that moment, as heat from our sweat-slicked bodies enveloped us in an intimate cocoon, the soul-destroying realization hit.

How could I let him walk away?

…

Drew walked away the next day.

Urgent business in Chicago, massive IT deal worth billions.

Put my trial at the magazine into perspective. Which I still hadn’t told him about for several reasons: I didn’t want to jinx it and I didn’t want to look like a failure if a permanent job didn’t eventuate. Being unemployed was bad enough. Not being good enough to secure a job after a trial? Loser. Hopefully, I could wow him with my new job if/when I impressed
Viand
enough.

Stupid thing was, I’d been willing to accept our differences until that run-in with his mom. I may have forgiven her vileness but I couldn’t forget. She’d been right in a way. Dress this relationship up any way I liked but when I stripped away the newness and romance and international glamour of our meeting and consequential hook-up now, Drew and I were worlds apart.

While I had potential, a work-in-progress the editor-in-chief would say, Drew was the real deal. He’d achieved so much, had done so much, it made my life to date pale in comparison.

Sure, I may have exciting things to look forward to—my trial ended today and I’d checked my cell every five seconds, beyond nervous I wouldn’t get this job and be back where I started—was that enough to offer him? A city girl finding her feet falling for a worldly guy taking constant giant leaps?

My cell pinged and my heart stopped. I fumbled it out of my hoodie pocket and glanced at the screen, nerves warring with excitement, almost relieved when Rita’s name popped up above the message.

Hey S, any news?

My thumb flew over the tiny alphabetical keys, tapping a quick response.

No & stop asking me. Will let u know ASAP.

MM at the ready. Call me!

I smiled. Any excuse for a Mojito Monday. I typed
Gr8, S x
and received a super-fast
xoxo
in response.

Rita’s support meant a lot but I knew who I’d rather be getting those kisses and hugs from.

Drew said he’d probably be too busy to call. That didn’t stop me wishing he would.

Falling in love with a mogul sucked. Especially when he’d be heading back to Mumbai the day after the wedding.

The front door intercom buzzed and I jumped, the part of me prone to fantasy wishing that was Drew lobbing on my doorstep. Crazy? Hell yeah, but he’d done it once before.

I jabbed at the button. “Yes?”

“Delivery for Miss Jones.”

“Come on up.” I let the guy in downstairs, checked my cell one last time, and gave it a little shake—like that would speed up news of my job.

The delivery guy knocked and when I opened the door, the first thing to hit me was the smell. A heady, tempting aroma of spices. Cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, turmeric—I could distinguish between each, considering I’d consumed enough of them since my love of Indian food had kicked in, and my mouth watered.

“Here you go.” He handed me two bulging bags and I placed them on the floor before signing his electronic device and tipping him.

He saluted. “Freelance couriers usually deliver parcels and flowers.” He pointed at the bags. “First time I’ve ever wanted to eat whatever’s in there before I got here.”

I smiled and shut the door, grabbing the bags and heading into the lounge. I knew that smell. Could name each individual item sealed in the bags:
samosas, bondas, vada, pakoras
. My favorites. Known by a certain person.

I ripped open the first bag and inhaled, the
masala
blend bringing back instant memories of Mumbai—and Drew. We’d shared these delectable morsels in this very apartment. In bed.

Heat lit my cheeks at the recollection as I spied a note wedged between Sassoon’s cartons.

Flowers are passé. I’ve heard Indian is in.

See you soon.

Drew x

Like a love-struck heroine in a rom-com, I clutched the note to my chest, grinning inanely. I loved the fact my guy didn’t do flowers. I loved the fact my guy knew the way to my heart was through my stomach. I loved my guy. Period.

I popped a potato
bonda
into my mouth and sighed. Heavenly.

That’s the moment my cell buzzed with an incoming message and I leapt off the sofa, food forgotten, scrambling to grab it.My palms were so clammy it almost slipped out of my hands but I managed to hold it long enough to read:

Congrats, Shari. Your last article on beach food vendors in Mumbai blew us away. Your trial at Viand has been a success. We’re thrilled to offer you a permanent position. See you next week.

No signature. Fairly indicative of my lowly position and paltry salary. Didn’t matter, since I’d inputted Jorg, the editor-in-chief’s number, into my cell the first day we’d met and he’d raved about my
‘highly original take on Indian food.
’

I squealed, threw my arms in the air, and did a wicked hula. Until one of my hips clunked and I fell onto the sofa in a giggling heap, staring at the cell until the letters blurred.

I’d done it. Impressed them enough to employ me. Hot damn.

Knowing Rita would be watching her cell as obsessively as I’d been, I quickly tapped a text.

Got it!

Her answer came so fast I barely had time to pop a
pakora
in my mouth.

Yay! U. Me. MM. Celebr8 big time xx

I could hardly wait.

@ 8 2nite, my place. Squeee! x

My thumb hovered over the keypad. I wanted to send a text to Drew about my job but the teeny part of me deep down that still harbored insecurities wanted to see his reaction when I told him. So I settled for:

Thx for snacks, u know me well. Don’t work 2 hard. MJ x

I always signed my texts to him Miss Jones. He seemed to get a kick out of it and it reminded me of our first momentous meeting. I’d toyed with writing
miss you
before deciding it sounded too needy. And that wasn’t me. Not when I had a kick-ass job. Woo-hoo!

I might not be the born and bred lady his mom wanted me to be but the way my life was coming together, maybe I had something to offer her son after all.

…

I entered Rita’s hotel room, took one look at the bride decked out in her finery, and glanced down at my dress, wondering how I could feel like faded wallpaper in Valentino.

“You look amazing.” I spoke barely above a whisper, in awe of my beautiful friend, who was doing a fair statue impersonation, unmoving, unblinking.

Uh-oh. Maybe Mama Rama had slipped something into her
chai
to prevent this wedding going ahead. Wouldn’t put anything past the domineering cow.

“I feel sick.” Rita raised stricken eyes, the only sign of movement in her rigid body. “How could you let me do something like this?”

Smiling, I hugged Rita and air-kissed both cheeks, not wanting to spoil the exquisite makeup job by one of Sarah Jessica Parker’s entourage (a friend of a friend of a work acquaintance at Bergdorf’s came through for Rita in a big way).

“What’s with the nerves? It’s not like you’re a blushing bride or anything. You and Romeo have been getting it on since his plane touched down at JFK.”

“Rakesh… ” Rita breathed his name on the softest sigh, her eyes losing focus, lost in a memory. A damn good one by the smug smile lifting the corners of her plumped and glossed mouth.

“Yeah, Rakesh. The guy you’re marrying. For life. The ball and chain, the anchor around your neck, always looking over your shoulder, forever and ever and ever.”

I grinned as she slapped my arm.

In comparison to Mama Rama’s stinging slap when she first caught us out at Central Park? A gentle love tap.

“You’re right. Nerves are a waste of time.” Rita shook her head in characteristic defiance, setting off a cute melody from the tiny bells dangling from an elaborate head scarf. Combined with the rest of the gold hanging from various parts of her body, she glittered and twinkled like a Christmas bauble.