Honey and Heat

Chapter 1

“You must be Cinderella…”

Cynthia Kumar didn’t bother suppressing a disgusted shudder seconds before knocking back her tequila shot and swiveling her barstool to face whoever had delivered that tired remark.

It was the fourth pickup line she’d received tonight and despite the beer commercials of her youth, the speakers were not looking more attractive with each additional ounce of alcohol she welcomed into her body.

This particularly terrible opener had come from a guy with droopy blue eyes who was sporting a floral Tommy Bahama shirt in the dead of winter. In Canada.

“…because I see that dress disappearing at midnight,” Droopy finished, his lips stretching into a sluggish grin.

Cynthia needed another shot.

“Not interested,” she replied, tone clipped and precise, before turning back to the bar and signaling to the bartender. She could practically feel the man bristling under his awful shirt.

“What? I’m not good enough for you, sweetheart?” Droopy sneered.

When she didn’t respond, his shoulders jerked in an uneven shrug. “Just so you know, I wasn’t actually interested. I was just trying to be nice because you’re sitting here all alone on a Sunday night.”

Typical. She was attractive to them until she stood up for herself.

Every guy who’d approached her that night had trodden a similar path: an embarrassing attempt at flirting followed by a level of hostility that spoke volumes of their fragile masculinity.

Cynthia kept her eyes trained on the bartender assembling her drink and pretended she couldn’t hear him.

The choice words he muttered before scuttling away barely broke skin— rude, stuck-up, bitch —she’d heard it all before, whether here, in this sticky bar, or at work, aimed at her retreating back after she pointed out a miscalculated risk in someone’s project proposal.

She’d long ago given up trying to solve the age-old question of why men continued to run the world and was now much more focused on her next shot, sliding cleanly across the bar to stop right in front of her.

With a wrinkled brow, the bartender watched Cynthia toss it back—without even bothering with the salt or lime this time—and cleared her throat. “Everything okay?”

Cynthia shrugged and signaled for another. She was so not the type to spill her woes, especially to a stranger, however well-meaning they were. This whole night, really, was not her usual scene; she’d had to google the nearest bar for the under-fifty-but-definitely-not-twenties crowd.

And as a new dose of tequila slid into view, Cynthia wondered if it would even do the trick. The alcohol was not softening the bitter disappointment congealing in her stomach since earlier in the evening, after her weekly dinner with her parents.

Up until the end, it had been a predictable evening of rice, roti, and curry simmered in Cynthia-why-are-you-not-in-a-relationship sauce with a side of boys-prefer-long-hair vegetable pakoras.

Her mother had done the cooking while her grandmother, whose wrinkled face via video call had been propped up against a vase for the main course, had spiced the meal with her not-so-unique blend of complaints over the rising cost of living and jabs directed at her single—and not looking—granddaughter.

Cynthia didn’t care much about fulfilling her family’s ridiculous expectations of what constituted a good, obedient South Asian daughter, but even she knew better than to argue with her grandmother.

Still, her dad nodding his agreement with every one of Grandma’s critiques combined with her mother clearing her throat purposefully every time Cynthia tried to change the subject had been enough to make Cynthia sprint for the exit as soon as the last spoonful of kulfi had passed her lips.

But three words, overheard from the hallway outside the dining room, had stopped her in her tracks, her white, down-filled coat hanging limply from the one arm she’d shoved through the sleeve.

“About your retirement…” Her mother’s voice trailed off.

During dinner, it had been a welcome respite from marriage and baby-making when Grandma had switched gears and brought up the subject of her son’s retirement.

The family matriarch rarely broached the subject even though she called from India multiple times a week, undeterred when she often missed her son, who had usually already left for the office.

Or a site visit. Or a meeting with prospective clients.

Or drinks with one of the men on his senior leadership team.

Rich Kumar loved to work.

Cynthia hadn’t thought twice when her father didn’t bother to address the topic of his retirement over the dinner table.

She’d worked in her father’s office since high school and he didn’t seem eager to slow down anytime soon, but the slight edge to her mother’s tone, somewhere between annoyance and stubbornness, perked Cynthia’s ears right up.

And it wasn’t because Sipra Kumar rarely weighed in on the goings-on of her husband’s business.

Like Cynthia, Sipra was more than a little interested in Rich’s retirement plans.

At the prolonged clinking of her father’s spoon against his crystal ice cream bowl, Cynthia quietly slid her second arm through the other sleeve of her coat but made no move toward zipping it up.

Instead, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip, her breath hitching when the creak of wood alerted her that Rich was leaning back in his chair, his hands likely folded together on his abdomen.

Cynthia knew her father that well, had been studying him her entire life.

The soft squeak of velvet upholstery against a handcrafted oak chair spoke volumes: he had something important to say.

And Sipra must have sensed it, too, because the room fell silent.

If Cynthia’s industrious mother was abandoning clearing the dessert plates, then News—capital N —was forthcoming.

“I think I’ve finally found the right person to take over the family business,” her father announced.

A shiver of apprehension raced through Cynthia, but she stood as still as the coatrack in the drafty hallway.

Since attaining her diploma in marketing—before then, even—she’d been working her ass off at Kumar Construction, trying to prove that she, as her father’s only child, was a worthy successor to the multimillion-dollar legacy he had built.

From toiling away between file cabinets as a high school intern to bringing in lucrative clients as an up-and-coming interior designer and brand consultant, she’d done everything in her power, and then some, to prove that even though she was not the son Rich Kumar had hoped to mentor and mold in his image, she was qualified to inherit his empire.

She could have stepped out of her father’s far-reaching shadow years ago, set up her own business that was more than equipped to stay afloat without people knowing her last name.

But she’d stayed on at Kumar Construction as an interior designer and tried to establish herself within her father’s company to prove herself.

Maybe her efforts were finally paying off.

Sipra snorted at her husband’s retirement announcement. “I’ll believe it when I see it. For years you’ve been talking about finding the right person, someone that reminds you of yourself, someone with the exact qualities to take on everything you’ve built.”

It took all of Cynthia’s self-control not to burst forward into the dining room, to remind them—especially her father—that she was right here .

After years of watching her father in and out of work, she’d modeled herself after him, mimicked his ambition, decisiveness, and confidence so that anyone with half a brain could see that their genes ran deeper than their shared pin-straight black hair and mild intolerance to lactose.

But Rich was a man who believed actions spoke louder than words. Besides, even had she made her presence known, he would likely see right through her, as he had every day since she’d turned fifteen.

Until her sophomore year in high school, she’d been Rich’s sidekick and, likewise, he’d attended every single track meet and debate competition.

He’d always been first in line to tell anyone within yelling distance that the tall, gawky preteen collecting the top student trophy on awards night was his little girl.

Ever since she’d learned to walk without face-planting every third step, Rich had dragged her to construction sites, hoisting her on his broad shoulders so together they could watch him build his legacy from the ground up—figuratively and literally.

Funny how the hormone-driven mistakes of a teenager in the first throes of love could shatter all that.

With a grandmother constantly badgering her to get married and have babies, and a stay-at-home mother who never once considered entering the workforce, her father strictly came to see her as just a girl.

One impulsive, silly mistake and she became, in her father’s eyes, a daughter who belonged at home, raising (if she was lucky) a brood of sons.

Yet the topic of her father’s retirement watered the tiny seed of hope taking root in Cynthia’s chest. She’d long ago given up on the Vancouver Canucks ever bringing home the Stanley Cup and had zero faith that Remi Matthews would ever forgive her for kneeing him in the balls when he’d spread rumors of her taking steroids after she beat him—and all the boys—in a long-distance race on track-and-field day in the sixth grade.

But when it came to the future of Kumar Construction, the seed had always been there, waiting.

“Trust me, Sipra,” her father said with the calm assurance that secured investors and made good on the bottom line. “This person reminds me of me.”

In the space of a heartbeat, that tiny seed germinated.

“How so?” Sipra asked. Cynthia tilted her head back and smiled with relief.

After years of being on the receiving end of countless interrogations about her unexceptional wardrobe, her disinterest in meeting “a nice boy from a good family,” and her ineptitude in the kitchen, finally— finally —her mother was asking the right questions.

“Hardworking, ambitious, aspirational…I’m telling you, this kid might be the whole package.”

Forget fertilizer and water. The seed shot up, blossomed. Likewise, a wide grin was flourishing across Cynthia’s face.

But everything shriveled when Rich spoke again.

“He might be the one.”

That one little pronoun sucked all the oxygen from Cynthia’s lungs.

She hadn’t stuck around to hear more, to listen to her father wax poetic about Kumar Construction’s Chosen One—a male Chosen One, of course.

Some unremarkable dude who didn’t have to worry about stupid things, like biological clocks and underwires and smiling through business meetings while period cramps ate his insides with razor-sharp teeth, was going to receive the keys to her father’s empire in his big, dumb, hairy hand.

She’d scurried out of her parents’ home, into the biting cold of a starless January night.

Her brain bypassed the practical need for calming breaths as well as the pathetic urge to shed angry tears.

And she absolutely would not dwell, as she had so many times before, on how much simpler her life would be had she not given in to the reckless whims of her first crush so very long ago.

Instead, she’d opted for the worst cliché possible to dull the ache spreading rapidly like thistle weed in her gut: alcohol.

Cynthia examined the straw-colored contents of her shot glass, irritated that it was failing to wash the all-too-familiar pain away.

Kumar Construction was supposed to be her future, not the reason she was sitting in a dive bar that, on its best days, would still be described as dank.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a shot, never mind the last time she’d tried to get drunk. Did she even like tequila?

“Fuck it.” Cynthia downed the drink as someone slid into the seat next to her.