Chapter 2
Jaiman’s food was delicious—there was no doubt about it, Jia decided as she dug into his lasagna, her stomach grumbling. What she did doubt, though, was why he needed to cook for them so often. Papa invited him over to prepare dinner at least every few days, plus on their weekend game nights.
“This is fantastic, Jaiman,” Papa said eagerly, shoveling forkfuls of lasagna into his mouth, a glass of red wine next to his plate. “I think this is your best Italian recipe yet.”
Jaiman ducked his head, beaming. “Thanks, Devdutt Uncle.”
Jia bit the inside of her cheek as silence fell over the table save for everyone’s chewing and sipping. Didn’t Jaiman have—or want—a life of his own outside of the Deshpandes? Sure, Jaiman’s dad and Papa went way back: best friends since college, inseparable even after they got married, having been set up with their wives by the same matchmaker.
The Patils’ and Deshpandes’ lives were so intertwined that when the time had come to name Jia, a year after his best friend’s son was born, Papa simply took the first three letters of Jaiman’s name and scrambled them up to create “Jia.”
It didn’t stop there. Papa and Mr. Patil became business partners, raking in millions in profits throughout Jia’s and Jaiman’s teen years, until Mr. Patil decided to start something of his own and went to America to set up the new industrial business. That was right around when Jaiman was moving to Pune, a few cities away, for college. After Mr. and Mrs. Patil left, and then Jia too, for journalism school in London, Jaiman became a permanent part of the Deshpande family.
Jia would return to India during winter break to find Jaiman mixing plum cake batter in the kitchen, throwing his head back and laughing at one of Papa’s corny dad jokes. He would pause to check if Mamma’s glass of wine needed refilling, and ask Jia’s sister, Tanu, about her latest legal clients. He’d usher Jia over to the kitchen counter and show her pictures of all his weekend getaways with the Deshpandes, which happened every other Saturday, since his college was only a three-hour drive from Mumbai.
It was surprising to see how easily he had made his way into her family’s hearts. So much so that when Mamma’s cancer took her away over five years ago, right after Diwali, after Jia had graduated and returned to Mumbai for good, Papa brought Jaiman along with them to scatter Mamma’s ashes in the sea. When Tanu broke down as those ashes disappeared into the waves, it was Jaiman’s shoulder she cried on.
“So how was work today?” Jaiman prodded, and Jia looked up from the tomato sauce dripping from her fork onto the plate.
“It was all right.” Jia shrugged as she helped herself to more lasagna. “I pitched the new matchmaking column to my boss last week, but Monica still needs more convincing that I’m the best person to run it.”
“Oh, wow.” Jaiman raised a thick brow. “Sounds like a big responsibility. But there’s nothing Jia Deshpande can’t do when she sets her mind to it.” He winked at her before swallowing his next bite.
Jia ignored the rush of hormones that flooded her body at his wink and the way his tongue darted out to lick the side of his lip. It was hard to be mad at Jaiman for taking over her life when he was this…nice. No wonder everyone in her family loved him.
She let out the smallest of sighs and returned to the rest of the lip-smacking lasagna sitting on her plate. “Maybe I’ll make lunch for you tomorrow, Papa,” she mused aloud with the next bite. “The chicken breasts I bought during my last grocery run won’t stay fresh for too long.”
Papa shook his head. “Don’t worry, Jaiman used them for lunch today. You should have been there!” He turned to thump Jaiman’s shoulder with his free hand. “Best Thai curry and jasmine rice I’ve had in my life, my boy.”
“Yum,” Jia agreed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She’d have to beat Jaiman to it next time or hide the groceries better. Maybe she could get a second fridge and stow it in her bedroom?
Papa interrupted her train of thought by speaking up. “Jaiman also took me to the doctor this afternoon. My chest was hurting so bad, I was sure it was a heart attack.”
Jia didn’t react. This had happened three times so far. No, not an actual heart attack scare. Papa’s unwarranted trips to the cardiologist.
“But then it turned out it was just gas!” Papa chortled. “Just like last month!”
The only person Papa hadn’t seen for his presumed illnesses was a therapist. The one kind of professional who could actually help him, Jia believed. He had kept the grief of Mamma’s death to himself for five long years now, allowed it to manifest in unhealthy ways, like imagined sickness and fretting over every little thing. Perhaps it was his coping mechanism—assume every minor problem was a dangerous illness, so that it could be detected early, unlike Mamma’s cancer.
Jia hoped she might, someday, set Papa up with someone wonderful who would ground him into reality and bring him some peace. But knowing her father, knowing how devoted he’d been to Mamma, it was unlikely to happen. Maybe falling in love wasn’t a choice, but working on nurturing that love within a relationship absolutely was. And it was a choice Papa wouldn’t be willing to make with anybody except Mamma.
After dinner, as she was putting her plate in the sink—the housekeeper would do the dishes in the morning—Jaiman sidled up beside her, the citrusy scent of his cologne heavy in the air. Jia didn’t understand how a man could smell this good the entire day. It should be illegal. She turned to him, arms folded, trying not to visibly inhale. “Good job on the lasagna.”
He grinned at her. “Thanks. I have to get back to the pub now. Do you want to join me? I could use your help taste-testing some new drinks.”
Jia’s gaze went to the wall clock hanging in the living room across from the open kitchen. It was just past ten, and although it would have been smarter to spend the rest of her night brainstorming ways to convince Monica, maybe a cocktail or two wouldn’t hurt. It was Friday night, after all. “Sure,” she said finally.
Jaiman knew only one or two of the Mimosa employees who stayed until last call. Eshaan Bhargav was usually one of them, chugging beer after beer and then complaining that “it just doesn’t taste like it did the other night.” The idea of a drunk Eshaan flirting with Jia didn’t sit well with Jaiman, but fuck, he didn’t want to say goodbye to her just yet.
After he hugged Devdutt Uncle and promised to cook something with white sauce next time, he and Jia headed to his car, which he’d parked outside the Deshpande residence underneath the glow of a streetlight. They drove to J’s Pub, and she told him more about her day, her ideas for the “Mimosa Match!” column, and one of the dumb advice articles she was assigned that only further strengthened her resolve to make the column happen. Before he could ask her if she needed any help brainstorming—not that he knew anything about writing or matchmaking—they reached their destination. Jaiman parked in the basement garage of the establishment and led the way to his pub.
J’s Pub was fairly deserted for a Friday night, which felt like a sucker punch to the gut. Jaiman would have to step up his game, and fast. The senior citizens and kamikaze-shot-loving women from earlier were still there, along with one or two Mimosa employees, but the place was mostly empty. Even Eshaan was gone.
Mumbling a curse under his breath, Jaiman got to work on his new drink recipes while Jia said hi to her co-workers. When she returned, she was the only customer at the bar.
Jaiman slid the first cocktail in front of her, watching as her cynical eyes took in the highball glass filled halfway with the brown drink, garnished with a lime wedge and candied ginger. A drop of condensation trickled down the glass onto the branded J’s Pub coaster. Jia took a sharp inhale and peered at Jaiman, her dark brown eyes adorable and curious as always. “What’s in this?”
“You know I won’t tell you until you take a sip,” he teased. He rested his weight on his elbows on the bar counter and grinned.
With a sigh, Jia picked up the glass and tentatively touched the drink to her lips. After a few seconds, she took a bigger gulp, set the glass down, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “B-plus. What’s in it?”
Jaiman took the glass from her hands, relishing in the slight contact their fingers made, and held his concoction out proudly. “Ginger, lime, maple syrup, rum, club soda. Still mulling over a name forit.”
She nodded, then snatched the glass back and took one more sip before pushing it aside. “Good effort. What’s next?”
“Easy, tiger,” he said, chuckling. He took his time mixing and pouring the second of the two drinks he’d come up with last night when he woke from dreams of recipes interspersed with nightmares of his pub going under.
After she drank some water to cleanse her palate, Jia swirled the next glass around in her hand, squinting at the contents of the margarita. Colored baby pink and rimmed with Jaiman’s favorite Himalayan pink salt, the Whipped Rose was sure to blow her mind—it was inspired by her signature scent, after all.
“Smells rosy,” she mused, and took a drink. Her expression changed with every sip, and she’d finished the drink in one go before Jaiman could tell her to slow down.
Her cheeks were—funnily enough—rose-pink, her breathing shaky, and her eyes glazed, as though the drink had already made its way into her veins and intoxicated her the way she intoxicated him. “Wow,” she breathed. It sent tingles down Jaiman’s back, because the last time he remembered her saying that word like that was a year ago, the night of Tanu’s wedding, when he’d finally, finally, finally mustered up the courage to kiss her—right before she burst into tears and ran away.
He leaned across the counter and murmured, “You like the drink?”
“I love it,” she said, licking her lips. “A-plus. What’s in it?”
“Tequila, whipped cream vodka, triple sec, pink lemonade, and rose syrup with a Himalayan salt rim. The Whipped Rose.”
“It’s perfect.” Jia handed the glass back to him. “I want another.”
Jaiman laughed in her face. “We both know you get the worst hangovers, and this is a potent drink. Come on,” he said as he strode out from behind the counter. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I can call an Uber—” she started, but Jaiman placed his hands on the soft, dusky skin of her bare shoulders and steered her to the exit.
After he checked to make sure the patrons and staff were all good, they got into his car, and Jia huffed out a breath as he drove. “What?” he asked, laughing.
“Why are you so nice?” she demanded. “It makes it so hard to hate you.”
“Don’t hate me, then,” he said, making a right turn and then stopping promptly in the nighttime Mumbai traffic.
Jia whispered something he couldn’t quite catch. By the time he shot her a look, she had closed her eyes, resting her head against the window. Jaiman would have bet his culinary degree that she was only pretending to be asleep. Gosh, Jia, he thought, I wish I knew what goes on in that mind of yours. But he knew better than to say anything. Jia Deshpande was a tough nut to crack. He had spent nearly three decades of his life trying to figure her out, and he was sure the next three would go by without his having a clue.
He still remembered that perfect night of Tanu’s wedding. How could he forget the heat of Jia’s skin beneath his hands, the softness of her ruby-painted lips against his, or the way she’d moaned into his mouth? That kiss ended mere seconds after it began. She’d begged him to never again discuss “The Unfortunate Incident,” as she’d put it, so he hadn’t. He’d continued the charade that nothing had happened between them and that nothing ever would, and so had she.
She probably never thought about it anymore, but Jaiman would die with that bittersweet memory seared into his mind. Maybe that was as much of Jia Deshpande as he’d get in this lifetime, and maybe that would have to be enough.