Chapter 3
At eight o’clock on Monday morning, Jaiman was wiping down the bar counter with a squeaky-clean cloth when someone pushed the doors open to J’s Pub and walked inside. He didn’t need to look up; Jia had worn the same rose-scented perfume for a decade now, and it always announced her arrival.
“Hey,” he said, pausing his daily cleaning routine. “What flavor is it today?”
Jia dumped a packet of her homemade granola on the counter. “Coconut spice.”
Jaiman opened the sealed packet and took a sniff. The smell of coconut shavings, cinnamon, and the slightest hint of nutmeg wafted into his nostrils. His stomach grumbled. Loudly.
Jia folded her arms and raised a brow. “Eat it. Now. Or Papa will kill me. He complained to me yesterday that you’ve been looking skinnier these days.”
“Hmm.” Jaiman grabbed a bowl and a carton of milk from under the counter and served himself some granola. Devdutt Uncle was right. He had lost weight this month, both muscle mass and fat. It was the stress; he was sure of it.
But—like every morning at eight o’clock—his mind wasn’t on pressing concerns like fitness or the pub accounts being in the red. It was on Jia and her daily routine of bringing him breakfast before she went to work, although J’s Pub was over thirty minutes away from the Mimosa office, and she always said she did it because her father insisted upon it, because Jaiman had nobody to take care of him other than the Deshpandes.
He took a good look at her as he spooned the crunchy granola into his mouth. Delicious. And he wasn’t just talking about breakfast. Jia was wearing a short green floral dress today that he hadn’t seen on her before, tendrils of her brown hair escaping from her bun, her dark lashes framing those perfect brown eyes, with that little mole next to the right eye—
She looked up from her wristwatch, and he smiled at her. “It’s really good. Thanks.”
“You owe me a drink,” she said with a flutter of her hand as she walked back into the sunny, humid streets of Mumbai toward hercar.
“Bye,” Jaiman called out. He recalled the day three years ago when Devdutt Uncle had gifted her the Mercedes, how she had run around the driveway screaming with joy and then jumped into Jaiman’s arms to squeal some more. Her rosy scent had lingered long after she’d left to drive her car for the first time.
He locked the door behind her, biting his lip. The pub didn’t open till noon, and his employees wouldn’t arrive for a few hours. It was just easier being here than alone in the suffocating apartment his parents had left him. That was their parting gift before they permanently moved to America, while Jaiman was only one week into culinary school. Sometimes Jaiman would daydream about Dad walking into a crowded J’s Pub, locking eyes with his son, and grinning as he took the one available seat at the bar. I’ll have a Jameson on the rocks, Dad would say—his signature drink. And he’d stay until last call, when Jaiman would lock up and take his old man home after hours of talking.
The only person he’d done that with, so far, was Jia’s father.
With a whoosh of breath, Jaiman ignored the cleaning cloth on the counter and sat on one of the barstools to finish the last of his breakfast, forcing himself to think about something else—like the final crunch of the granola in his mouth, the whisper of rose perfume that still hung in the air, and the beautiful, charming, confusing woman who’d just walked out: the woman he’d loved since he was twelve.
He shook his head and decided to head to his office and refocus his thoughts on the pub. First, the things in Jaiman’s favor: J’s Pub had a decent social media following, and their few regulars always tagged the pub’s account in their Instagram photos and stories. Not to mention, Jaiman diligently shared photos of the discounted happy hour “drinks of the week” menu every Thursday, and because his friend and fellow restaurateur Flora had gifted him a beginner-friendly camera last year, the cocktails looked just as good as they tasted.
Second, what needed some improvement: Their ranking on Google. Although he’d set up a Google Maps listing, they still didn’t have a functional website. Jaiman wasn’t sure if the investment was worth it. Did anyone look at a pub’s website before they paid a visit? Probably not. Maybe he could look up popular food bloggers and influencers and invite them to review J’s Pub and boost its search engine optimization.
And finally, the glaring problem: He had to choose between better marketing and paying his existing bills on time. Except he couldn’t meet his expenses without more customers, which required better marketing.
Jaiman let out a heavy exhale. He couldn’t do this right now. He shouldn’t be procrastinating, and yet, it was too hard to figure this out by himself, in this lonely space, at eight in the morning. So he texted his head bartender. Kamal--can you come in early and take point today? That way, Jaiman could spend time with his loved ones until evening.
Speaking of which…he mentally went through all the groceries and ingredients he last remembered seeing in his best friend’s fridge, and took out the worn-out diary that always sat in his work bag. He flicked through the handwritten recipes from his time in culinary school, settling on a Bengali channa dal tadka that had won the heart of even his crusty old North East Indian Foods professor who was a stickler for authentic cuisine. Tanu and Anshuman would love this for dinner, Jaiman thought, beaming.
Jia didn’t mind making breakfast for Jaiman every morning. Papa loved her granola, and there was always plenty to spare.
What should have bothered her today, like most days, was that Papa never asked Jia whether she’d had time to eat her own granola recipe—and she hadn’t, because her stupid article had to be turned in by seven a.m., or else. Her stomach grumbled, and she put a hand to it and blew out a breath. It was fine. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t. Because today was Monday, the start of a new week, and she would make the most of this clean slate. She’d spent all weekend working on that article, plus brainstorming ideas to make the “Mimosa Match!” column happen. And with the lightbulb moment she’d had at two a.m., there was no way Monica could turn her down again.
After she reached the Mimosa building, she exited the parking lot with a grin and took the lift to the twenty-fourth floor, nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet.
The first place she went was Monica Shroff’s office. She knocked on the glass doors and walked in when her boss waved, eyes still on her laptop.
“Hi, Monica.”
“Hmm?” Monica didn’t look up as she rapidly hit Backspace on her keyboard. “Did you get around to finishing that article?”
Damini had sent Jia the reader responses on Saturday night, and she’d written an article that would convince even the world’s biggest cynic to buy into the “One” theory. “Yes, I already sent it in to the copyediting team.” Literally five minutes before the deadline, but she chose not to mention that.
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Uh…” Jia shuffled on her stiletto heels. “Didn’t you say we could talk about my proposal for the column? I came up with some new ideas.”
Monica looked up and raised a brow, gesturing for Jia to take a seat across from her. “Oh. Right. Well, what are these ideas?”
Jia sat down with a thump and leaned forward, crisscrossing her fingers. This was it. The moment of truth. “What if I was to set someone up at the office?”
Monica opened her mouth, shut it, then laughed. “You mean like a trial run?”
“Yes,” she replied, grinning. “Maybe someone who’s been single for a while, someone in their late twenties or early thirties, who’d be open to a serious relationship, or even marriage, for that matter. I’ll let you pick who it should be.”
Her heart raced as Monica thought this over. It was a daring move to let her boss pick someone, but Jia Deshpande had never been afraid of stepping outside her comfort zone. Finally, Monica nodded. “All right. Set…the new girl up with someone.”
Jia’s forehead creased. “The new girl?”
“The astrology writer, Charulata Gavaskar.”
“Oh, right.” Jia had nearly forgotten about her. “What’s she like?”
“She’s very”—Monica frowned—“blah. I suppose it doesn’t matter; she’s not writing about fashion, after all. She made it very clear during the interview that she moved to Mumbai not just for this job but to find a husband. So why don’t you help her with that, Jia, and then we can discuss your column early next year, maybe January?”
“Thank you, Monica.” Jia’s mouth was dry, but this could still work out perfectly in her favor—like most things did. She stood up and smoothed the sides of her skirt. “I’ll discuss this with Charulata and see how she feels about it.”
“Go ahead,” Monica replied, her eyes back on her screen.
Charulata’s desk wasn’t hard to find. It was right across from Damini’s desk and Eshaan’s office. Jia first saw the back of her head: long, straight black hair that she’d styled in a simple braid adorned with jasmine flowers. She was short and curvy, her dark brown skin free of any apparent makeup. She wore a beautiful pink salwar kameez, the dupatta around her neck falling to the floor on one side.
Blah? Not quite. Traditional? For sure.
“Charulata?” Jia called out. As Charulata spun around, the dupatta got caught under the revolving chair’s legs, and she let out a choked gasp before pulling the dupatta out and arranging it over her neck again.
“Hi,” she said, coughing. “You must be Jia ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Jia spluttered with laughter. “We don’t call anyone ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ or ‘boss’ around here. Besides, I’m a writer, just like you.”
Damini, who’d clearly been listening in on their conversation, mumbled from her desk, “Except Jia doesn’t write make-believe stuff.”
“Oh, astrology’s not make-believe.” Charulata frowned, an edge to her voice. “Especially when you include more than just your sun, moon, and ascendant signs, and you also include things like Human Design. In fact, I already told Monica ma’am—I mean, Monica—about educating our readers on Human Design, and she loved the idea.”
Jia and Damini exchanged confused glances.
“What’s Human Design?” Damini asked.
“It’s this beautiful synthesis of ancient and modern sciences.” Charulata’s face brightened, and she gestured animatedly with her hands as she explained. “It uses your birth data to create a chart that shows the energetic flow in your system, which explains how you operate and interact with the world.”
“That makes no sense,” Damini said. “What does energy have to do with who you are?”
“Energy dictates everything.” Charulata raised a brow. “Human Design is a combination of the I Ching, astrology, your chakras, and quantum physics.” She looked pleased with herself. “It’s going to blow the Mimosa readers away.”
“That sounds great,” Jia said, grinning, just as Damini opened her mouth to retort. “How are you liking Mimosa so far?”
“I’m so nervous and dehydrated that I’m chugging my water. Do you know where the washroom is?” Charulata asked.
Jia nodded and pointed to the corridor that curved to the left just ahead of them. “It’s right past the water cooler there.”
Once Charulata was headed away from them and out of earshot, Damini chuckled. “Jia, when you become a matchmaker for real, you can ask Charulata to match your clients’ horoscopes. See if their combined energy is written in the stars.” She motioned toward the heavens with her hands, still laughing.
Jia smacked her on the shoulder. “Hey. She seems sweet. Don’t bully her.”
Damini smirked. “Don’t hold me to it.”
As Charulata was walking back toward them, wiping her damp hands on her kameez, Eshaan Bhargav stepped out from his office and bumped into her so hard she almost tumbled to the floor. “Oh, sorry,” Eshaan said, catching her just as she was about to fall. “Are you okay?”
“Um, yes, sorry.” Charulata stood up, still in his grasp, and winced while Damini struggled to hide her giggles in the background despite Jia elbowing her in the side. “Not the best way to start my first day.”
“It’s not the worst way, either.” Eshaan stepped back and held his hand out. “Eshaan Bhargav. Marketing manager.”
“Charulata Gavaskar.” She shook his hand after a beat had passed. “Astrology writer. But, um, my friends call me Charu.”
“Oh, wow.” Eshaan ran his fingers along the side of his jaw. “That’s one of the few columns I actually read in our magazine. Good luck on your first day, Charu.” He winked, squeezed her shoulder, and strode away.
Charu continued looking at him as she walked back to Damini and Jia. Once she had sat back down, Damini asked, “So, Charulata, why did you move to Mumbai?”
But Jia’s focus was on Eshaan and the split-second glance—and smile—he gave them as he entered one of the meeting rooms on the other side of the office. Hmm.What was that?
“I’ve always wanted to do astrology for a magazine, and my parents want me to get married soon, so when I landed this job, they agreed that Mumbai might have nicer guys than the ones in Ratnagiri,” Charu was saying, and Jia tuned back in to the conversation. So what Monica had said was true. “If only I could meet one of them. Where are they all hiding?” She gestured toward the office that was slowly filling up with their co-workers.
“Can’t relate.” Damini shook her head, and her glasses slid down her nose just the slightest bit. “My ass has been gay since the day I was born.”
“How can you tell if another woman is interested in you?” Charu probed. “I can never tell when a man is into me.”
“I can’t, either,” Damini replied. She pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Lesbians just flirt with each other back and forth until one of them dies.”
Charu laughed, her eyes drifting to Eshaan’s empty office before returning to what Damini was saying next.
And just like that, everything fell into place in Jia’s head.
Tall, well-built, handsome Eshaan. Short, curvy, beautiful Charu. He was strategic; she was creative. He was confident; she was shy. They had just had one of the most adorable workplace meet-cutes Jia had ever seen in real life. And she hadn’t even had to trip or feign dehydration to orchestrate it for them.
It had been, what, five minutes since that conversation with Monica about finding a match for Charu? Going by just one little interaction, the #CheshaanProject seemed like it was actually written in the stars. Not to mention, if she successfully set up two people in the office, not just one, Monica would have no trouble believing how good Jia was at matchmaking.