Chapter 19
J’s Pub was half empty, or perhaps half full, if you wanted to be optimistic: a large group of ten or twelve lawyers that frequented the place every Saturday; three women sitting in a booth, two of them chatting and the third casting a yearning look across the pub at the only female lawyer in the group; and four middle-aged men playing pool and laughing wholeheartedly. Half full, Jaiman decided, as Jia’s rosy scent lingered in the air. Today felt like an optimistic kind of day.
“It’s a nice crowd today,” Jia remarked, taking her place at thebar.
Jaiman shrugged. He greeted the two bartenders on duty, poked his head inside the kitchen, and ordered burgers for both of them with a side of cheesy fries. Then he went behind the counter and got to mixing a Whipped Rose for Jia.
She tasted the drink and squealed. “Just as delicious as I remember.”
“You had one two nights ago,” he reminded her, and she shot him a look.
“Shut up and take the damn compliment,” she said, her voice bordering on teasing.
Jaiman nodded in amusement. “All right, Jia. Thank you very much.”
She took another sip, then paused to remove his jacket. She handed it back to him, and he put it on with the giddy realization that it smelled exactly like her.
“I’m curious about something,” Jia said, as the pink tint of her slowly emptying drink flushed her cheeks. When he raised a brow, she continued, “How do you come up with these recipes?”
“Well…” Jaiman tried to gather his thoughts. It was hard, considering how beautiful Jia looked, her face just inches from his. “I do my research, of course. Stuff I learned in culinary school: what flavors blend well together, which spirits mix with each other. But sometimes…smells, sights, tastes, and people”—he gestured to her—“inspire me.” He averted his gaze just as the words left his mouth, busying himself with scrubbing off a random water ring on the counter, hoping his admission wouldn’t make Jia uncomfortable.
She gasped. “Is the Whipped Rose inspired by me?”
He chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I like it,” she said definitively, pushing the empty glass to the side and leaning closer to him. Her eyes twinkled. “If Papa ever inspired a drink, what would it be?”
Jaiman got out from behind the counter. He slid onto the stool beside Jia and faced her. When their knees touched in the cramped space, he was surprised she didn’t pull away. “Devdutt Uncle’s favorite spirit is whiskey.” He paused. “Off the top of my head, the most dad-like cocktail I can think of is a chai whiskey with crushed cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Dads love their daily cup of masala chai.”
A crease appeared between Jia’s forehead, and she narrowed her eyes. “Did you just refer to my father as your dad?”
He bit his tongue. “To be fair, I referred to him as a dad, not my—”
“When was the last time you hung out with your dad?” The annoyance in her gaze now fizzled to confusion, perhaps even concern. “Even on a video call?”
“I don’t remember. After I graduated culinary school, maybe. Where the hell is our food?” Jaiman let out part of his endless frustration by slamming his hands on the counter. Then he jumped up to check on their order, but Jia pulled on the side of his jacket with her soft fingers.
“Hey.” She sighed. “You should talk to your parents more.”
“You can’t talk to ghosts,” he said, shrugging.
Jia opened her mouth, but promptly shut it when a server appeared before them with their plate of cheesy fries. She was probably just as hungry as he was—and for Jaiman, hunger ranked higher on the priority list than deep conversations about his parents. Anything ranked higher, to be honest.
Once their burgers arrived, they shifted to an empty booth, sitting across from each other and digging into their food. Jia had dropped the family conversation, thankfully. She was already on her second Whipped Rose, and she had a dreamy sort of look in her eyes as she licked the cheese from the fries off her fingers. Jaiman pushed his not-at-all-PG-13 thoughts down and focused on his burger and glass of water.
“You can drink one beer, you know,” Jia said. She bit into a French fry, then drained the last of her Whipped Rose. Her head almost swayed as she put the glass down.
“Don’t want to risk it,” he replied, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Alcohol is alcohol.”
Jia dipped another fry in ketchup and thought for a minute. “At least tell me this: What did you think of Harish’s pub?”
“Does it matter?” Jaiman chuckled dryly. He pushed his empty plate to the side and rested his elbows on the table. “The only opinions that matter are the critics’. And the customers’.”
“Touché,” she mumbled. She reached for a fry at the same time Jaiman did, and their fingers brushed. Of course, their hands had touched before, multiple times that very night, in fact, but the way she jerked her hand away told Jaiman she felt that buzz of electricity too. She put her hands in her lap and craned her neck to look at the crowd. Her chest beneath that low-cut dress had flushed red.
Jaiman looked away too, shoveling fry after fry into his mouth. After nearly a minute of silence, Jia called a server over and ordered another Whipped Rose.
“Are you sure?” Jaiman’s forehead creased. “This would be your fifth drink of the night, Jia. And you’re beyond tipsy already.”
“Yep.” She nodded to the server, and he walked away. “Besides, I’m drinking for the both of us.”
“Well, thanks for that.”
Perhaps the third Whipped Rose flicked on a switch in Jia’s brain, because she was an unstoppable giggle machine after she finished her final drink. She leaned against Jaiman as he escorted her to the parking garage, and she cranked up the radio in the car and sang so drunkenly—and badly—that he was afraid for his eardrums.
“Today was so much fun,” Jia sang to the tune of the random pop song playing on the radio, making up her own lyrics. “Thank you for inviting me, hun.”
Jaiman laughed loudly. “Maybe don’t consider a career in song-writing.”
She giggled. “I’ll stick to writing about relationships and dating.” Her eyes widened momentarily, as though she’d said something she shouldn’t have, and she added, after a beat, “At Mimosa, I mean.”
“Of course,” he said, chuckling. He’d seen Jia drunk countless times over the years and still couldn’t comprehend how alcohol could make her more adorable than she already was.
“Did you have a good time?” Jia closed her eyes and let out a contented sigh. “Do you think we stole your archenemy’s thunder?”
“I don’t know if we stole his thunder,” he said, turning to beam at her as he braked slowly, “but I know all eyes were on you while we danced.” Including mine, he thought, his heart flip-flopping. It was hard to look away from her stunning, flushed face, but he forced himself to turn back ahead and pull up in front of the Deshpandes’ mansion.
Before he could get to her side and open the car door for her, Jia ambled out cautiously in her heels, opened the gate, and just stood before the front door, staring.
“What are you looking at?” Jaiman asked, his forehead wrinkling, as he walked closer to her.
“The front door is locked,” she said plainly.
Jaiman put his hand out. “Give me your keys.”
She searched in her purse, then pouted. So adorable. “I left them in my other purse.” She rested her fingers on the doorbell, then moved them away. “Papa’s probably asleep by now.”
Jaiman fished out his own set of keys that Devdutt Uncle had given him years ago. “Here we go.” He unlocked the door and went inside, Jia whispering behind him, “How did you get my keys? Do you have my other purse?”
“No,” he said, chuckling, as she peeled off her heels (or rather, threw them to the floor), “your father gave me a set.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head up to look at him. Without the heels, she barely came up to his shoulders. “What now?”
“Now you sleep.” Jaiman took her hand and helped her up the stairs. He swung her bedroom door open and gestured inside. “Good night, Jia.”
“Wait,” she said. She pulled him inside and shut the door behind him so loud he was scared it’d wake Devdutt Uncle. “Come sit with me for a while.”
“Okay,” he replied. She didn’t speak, just stared right ahead, unblinking, so he asked, “So, how’s the matchmaking going with Charu?”
Jia sat up against the pillows in front of her headboard, while he sat next to her. She undid her diamond bracelet and put it in her bedside drawer. Then she crossed her legs underneath that perfect blue dress and whispered, though there was no reason to, “She told me Manoj got back together with his ex.”
“Oh.” Jaiman frowned. “Are you sure?”
Jia rubbed her arms, nodding. “And Charu refused my help with dating apps. I think maybe she’s still mad at me. I don’t know what to do, Jaiman.” Then she let out a shuddering breath and fell into his arms, sobbing.
“Hey, it’ll be okay.” Jaiman rubbed her back, very aware of the fact that he hadn’t touched her like this in a long time, so intimately, so gently. Her skin was cool against his fingers, and silky-smooth, and as his touch turned feather-soft, just breezing along her body,he felt goosebumps sprout up her back. She pulled away, her eyes glossy with tears.
Jaiman was hit with the memory of their kiss, how she’d cried afterward, and knew he had just crossed a line. He started to get up, his hands raised in apology, but she grabbed his tie and pulled him back closer—so close their foreheads touched.
If his pulse had thrummed loudly when he first cast eyes on her tonight, it now pounded against his veins. Jia cupped his face in her hands. Her red lips were hardly an inch away. He should close the distance between them; he should kiss her and never stop; he should finish what they’d started the night of Tanu’s sangeet ceremony.
But he didn’t, because he had no idea what she was thinking. Would she have invited him into her room if she was sober? Because if the answer was no, then this was a mistake. Jia looked at him, her eyes expectant, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Jaiman,” she whispered.
Their lips had nearly met when Jaiman shifted back and asked, “Why do you want to kiss me, Jia?”
She blinked up at him, her mouth parting. “Because I’m single and alone,” she whispered.
Jaiman’s heart sank. Jia never lied when she was drunk.
If she felt anything for him, she would have said it, plain and simple. She’d have said, “Because I love you,” or “Because I’ve wanted to kiss you again since the first time we kissed,” but she hadn’t. Those were Jaiman’s reasons for wanting to kiss her, not hers.
She was single and alone, and Jaiman was her only option.
That’s all I am,he realized. An option.
Jaiman breathed through clenched teeth and got up. “I should head back to the pub. I have a lot of paperwork to finish.”
“Wait,” Jia said, pulling on the front of his shirt. Another tear fell down her face. “Don’t you want this too? Don’t you want me too?”
Jaiman let out a sigh, not meeting her eyes. “Not like this, Jia.”
And then he closed her bedroom door, put his shoes on downstairs, and drove to J’s Pub, half-cursing himself for not kissing her, and half-cursing himself for even coming so close to it.
Jia woke up to a throbbing ache in her head and the bitterest taste in her mouth. Harsh sunlight streamed in through the open curtains. She sat up, rubbing her forehead gingerly, wondering why on earth she hadn’t drawn the blinds before going to bed.
Bed? She frowned. She was in bed. It was morning. She was still wearing the dress from last night. Which meant she’d already come back from the party at Vodka Vada, which had been scheduled for Saturday night.
Nausea crept up along Jia’s throat, and she ran to the bathroom and threw up the four (five?) drinks she’d had last night. Ick. She rinsed out her mouth, put her hair in a bun, and changed into shorts and a tank top before heading to the kitchen. Coffee. She needed coffee.
It was barely seven, but warm sunshine blinded her as she ambled down the staircase. She put a hand up to shield her eyes from the large windows and brewed herself a cup of coffee.
Jaiman. Last night. In her…bed? For some reason, his name swam to the front of her vision with an image of her bed, and her stomach fluttered. Was it excitement, shame, or guilt that she felt, or all three? She leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her hot coffee, trying to remember what had happened last night.
Jaiman. Last night. My bed.
The coffee sloshed over the cup and splashed to the floor. She’d almost kissed Jaiman last night. She was crying about something…he was comforting her…and then, like the fool she was, she made a move on him.
And he walked away.
Jia finished her coffee and mopped up the bit that had spilled on the marble-tiled floor with paper towels as things got clearer in her head. She’d tried to drunkenly kiss Jaiman and told him she was single and alone—the very words that had been living in her head rent-free since Charu used them to describe Jia. Obviously, Jaiman had turned her down. He had some self-respect, not to mention he would never take advantage of a drunk woman. Especially not if the woman in question was the friend he’d known since they were both in diapers.
She headed to the fridge and took out a pack of frozen peas to put on her aching head. Ah, relief, thy name is ice. Papa walked into the kitchen with a “good morning,” and she jumped. The frozen peas went back into the freezer, and unseen forces hammered on her forehead once more.
“Morning, Papa,” she greeted him back and got to preparing breakfast for them.
And Jaiman.
Of course Jia was attracted to him, but was that the only reason she’d wanted to kiss him? People didn’t go around trying to kiss everybody they were attracted to, right? People had self-control.
Not when they were drunk, perhaps.
Jia finished making Jaiman’s favorite pumpkin spice granola, packed it, and drove to J’s Pub. But the place was bolted shut with a heavy lock. Huh? She rubbed her chin and checked her phone. Had she gotten here too early?
Oh. It was Sunday morning. Of course. Thanks to the worst hangover Jia had ever had, it had slipped her mind that Jaiman didn’t come to the pub on Sunday mornings; he spent that one day of the week sleeping in. But…she looked at the granola in her hand. She’d made his favorite.
Thirty minutes later, Jia pulled into the luxury apartment complex where Jaiman had lived his entire life. Nestled between Shah Rukh Khan’s mansion and another celebrity bungalow, and facing Bandstand Promenade, the complex was pretty much what Jia pictured when she thought of her future sea-facing dream house. She preferred an independent house like the Deshpandes’ mansion, but living in a high-rise was appealing in its own way. The residents of the complex had access to a pool, a tennis court, a salon and spa, and the best view of the Mumbai skyline.
Her mouth soured at the thought of how the Patils had left Jaiman to fend for himself in this sprawling apartment with not a soul around. Was he friends with any of the neighbors? Did he swim or play tennis with others from the building? If Papa had ever ditched her to do business halfway across the world without staying in frequent touch, Jia would have started an uprising.
Sighing, she took the lift to the twenty-sixth floor, where Jaiman lived. That was when her nerves kicked in. Shit. How should she play this? Cool? Composed? Casual? Oh, Jia didn’t do anything casual!
Fine,she decided. I’ll let the granola—and my adorable smile—do all the talking for me. After all, nothing had technically happened between them. She didn’t need to ask for his forgiveness. She was in control here. Like always.
Jia cleared her throat and rang his doorbell.
Jaiman answered the door, rubbing his eyes with his fists, still half asleep.
Her eyes widened. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and somehow, she’d conveniently blanked out shirtless-Jaiman-at-the-lake-cabin memories up until now. His gray sweatpants hung low on his waist, just the start of that gorgeous V cut showing. Jia’s gal pals from college had always found those attractive on men. Jia never had.
Until now.
“H-hi,” she got out, shoving the packet of granola into his chest.
He took it, his eyes squinting, and said, in the sexiest, sleepiest voice in the world, “What are you doing here?”
She was supposed to say she made him granola as a thank-you for taking her to the party last night; she was not, on any account, supposed to blurt out an apology for throwing herself at him. And so she said:
“I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.” Just as the words left her lips, she clapped a hand over her mouth and backed away. “I should go. I’m sorry.” She pointed at the granola. “It’s pumpkin spice. Sorry again. Bye.”
“Jia,” Jaiman said, chuckling throatily, and the sound made the hair on the back of Jia’s neck stand right up. “You don’t have to apologize.” He raked a hand through his rumpled hair and added, “You were pretty drunk. I understand.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, “that’s all it was. I was drunk. Hell,” she rolled her eyes and forced herself to laugh, “I would have tried to kiss anyone who was in my bed. Seriously.”
Jaiman’s sexy smile twitched. “Good to know. You want to come in for coffee?”
“Nope.” She took a few steps back. “I parked in the wrong spot downstairs. I should go before they tow my car or something. Bye!”
“Jia!” he called out, but she had already raced into the lift lobby, exhaling when she was out of his sight and back to safety. At least now, Jaiman wouldn’t think she was into him.
Because she was decidedly not. Right?