Chapter 9
chapter 9
Dev’s forehead creased as he pulled into an unfamiliar strip mall in West Kelowna. He glanced at his phone: the pin Naomi had sent him indicated he was in the right spot, but she hadn’t divulged exactly where to meet her. For a brief, shaky moment, Dev allowed a fleck of doubt to wriggle into his brain. Since he’d struck this deal with Naomi, it had been there—nestled in the back of his mind like a stubborn speck of pepper between his teeth—reminding him that she could change her mind at any moment. For no reason at all.
Never mind that baring his fears of marriage to her had been completely out of character for him; the real shock was that she’d stuck around. Stuck around and agreed to help him. Dev kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Naomi to inform him that the rebrand of the bazaar aside, helping him wasn’t worth the trouble. He wasn’t worth the trouble.
When he finally spotted Naomi leaning against her silver Toyota, looking happy to see him as he made his way to her, Dev had to steel himself against the relief that washed over him. She could still change her mind , he reminded himself, but as her smile widened, as open as the sun, the caution flew from his mind as did the rest of his self-preservation.
Had a person ever had this effect on him before? On a Monday morning, no less? In the crowded parking lot of old cars straddling white lines, she was hard to look away from and he awkwardly averted his gaze to the ground before she noticed.
“What are we doing here?” he grumbled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker.
Although her eyes narrowed, Naomi’s smile refused to wilt. “Research.” She turned and led the way to a cheerful-looking storefront in the middle of the row of shops: Sweets That Make You Singh. Just shy of opening the entrance door, Naomi noticed his reluctance and beckoned him forward.
Dev grabbed Naomi’s arm before she could swing the door open, taken aback by the delicate contours of her wrist. So far, she’d shown herself to be so capable, a woman who refused to give up without a fight. Everything about her was unbending, steel strength, but her fragile wrist said otherwise.
He gentled his grip and tone. “Why are we here?”
“This place used to be Sweets of Punjab, but a few years ago, they decided to modernize and expand their clientele.” She lifted her chin. “I want to see their spread and what’s popular on the menu.”
By Dev’s estimation, the only thing that could make a Monday worse was a trip to a Punjabi sweets store. He’d visited them enough times over the course of his life. But he held his tongue because it was becoming clear to him that around Naomi, he was especially prone to sticking his foot in his mouth. He’d already known he was rarely, if ever, the most charming person in the room, but in her presence, it was as if everything short-circuited and his baser, blunt instincts kicked in.
Even now, the embarrassment of ranting about marriage because a little old lady had broken into a brief song-and-dance pressed between his shoulder blades, uncomfortable and sharp. And as Naomi stared at him with expectant eyes, her other hand on the door handle, Dev reached for something easier, and more familiar, to soothe the pinch.
Good old crankiness.
“We had to come all the way to West Kelowna to do this? There are plenty of Indian restaurants and sweet shops closer to the bazaar.”
Naomi pulled open the door. “I felt we needed to get away from the bazaar—and that neighborhood—for this.”
Dev hesitated a brief second before following her inside. Sweets That Make You Singh was not what he had expected. It was a standing-room-only Indian desserts shop. And busy, if the swell of eager voices was any indication. People of all different backgrounds were lined up at the register, eyeing rows upon rows of colorful sweets winking from behind glass display cases. A giant chalkboard announced boxed assortments with clever names like “Treats to Woo Your Mother-in-Law,” “She Said Yes,” and “Last-Minute Potluck.” It was gimmicky, but it worked.
“Isn’t it great?” Naomi beamed. In the bustling, happy chatter of the store, her eyes were as bright as the pink chum chums advertised as the “Sweet of the Day.” Despite adding waiting in line to his pet peeves list, Dev found himself moving closer to her.
“It’s all right,” he allowed.
Naomi leaned her ear toward him. “I’m sorry, are you agreeing with me?”
“Maybe.” Perhaps it was being away from Gia’s Bazaar, but in the bright and whimsical dessert store, he was feeling lighter and at ease with Naomi by his side.
Not that he would ever admit that to her.
“And here I thought I’d never see the day.” Naomi’s smug grin was surprisingly endearing. “Dev Mukherjee agreeing with the Brand Lady.”
“Okay, you made your point.” Dev forced a scowl to hide his smile. “And as you can probably see, the gulab jamun and laddoos are flying off the shelves. Are we done here?”
“Not until I get something delicious to eat.”
“Fine. But it’s a pass for me,” Dev replied, even as a robust gulab jamun caught his eye.
Naomi nudged him with her elbow. “Really? Because you’re staring at that mishti like a sprinter eyes the finish line.”
Noting that Naomi had remembered, and correctly pronounced, the Bengali word for “sweet,” Dev lifted his eyebrows. “Someone was paying attention.”
“I’m full of surprises,” she said with a wry smile.
“What’s with the sport references, anyway?”
“What?”
“This is the third time I’ve heard you randomly compare something to a sport.”
A faint blush darkened Naomi’s already rosy cheeks. “My stepdad and I used to bond over the Olympics. You learn a lot about different sports when you’re glued to the screen for sixteen days straight.” She shot him a sideways glance. “I know it’s weird. He does it, too. My stepdad, I mean.”
Dev paused to bury any traces of wistfulness in his voice. “Are you close to him?”
“Yes, I am.”
They fell silent, two statues in a fidgety line. Although Dev knew he had, once again, said the exact right thing to lead them down the wrong path, this time felt different. The insurmountable edges of awkward regret failed to appear. He felt oddly comfortable falling into contemplative silence with Naomi. Even more strange was the urge to lighten the mood and return them to a place of easy banter. To spark the light in her eyes again.
“I have a thing for sports, too,” he said. The words sounded stunted in his ears, but at Naomi’s grateful smile, he felt his chest expand.
“Really?”
“I don’t think I’m as well versed as you are, but I’d love to work for the business side of a professional, or semiprofessional, sports team.” The second the words left his mouth, Dev blinked, startled. He’d never admitted that out loud to anyone before. Even to close friends, he had glossed over his reason for leaving his accounting firm, citing a desire for new opportunities to bullshit his way out of follow-up questions.
“That’d be cool. Is there a need for accountants in that industry?”
There had better be or he’d be trapped in his mother’s house forever. “Someone has to manage the money.” And the stats , Dev added dreamily to himself. Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.
“So, what’s stopping you?”
Dev scoffed. “Bengalis are pretty conservative when it comes to career paths. The preferable ones are medicine, law, and engineering. Business school was acceptable to them as long as I got a CPA because taxes were familiar ground to them.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are your parents as extreme?”
Naomi sidestepped his question. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How what we want can be so different from what our parents want for us.”
“I think every first-generation kid raised in North America feels that way.”
Naomi’s chuckle was low and tinged with sarcasm. “Well, at least we have that in common.”
“What do you mean?”
Naomi’s face clouded over for a brief moment before she flashed another grin and clownishly threaded her arm through his. “Oh, Dev. There is so much you have yet to learn about me.”
Before Dev could retort, they had reached the front of the line. Although waiting to buy South Asian desserts was the last way he wanted to spend his time, vague disappointment misted over Dev. He was joking around and enjoying it.
Maybe Monday mornings weren’t so bad after all.
“Are you here for the class?” a jolly-looking woman asked, beaming at them from behind the register.
“What class?” Dev asked.
The woman’s eyes flicked to where their arms were still linked. “The cooking class. It’s starting in a few minutes.”
“Oh n—”
“What are you making?” Naomi interrupted.
The woman pointed to the tray of gulab jamun that had caught Dev’s attention earlier. Naomi turned to him, bright, shiny, and eager.
“No.”
“Come on,” she cajoled, tugging on his arm. “It will help me get an appreciation for Indian cuisine.”
“I saw the heap of food you put away at my aunt’s house; I think you’ve got the appreciation part down pat.”
“Dev.” Naomi drawled his name with exasperation. “Don’t you want to learn how to make plump, juicy gulab jamuns?”
Women like Naomi shouldn’t be allowed to say words like plump and juicy in public spaces. Especially while standing so close that even with the thick, sugary fumes of the confection store around them, her scent overwhelmed him. Coconut and something light and fresh—like sunlight warming the sand beside a calm ocean in the morning. When he failed to answer, Naomi elbowed him again.
“Consider this as part of our deal? Please.”
Although making the stupid dessert had nothing to do with researching for the store, it was clear Naomi really wanted to do this. Dev could feel himself relenting, but it was the saleslady who hammered the last nail in his coffin.
“These classes are very popular, and there’s only one spot left this morning,” she said. “It’ll be thirty-five dollars for both of you.”
At Dev’s resigned sigh, Naomi stepped in front of him and pulled out her wallet. “Count us in.”
As the cashier pushed the PIN pad in Naomi’s direction, she gave Dev a long once-over. “Do I know you?”
Probably , Dev thought glumly.
But before he could respond, she snapped her fingers in recognition. “You’re one of the boys from Gia’s Bazaar.” Her eyes flicked to Naomi with new interest.
Naomi, bent over the PIN pad, didn’t notice the gleam in the woman’s eye, but Dev did, and something in his gut tightened. His agreement with Naomi had seemed like a no-brainer after having a drink tossed in his face, but as this woman’s eyes bounced between them, he had the sinking realization that maybe he hadn’t thought this one entirely through.
“Enjoy the class,” she said with a knowing smile.
What have I gotten us into? Naomi tightened the strings of her pristine white chef’s apron and glanced around the industrial-sized kitchen located directly behind the sweets store. Six other couples were in attendance, most appearing to be in their midtwenties to late thirties. Surrounded by premeasured cups of flour, sugar, and oil, every person in the room seemed either horny, in love, or, sickeningly, both.
Except Dev and Naomi.
She blamed the sugar for this rash decision. The cloying sweetness clinging to the air in the bakery’s front room had brainwashed her, brainwashed them both. A sickly-sweet seduction that had loosened their tongues and reservations, forcing the stress of the rebrand and the threat of potential brides to take a back seat to the rich, tempting desserts surrounding them. And Dev’s company had felt different today. Comfortable.
Irresistible.
Besides, Naomi really wanted to make gulab jamun. However, one glance at Dev now, who scowled like a seasoned criminal in a violent prison movie, told Naomi that this spontaneous turn of events might have been a colossal mistake on her part.
“I can think of worse ways to spend the day,” she joked weakly.
Unmoved, Dev lifted an eyebrow. “Like?”
Naomi’s gaze trailed to a couple to their left: she and Dev watched in silence as the petite blonde dipped her finger in the cup of sugar for her partner to suck off with exaggerated tongue action. When Dev turned back to Naomi, he looked pained.
“Uh…” Naomi shrugged. “Like watching a movie with your grandparents with multiple sex scenes?”
“What kind of movies did you watch with your grandparents?” Dev asked in disbelief.
“All right, lovebirds!” The woman who had sold them their spot called from the front of the room and clapped her hands. “Welcome to Sweets That Make You Singh’s couples’ cooking class.”
Naomi detected a faint groan from her cranky partner.
Oblivious, the instructor continued. “Today we are making gulab jamun, a traditional dessert that is very popular in our store. First, we will make the syrup. You will need to add four lightly crushed green cardamom pods into your pot with the sugar and water.”
Dev snatched up the cardamom pods lined up on the tray of ingredients in front of them and tossed them into the empty pot.
“She said they need to be lightly crushed!” Naomi picked them out and pressed them firmly between her fingertips as she had seen Priya do at the dinner party. She felt an unexpected burst of pride as the spice’s shell cracked between her fingers, releasing an earthy-sweet scent.
With a huff, Dev dumped the rest of the required ingredients in the pot before glowering at their instructor.
So much for lightheartedness , Naomi thought, casting a sideways glance at Dev. His arms were folded across his chest. Naomi couldn’t help herself—her eyes automatically sought the firm cut of his forearms. At least there were certain perks to his sulking.
Once the class had finished making the syrup, the instructor led them through creating the dough. “Gulab jamun dough is very delicate, so when you roll it into balls, try not to overhandle them. Be delicate and gentle.” She expertly worked the dough between her hands. “See? Think of your balls as smooth, perfectly shaped little babies.”
At the workstation in front of Naomi and Dev, a couple that looked eerily alike gazed starry-eyed at each other and giggled. Dev scowled at their dough and made no move to follow the instructor’s direction.
With an impatient huff, Naomi reached into the bowl. “For a guy whose mother is well-known for her cooking, you don’t seem to know your way around the kitchen.”
“Why should I? Just because I grew up eating it doesn’t mean I love it.”
Naomi’s temper flared. “You could at least try, considering I’m going to be playing defense for you for the next few months.”
“Why? You’re not going to be cooking for the renovated café.”
Annoyed, Naomi pursed her lips and focused on smoothing the dough between her hands. Dev watched her for a moment before shoving a hand that was anything but delicate and gentle into the bowl and fisting an alarming amount of dough. Jerkily, he began forming a large ball.
“That’s too big.” Naomi held up her own donut-sized creation for comparison. It was, as the instructor had said, a perfectly smooth baby.
He responded by slapping more dough onto the ball.
Speaking of babies. Naomi kept her thoughts to herself as she finished rolling the rest of the dough. As instructed by their teacher, Naomi turned on the stove to heat their oil. She eyed Dev’s ball warily. His creation loomed over hers like a third-grade bully preying on defenseless preschoolers.
Dev caught her stare. “It’s fine,” he insisted.
As the class waited for their oil to reach optimal temperature, their teacher provided a brief overview of the store’s history and the cultural significance of Punjabi sweets. Dev’s loud sigh whistled with irritation.
“Let me guess.” Naomi meant to be playful, but sarcasm soured her words. “You already know the history of gulab jamun.”
Dev lifted a puzzled brow. “Gulab jamun is a Punjabi dessert. I’m Bengali.”
Outwardly, Naomi rolled her eyes, but her insides bristled. Although she couldn’t blame Dev completely—he didn’t know about her upbringing—having her lack of knowledge of the culture thrown in her face over and over again stirred ugly feelings in her chest.
Their instructor stepped in before Naomi could give in to the dark, shadowy mess inside her. “It’s time to deep-fry your balls!” she called from the front of the room. Naomi and Dev traded exasperated looks. “Be careful, the oil will be very hot.”
Dev passed the slotted spoon to Naomi.
“Sure, I’ll fry them,” she said sarcastically.
“Remember,” the instructor called over the hiss and crackle of hot oil popping through the kitchen. “You want to treat your babies with the utmost tenderness. You created them! Use a soft touch!”
After carefully dropping her neat little balls of dough into the oil, Naomi scooped Dev’s giant contribution and wrestled it into the oil. To her dismay, the damn thing didn’t break.
“Oh my,” the instructor commented as she passed by their workstation. “Your balls are awfully uneven.”
“It’s a problem of his,” Naomi said with a mischievous glance at the ever-stoic Dev. “Runs in his family.”
“I’m proud of my balls,” Dev replied, straight-faced.
The instructor shrugged in confusion and moved on.
Gingerly, Naomi used the slotted spoon to roll Dev’s giant monstrosity so it would fry on all sides. Another euphemism was at the tip of her tongue, but as she pulled her eyes away from the pan to shoot Dev a sly look, she felt a piercing burn on her thumb.
“Ouch!”
Dev grabbed the slotted spoon from her hand and tossed it on the counter. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I think some oil jumped out of the pan onto my thumb.”
Moving closer, Dev cupped her hand gently in his and examined her thumb. “I don’t see anything. Does it still hurt?”
The brush of Dev’s fingers against hers was soft and warm as he carefully examined her hand. He turned her thumb this way and that, examining her skin with a gentleness that belied all his earlier grumblings. Whatever pain had triggered her nervous system only moments ago disappeared, replaced by a thrilling kind of burn where Dev’s skin brushed against hers.
His touch would be etched on her cells long after the class was over.
“You smell like cardamom,” he murmured, his head still bent over her hand.
Something in Naomi’s chest hiccuped.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispered, kind of wishing it did. He gave her a long look before dropping her hand and grabbing the slotted spoon to finish the deep-frying himself.
Several minutes later, each couple had a plastic container of gulab jamun swimming in syrup in front of them. Despite herself, Naomi was proud of their work. Even Dev’s creation looked nicely toasted and delectable.
“We could’ve bought these instead of doing the class,” Dev grumbled, untying his apron.
“But it was an experience!”
“That resulted in you burning yourself.”
“Does anything bring you joy, Dev? Besides accounting and giving me a hard time?”
He tossed his apron on the counter. “Nope, that’s about it.”
Naomi fought the urge to crack a smile. Something about this man kept her on the precipice between laughing and screaming into the abyss.
“Now, usually we would let the gulab jamun sit for a few hours to soak up all that delicious syrup and double in size,” the instructor said, holding a tray of perfect, uniformly shaped balls in the air like the Olympic torch. “But I always tell my class to try one right away to enjoy the fruits of their labor.” The instructor offered a cheeky wink. “In fact, I encourage you all to feed one another as a romantic ending to a labor of love.”
Dev shook his head with a grunt, but Naomi considered the bowl in front of her. Impishly, she reached for the massive ball and lifted it to Dev’s lips with a challenge in her eye.
He scoffed. “No, thank—”
Before he could finish, Naomi thrust her hand forward, forcing the gulab jamun into Dev’s partially opened mouth. Never one to half-ass anything, she didn’t stop there. Naomi smashed the entire ball against his face, enjoying the sumptuous squish of deep-fried dough on the palm of her hand. Shell-shocked, he stared at her, but she could only focus on the mess of gulab jamun smeared on his face. His nose and chin were covered, too, casualties of her vengeance.
The rest of the dessert fell onto the floor with a delicious plop .
Under his alarmed gaze, Naomi stared at Dev, the victim of a dessert hate crime. It was comical. And horrific. Naomi prepared herself for the worst, her fingers curling in anticipation, sticking to her palm thanks to bits of syrup-soaked, fried dough on her skin. Would Dev renege on the deal? Or worse, consider her actions a fireable offense?
And then, to her shock, Dev threw back his head and laughed, his dimples deepening wonderfully. Several other couples lingering in the room stared in astonishment, but Naomi found herself grinning in delight. Surrounded by his unfiltered laughter, her mind wandered back to those precious few moments when Dev patiently bent over her hand, concerned for her well-being, and although the burn was long forgotten, her right hand started tingling. The desire to lick away the remnants—as well as the imprint of the scrape of his jaw against her fingertips—crept into her mind, silent and tentative but so very present all the same.
As she swiped a striped dish towel off the counter, Naomi cautioned the warmth stirring in her core not to spread too far. He’s Gia’s son , she reminded herself. It was a personal rule not to get involved with clients, an important one given her brand consultant network’s penchant for gossip. Unfortunately, Naomi’s professional rules seemed a lot murkier when it came to Dev.
One thing was becoming very clear, though: Dev was not as salty as he seemed. There was some sugar there, too, and maybe Naomi should consider going on a diet.