Chapter 17
chapter 17
Standing under the green-and-white-striped awning of Belmont Heights, a senior-living apartment complex, Naomi examined the ancient intercom outside the dirty glass doors with a frown.
“Are you sure we’re at the right location?” she asked Dev.
He took a few steps backward to read the address on the awning. “I think so.”
They were there on business. Kind of. Word had gotten out about the bazaar’s remodel, and among the excited chatter and well-wishers, an old friend of Gia’s had reached out asking if there might be room in the future café’s menu for her homemade samosas. It wasn’t the first offer Gia had received, but it was the only one she had insisted Dev follow up on.
And Naomi, whose taste buds still remembered the amazing spread at Aashi’s dinner party, had tagged along. After all, if they were impressive enough for Gia to send Dev on a house call, then they must be pretty damn amazing.
“So? Are you going to buzz up?” she asked, nudging Dev’s ribs with her elbow.
Dev grunted. “I hate these types of things.”
“What’s that?”
“The only reason we’re giving this lady a chance is because she’s a friend of the family. It’s nepotism.”
Naomi nudged him again. Since their kiss the day before, something else was in control of her synapses whenever Dev was around. A brush of lint off his forearm here, a playful nudge into a firm shoulder there.
“Your mom asked you to check it out to see if it’s the right fit for the bazaar. She isn’t giving her the job, no questions asked. Besides, who knows, maybe this is going to be the best food you’ve ever tasted in your life.”
“They’re just samosas.”
Just samosas. Naomi swallowed the urge to touch him again—this time with a hearty shove. He didn’t know how lucky he was. Instead, she forced cheer into her voice. “Just dial.”
Dev raised a quizzical brow but did as she ordered, peering at the yellowed list of resident codes before finding the correct number.
They waited at least a half dozen rings before a small voice croaked. “Um, yes. Speak?”
Dev shot Naomi a pointed look before leaning into the crackling intercom. “It’s Dev Mukherjee.”
“Ki?”
“Dev Mukherjee.”
“What? Ki?”
Naomi pressed her lips together and swallowed a giggle when a faint growl rumbled from Dev’s chest.
“Gia’s son!” he yelled.
“Oh! Gia! Good. Good.” After several heavy breaths, the line went dead and a faint buzz alerted them that the door had been unlocked.
“I already know this is going to be awkward as hell,” Dev muttered under his breath as he held the door open for Naomi.
As she brushed past him, Naomi shot him a quick look. The past twenty-four hours had been awkward as hell. They had yet to discuss what was arguably the best kiss of her life, and while Naomi rarely shied away from the kinds of conversation that would twist Dev’s panties in a bunch, she couldn’t bring herself to broach the subject. Not when the desire to ask him when they could do it again made her cheeks flush and her stomach roll tight like a cinnamon bun.
What if he said no? Naomi knew that in his bumbling, tongue-tied way, Dev would try to be kind, but his rejection would crush her. There’d be no bouncing back.
Casual touch was easier. Meaningless. And so, with a light punch to his biceps, Naomi led Dev to an elevator smelling faintly of mothballs and cooked cabbage. Although the apartment complex was clean, she was taken aback by the faded wallpaper and ragged carpets. She had assumed, given the Mukherjees’ wealth and Gia’s lofty opinions about everyone and everything under the sun, that Dev’s family only rubbed elbows with people of their tier or higher.
Don’t judge a weight lifter by their size , her stepfather liked to remind her before that particular Olympic event. Who knew what apartment suite was hiding behind that croaky, old voice? It wasn’t like the bazaar had given much away about its owners when Naomi had entered it for the first time.
In this case, however, the proof was in the pudding. The home Naomi and Dev were ushered into by a petite, elderly lady in a rumpled brown sari under what had to be at least three shawls was a reflection of the elevator they had vacated: worn out, dusty, and smelling faintly of cabbage and mothballs.
“Welcome, welcome,” the old lady said, nodding with excitement. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs….?” Naomi hesitated. She looked too old to be labeled an auntie, which seemed to be Dev’s default for any older South Asian woman.
The old lady pointed to herself. “Didu.”
“Mrs. Didu.”
The old lady chuckled, and Dev gently cupped Naomi’s elbow with his hand. “ Didu means ‘grandma’ in Bengali.”
Naomi’s cheeks heated as the old lady released a string of words in a language she didn’t understand, and the blush crept to her neck when Didu began gesturing at her and grinning.
Dev cleared his throat, the pink tinge seeping onto his ears complementing Naomi’s palette nicely. “She’s congratulating me for having such a pretty girlfriend.”
Naomi shook her head. “Oh, no, no. I’m the brand consultant.”
Didu’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together. “Oh! Brand Lady! Asho, asho. ” She turned and led them across a small living space to a kitchen from the seventies, complete with checkered linoleum floors and cotton-candy-pink laminate countertops. The wallpaper was faded and peeling.
At Didu’s shaky, sweeping arm, Dev and Naomi sat at a kitchen table with two mismatched chairs. Given Didu’s basic command of the English language, Naomi knew she should take a back seat in conversing—which Dev would probably bemoan later—so as to not discomfort herself, or Didu, any further. But when she spotted the trio of ornate candles sitting on a wooden platter in the middle of the kitchen table, she couldn’t stop herself from sitting forward in her seat.
“These are beautiful,” she said, tracing the floral pattern on the cream-colored one with the tip of her finger.
Didu smiled and placed a plate of samosas on the table before placing a hand on her chest.
“You made these?”
The old lady nodded, pleasure creasing her eyes. She said a few words in Bengali and then turned to Dev expectantly.
“She says she hand-makes them and gives them to friends for Diwali,” Dev translated. “They’re all decorated with mehendi, which she does herself.” When Didu said a few more words, Dev added, “She used to do bridal mehendi many years ago.”
“Diwali…” Naomi murmured, racking her brain. “That’s the festival of lights, right?”
“Yeah, it’s in November.”
Naomi shook her head as she examined the candles with new respect. They were gorgeous, the detail so intricate and masterfully crafted. “So beautiful,” she repeated.
Didu responded by pushing the plate of samosas closer to Dev and Naomi.
Eager to taste a creation by the hands that could produce such art, Naomi chose one and took a hearty bite, Dev not far behind. They stared at each other as they chewed, Didu hovering at their side.
The faint ringing of a phone interrupted the tasting, and Didu held a finger up to signal her departure before shuffling toward the living room.
As soon as she was gone, Dev grimaced. “Something’s wrong with mine. It tastes like the bottom of a compost pail.”
“I don’t think it’s just you,” Naomi said around a mouthful of mush and grit. She looked around for a paper towel or a garbage bin. “I need to spit this out.”
The sound of crunching gravel emitted from between Dev’s teeth. He’d found the grit that Naomi was already pushing to the front of her mouth in anticipating of ridding her palate of this culinary abomination.
“Quick,” Dev gurgled, sounding less in command of his gag reflex. “She’s telling whoever’s on the phone that she has company.”
Naomi jumped up and began swinging open the bottom cupboards lining Didu’s modest counter space, unsurprised that the contents were those of a person living on a tight budget.
Naomi was more than familiar with this collection of generic brand names, dollar store cleaning tools, and bags saved from the grocery store. When a hidden garbage bin didn’t surface, Naomi began pulling at the drawers.
“Napkins!” Pulling out two, she handed one to Dev before spitting in her own.
Dev’s panicked eyes were riveted on the crumpled ball in his hand. “What do I do with it?”
“Your pockets!” Naomi shoved her own crumpled napkin at him as the unmistakable sound of Didu’s shuffle approached. “Quick!”
“Gross,” Dev muttered as he complied. Naomi pushed him back toward his seat while hoping that whatever rancid ingredients Didu had used in those samosas didn’t burn a hole through Dev’s pants.
They were reseated, albeit breathing heavily, when the older lady returned, slightly out of breath as well.
“So?” Didu asked, looking at Dev with undisguised hope on her face.
Dev cast Naomi a look of wide-eyed terror. Naomi shrugged back. For the first time in her life, she was grateful she didn’t know a word of her mother tongue. Dev’s face contorted as he reached for the right words to crush an old lady.
As he floundered, Didu patted his shoulder and nodded at the plate. “More?”
Naomi coughed as Dev shook his head frantically. “Thank you for the…delicious…snack, but I’m not sure these samosas are going to work with the menu we’ve planned.” He then spoke in rapid Bengali.
It was like a train wreck, watching Didu’s kind face fall into a deeply lined frown. She said something, a faint protest.
“She’s listing all the other things she knows how to cook,” Dev murmured out of the side of his mouth. The elderly lady’s chin was starting to tremble, her voice breaking as she tried to convince them to give her a chance.
“I’m not sure what to do,” Dev whispered to Naomi before responding to Didu in gentle tones, which seemed, at least somewhat, to pacify the distraught woman. Naomi was not surprised in the least with how careful Dev was with Didu, how patient he was with her warbled responses. He even reached out to pat her arm a few times.
Because that was what Dev did. Beneath that crusty exterior was a man who took care of others. Naomi’s and Dev’s lives might have revolved around the bazaar’s rebrand and thwarting Gia’s matchmaking schemes, but when needed, Dev never failed to do his family’s bidding, whether it was giving Aashi’s daughters a ride, providing last-minute babysitting services for his nieces, or joining his mother for a homemade lunch at her house.
Naomi leaned her elbows onto the table, hypnotized by the soft timbre in Dev’s voice. His growl was sexy, but this, this was just as enticing, if not better. Dev might never have the right words, but that tone could lull a person into total relaxation, like the slow, consistent glide of wax melting down the side of a…
“Candle!” Naomi blurted out, cutting Dev off midsentence. Startled, both Dev and Didu turned to look at her. “We could sell the candles!” she said, gesturing to the center of the table.
Didu didn’t need a translation for that. “Really?”
“It’s genius,” Naomi said, more to Dev. “These would be a lot more lucrative than samosas.” Especially samosas that could double as fertilizer. “Local businesses do this all the time, showcasing local artists and selling their work. We can work them into the décor. Didu could supply according to demand. Year-round, not just for Diwali.”
Dev nodded slowly and translated. Didu was as still as a statue as she absorbed the idea.
When he finished, she looked at Naomi for a silent moment before shuffling forward.
Naomi wasn’t sure what to expect. A samosa to the face? A cuff to the back of the head for overstepping? She had no knowledge of Bengali grandmothers, but Grandma Kelly, for all her virtues, never shied away from pinching the underside of Naomi’s forearm when she misbehaved.
But Didu placed dry, weathered hands on top of Naomi’s head. “Mangala hoka,” she said, a tremble in her words. “Anek mangala.”
When Naomi turned questioningly to Dev, something flickered in his dark steady eyes. “She’s blessing you,” he said in a hushed voice.
Naomi wasn’t sure how to respond, not with her throat thickening and tears threatening to make an appearance. Didu reached across her and pulled the tallest candle from the centerpiece. It was crimson with a swirling gold-and-pink leaf design.
Didu thrust the creation into Naomi’s hands. “Thank you, thank you.”
“No, I couldn’t…”
“Thank you, thank you,” Didu repeated firmly.
Naomi cradled the candle to her chest and pretended to inhale its scent while she tried to sort through the emotions playing rugby in her chest. Didu stood in front of her, her eyes soft and knowing, and Naomi was suddenly hyperaware of the ticking of the ancient clock hanging beside the fridge, the smell of cabbage and incense in the air, and the soothing, silky texture of wax on her fingertips.
“Naomi?” Dev’s voice was low, concerned.
Naomi gently handed the candle to Dev as one victorious feeling rose above the rest and took command of every single one of her nerve endings. She didn’t stop to think about cultural boundaries or how she might look or what was appropriate in this humble little kitchen with coupons and discolored dishcloths tucked in its drawers. She wrapped her arms around Didu and squeezed, and was gratified when the old lady hugged her back.
It was a quiet car ride home. Dev seemed distracted while Naomi couldn’t stop glancing down at her candle. She’d been gifted by clients before, and much more lavishly at that—gift cards to expensive restaurants, décor from a million-dollar show home, even a handcrafted armchair once.
But this humble candle was in a league of its own, something Naomi would never sell no matter how stretched her finances were. She could still feel gnarled hands at the crown of her head, the weight of gratitude and kindness smoothed onto her hair.
When Dev pulled his vehicle into the spot next to Naomi’s in front of the bazaar, he finally turned to her, his face indecipherable.
“What?” Naomi pulled the candle self-consciously to her chest.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
He turned back to the windshield and flexed his fingers a few times around the steering wheel. “Whenever there’s a problem or an awkward bump in the conversation or a potential bride with her claws out, you just…know what to do. You always have the right words.”
Except with you. Under Dev’s dark gaze, so steady and serious, Naomi experienced that same sensation of being turned inside out like she had in Didu’s apartment after receiving the candle, but it was different this time: deeper, more intense, and almost mortifying. Because Dev had seen so many parts of her, and while he wasn’t intimately acquainted with the darkest corners, he’d grazed against their edges and still, he looked at her now like she was something to behold.
Something beautiful, bright, and ethereal.
“I think you’re better at it than you give yourself credit for,” she managed after a long pause. “I saw how you comforted Didu back there. Even before I chimed in, you were helping her.”
“Still…your idea is perfect. Exactly what we needed at the right time.” A mixture of frustration and awe coated Dev’s words. “You don’t let anything get in your way, do you?”
Yeah, she was a real saint, manipulating others to get what she wanted. There was too much he still didn’t know about her, things he would never understand and could likely never embrace. Maybe she should just tell him. By the way, did I mention I’m Bengali? My grandparents don’t want me, my mother loathes your culture, and most days I’m an impostor, but other than that, we’re not so different. How would Dev react?
But she couldn’t tell him, not when he was looking at her with soft, solemn eyes, his mouth slack and relaxed. And the usual guilt associated with the knowledge that she had lied to Dev—and his family—dissipated when Naomi thought back to Didu’s threadbare throw rugs.
So instead, she shrugged. “I didn’t want to leave without offering Didu something , nepotism or not.” Naomi glanced down at her candle. “You have to admit, it’s so lovely.”
“It is,” Dev said in a low voice. When Naomi glanced up again, his eyes were on her face, intense and fringed with sooty black lashes.
Naomi stared back, vaguely aware that behind him, his window had started to fog. She was suddenly too warm, as if her skin were lighting up from within. She wanted to curl into herself. Or rip off her clothes. Something, anything , to relieve the jangle of nerves buzzing through her.
Unlike Didu’s kitchen, the silence settling around them wasn’t unpleasant; it was lush, like the undetectable whisper of the wind whipping through the grass. After carefully placing the candle on the floor, Naomi’s hand rose of its own volition to press against Dev’s chest, her fingers desperate to learn the firm planes underneath.
Dev hesitated slightly before his fingers caught one of Naomi’s tight, black curls and tucked it behind her ear. Naomi closed her eyes as his fingers skimmed over the sensitive skin underneath the earlobe and down her jaw.
“You keep rescuing me.” He paused and a faint blush seeped onto his cheeks. “I like it.”
“Me, too.”
They shared a smile and, as if a starting gun had sounded in the distance, in one fluid movement Naomi leaned forward and Dev pulled her out of her seat and onto his lap. Naomi laughed breathlessly as Dev reached down to the automatic seat adjuster to slide his seat back before she settled her mouth against his. They both froze in that position, lips snug. Naomi let the sense of sweet relief wash through her, down to her toes, relaxing every muscle in its wake like a line of falling dominoes.
Dev recovered first, his mouth opening beneath hers, tongue seeking its mate. God, he was good at that, and Naomi was more than happy to comply. She loved the feeling of her chest pressed against his, his fingers digging into her lower back, her legs straddling his. Again, the desire to rip her clothes off materialized, but she’d settle for curling into him , cloaking herself senseless in peppermint woods.
Even though they’d kissed only once before, it was as if this meticulous man had memorized every secret of her mouth, every button to press so that she was powerless against rolling her hips forward against him. There wasn’t much room in Dev’s cushy vehicle, but Naomi persisted in seeking purchase against the rough seam of his pants, the straining hardness underneath. Well aware that her movements bordered on clumsy and frantic, Naomi couldn’t find the self-control to slow down. Or care. Because the need for relief was too sharp, too close to slicing her in half if she didn’t get it now. She wanted to consume this moment, consume him.
When he growled deep in his chest, Naomi pulled away with a breathless sound that was half laugh, half moan. She refused to be embarrassed by it, by the lack of control of her inner thighs clenching on Dev’s lap. Or how, at the loss of contact, she couldn’t resist leaning forward and nuzzling her nose against his.
“Dev?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that a balled-up napkin in your pocket or are you happy to see me?”
Although his dimples flickered to life, Dev’s eyes were intense as always as they searched hers. Naomi’s insides melted like hot candle wax, and she couldn’t resist pushing a gentle fingertip into his left dimple.
“Naomi?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go upstairs?”
Thank God. “Yes.”
Wordlessly, Dev hit the power lock and led her inside, his hand in hers.