“Very amusing.” Jay’s flat tone suggested it was anything but.
Zara closed her eyes and willed the ground to swallow her up. “Jay and I have met. He was at the bachelor-bachelorette party.”
“Even better.” Salena patted Zara’s hand. “Did you tell him your mother is a partner at a big-city law firm? And your dad . . .” She forced a wider smile. “Is an engineer.”
“Auntie-ji . . .” Zara shook her head in warning. Her aunties always left out the most important part—the part that scared potential suitors away. “He isn’t an engineer anymore. He’s an artist and a musician. He’ll be playing in the bhangra band tomorrow at the baraat.” The traditional Punjabi music was now a feature of many Indian weddings, particularly at the groom’s procession on the morning of the ceremony.
Salena clamped a hand around Jay’s wrist as if she were worried he’d run away now that Zara’s father’s shame had been made public. The arts were low down on the list of desirable desi professions. Her father’s career change was problematic for the aunties who were desperate to see her wed.
“Jay’s mother runs the daycare where Taara Auntie takes her boys,” Salena Auntie continued, seemingly unaware of the current of tension between them. “He was a captain in the air force, and now he is CEO of a security company. I didn’t have time to find out more about him, but I’m sure he can tell you anything you need to know.”
A wave of nausea crashed through Zara’s gut when she recalled their conversation in the bar. I’ll bet he’s one of those wannabe military types who spends his weekends playing paintball with his geek friends, pretending he’s the real deal. What had she been thinking? But that was the problem. She was always living in the moment, not thinking at all.
“Thank you for your service,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning. She could only hope he’d been as drunk as she’d been and didn’t remember the slight.
“Pleasure.” The deep rumble of his voice made her toes curl. “I’m the real deal after all.”
Oh God. She willed the floor to swallow her up. Where was a natural disaster when she needed one? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said at the bar. I didn’t know you were . . . you.”
“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Salena Auntie clasped her hands together. “I have a good feeling about this. I think I’ll be adding another match to my summer scorecard. Mehar won’t know what hit her.”
An awkward silence followed. Desperate for a distraction, Zara stopped a passing waiter and took a glass of champagne from his tray.
“Drink?” She offered the glass to Jay.
He was enjoying her discomfort, she realized when he smirked. “I thought you preferred beer, or does it hamper your powers of observation?”
“Take the drink,” she snapped. “It might help.”
“With what, exactly?”
“With your tendency to grumpiness and reluctance to smile.” She knew she was being defensive but it was incredibly annoying to have her missteps called out, especially when being this close to him, breathing in his scent of pine and crisp ocean air, made her knees weak and her stomach twist in a knot.
“I smile,” he retorted, not smiling.
“At what? A pleasing financial statement? A perfectly polished belt buckle? An employee who shouts How high? when you tell them to jump? A paintball team that obeys your every command?”
Jay arched an eyebrow, a superior gleam in his eyes. “We would still have won the game if we’d followed my strategy.”
“You’re probably right,” she admitted with reluctance. “But would it have been fun? Why spend hours crawling through cold damp leaves covered with spiders when you can run through the forest dodging enemy bullets while your team cheers you on?”
He was silent for so long she wondered if she’d offended him. “We clearly have different ideas of what constitutes fun,” he said finally.
She tipped her head to the side, considering. “You’re still talking to me, so I don’t know that we do.” Most corporate types would have left by now. They didn’t usually like to be teased or challenged and she’d really pushed the limits with Jay. But she couldn’t help herself. There was something about him that made her want to take the risk, to dig deeper and see what lay beneath that stoic exterior. No matter the cost.
“When is the last time your heart pounded with excitement, Jay? When is the last time something took your breath away?”
She heard shouts and laughter behind her. Someone bumped into her from behind. She stumbled forward, hands flying up to brace against his chest. Too late she remembered the glass in her hand. And then she was enveloped in warmth.
* * *
• • •
When Jay had started his weekly visits to his mom’s daycare, he’d worn his suit. On the first Friday, one of the toddlers painted a happy face on his bespoke Italian wool jacket. The second week, a first grader cut off his tie. He sat on green paint on his third visit and was drawn into a water pistol fight—Adrian had started it—on his fourth. Given his experience with sartorial mishaps and the fact he always had a change of clothes in his car, a spilled glass of champagne was hardly a disaster.
At least not until his brain registered that Zara was in his arms.
“Watch where you’re going.” Jay scowled at the dude who had bumped into her, sending him scurrying back to his friends with a mumbled apology.
Willpower and an awkwardly placed champagne flute kept Jay from pulling her closer. She felt right in his arms, her soft curves fitting perfectly against his body. He drew in a breath and the scent of her perfume, sexy and bold, clouded his senses—as did the light brush of her hair against his cheek when she pulled away.
“I’m so sorry.” Her breath hitched, long lashes fluttering over soft cheeks. “Let me clean you off.” Before he could respond, she whipped off her dupatta and patted his chest.
Jay glanced up, wary of attracting attention. He went to great pains to avoid this type of humiliating situation. And yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think of anything but her gentle hands on his body.
“You don’t have to—” His words caught in his throat when her hands moved downward, a light pressure over the ridges of his abs and then across his belt. When the tail end of her long scarf brushed his fly, he silently cursed the salesman who had insisted that pleats were out and tight dress pants were in fashion.
“My dad has this same belt.” She polished the buckle and the situation down below became critical. Could he distract her with conversation?