Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(9)

It didn’t seem to matter how Prem got married, just that he would. The promise of a great wedding, grandkids, and yes, seeing their son settled was probably why his mom was pushing old stereotypes.

There was also the aggressive need to see him move on from Gori. It appeared that his mother was convinced Prem had grieved enough.

“Thanks for treating me today, man,” Prem said. “I appreciate it.”

“I couldn’t bear to see you sulk by yourself,” Bunty replied. He held up his tumbler in toast. “To Gori. May her next life be filled with love from a man better than you.”

Prem gave him the finger, then tipped back his glass. Over the rim, a flash of sweater vest, rectangular glasses, and pouty lips had him pausing.

Then he promptly choked.

Well, shit.

“What? What is it?” Bunty asked.

Prem could see her intensely beautiful face clearly from a short distance.

Wow.

Her shoulders were slumped, and that full curved mouth was set in a glossy pout. She’d piled that thick black hair on top of her head in a messy ponytail, and the glasses did nothing to hide her large brown eyes. Her prim and proper outfit was somehow sensual as her sweater vest clung to the swell of her breasts.

“What? What are you staring at?”

Prem cleared his throat and pounded a fist against his chest. “Uh, nothing.” Prem’s interest turned to amusement when the sexy librarian looked right at him. Her eyes widened. Hello, there. Yeah, same here.

Bunty turned back in his seat and rolled his shoulders as if he was trying to find a comfortable position in his suit coat. He was probably going to fidget all night, Prem mused. The guy was six four and almost three hundred pounds of muscle. In all the years he’d worked as a restaurateur, investor, and chef, he’d never been comfortable in a suit, no matter how great it fit.

“Do you want to send a drink over or something or are you going to continue to eye-fuck each other?”

“That’s so crude, man.”

“I call it like it is. But seriously, I’ll tell my bartender to get her something. It’ll be super undercover.”

He finally glanced back at Bunty. “I know this is your restaurant. You don’t have to flex.”

“That’s all I got,” Bunty said ruefully. “That, or I’m the son of Naan King, the frozen Naan empire, and being an award-winning chef suits me better.”

Prem grinned. Bunty would always be the Naan prince to him. Ever since they were kids in SoCal, his best friend would wear his title like a straitjacket instead of a letterman’s coat.

Bunty picked up his whiskey tumbler and swirled the amber liquid. “Listen, if you’re interested in a woman, which you haven’t been for three years, at least go talk to her.”

Prem glanced at the sexy librarian one more time. She was trying to pretend that he wasn’t there and nursed what looked like a mojito from one hand while scrolling on her phone with the other. Someone was going to approach her soon. He had no doubt about it.

“I can’t,” he finally said to Bunty. “I have a meeting with a potential investor after my talk show tomorrow, which means I have to go home early and prep.”

“Don’t you usually do your talk shows on Sundays?” Bunty asked.

“Usually, but I’m interviewing this high-maintenance influencer from the area, and she asked that we change the date and time of the taping because she’s planning her wedding or something. The producers wanted me to accommodate because she has a pretty big following.”

“That’s annoying as shit. I can see why you have to prep for her, but don’t worry about prepping for your investor pitch. You’ve been working at this for years now.”

“I’m too close to take chances,” Prem said. “The office that I want to buy is finally on the market.”

“Oh yeah? You get your name on the list?”

“I did.” Prem thought about the perfect location for his health clinic in downtown Jersey City. The accessibility routes. The parking that was almost unheard of in that location. “I have to have the full deposit ready to go in four months to close on it, though.”

“Do you have a lot left to raise?”

“Not much after the bank, you and Deepak, my own funds, and Gregory at LTD Financial.” Prem named a figure that had Bunty nodding.

“I wish I could give you more, but I’m tied up until I can finish my expansion plans on the East Coast.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Prem said. “You and Deepak have already invested enough. Like I said. I’m close. After years of planning, my center can finally open its doors.”

It was almost surreal to say those words. He’d been focused on his goal for three years, ever since Gori’s death.

Because of her death.

He was already connecting with his network of physicians to bring in specialists who were as passionate as he was about caring for the South Asian immigrant community. Word was getting out, and the support was immense.

All thanks to The Dr. Dil Show. He hated being a TV personality for a local South Asian television network, but he’d done it purely for the exposure and the connections. What started out as a ten-minute spotlight turned into a half-hour live talk show where Prem discussed hot topics affecting the South Asian community with guest speakers. Thankfully, the show set up the speakers and the topics, and all he had to do was approve of each agenda, stick to the script, and show up on time, but the impact on his professional career was huge.