Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(47)
Trisha shrugged. Hell if she knew.
“DJ is helping Ashi with her menu. His specialty is creating dishes that fuse traditional north Indian flavors with classical French technique. Right, DJ?” Nisha said kindly.
The guy smiled. A smile so grateful, so bright, Trisha blinked. His chin had a deep dimple, not one of those Ken doll chin-divide clefts, but an indentation that pierced the center of his chin, and it did a thing to his face when he smiled that caused a buzzing sensation behind Trisha’s knees. She took a step away from him.
“I think we’ve come up with some pretty decent options for Curried Dreams.” He was ignoring her entirely now and talking directly to Nisha, who was beaming at him as though he were her best friend. That job was already taken, thank you very much! How was everyone buddy-buddies with this guy anyway?
“You ready to sample what I have for you?” He strode back to the island and unzipped the hot box and all at once the most insanely delicious aroma suffused the kitchen.
Nisha’s face went ashen. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered before dashing to the powder room.
DJ followed her and hovered at the open door for a second as Nisha doubled over and emptied her guts into the commode. Before Trisha could push him out of the way and go to Nisha, he went in and sank down on his knees next to her, carefully gathering her hair and holding it out of the way as she brought up her insides in heaves. When she was done, he helped her up, his palm supporting her elbow with a mix of such gentleness, steadiness, and plain old-fashioned decency that the instinct to push him out of the way and go to her sister fizzled inside Trisha.
She leaned against the door and watched as he filled a glass of water from the faucet and handed it over. “Are you all right, love?”
Nisha nodded. Trisha caught herself nodding too. Fortunately, neither one of them was paying any attention to her, or the annoying reactions her body was having to his gallantry.
“Let’s get you to a doctor.”
Excuse him? Could those thickly lashed, hazel-flecked eyes not see her standing right here? That snapped her out of her swooning.
“Let’s get her to her room. She’ll be fine.” This time she didn’t care how harsh she sounded.
“Why don’t we let a doctor decide that?” he said, so coolly he couldn’t possibly be messing with her . . . could he?
“A doctor is deciding that. So if you don’t mind.” She pushed him out of the way and grabbed her sister’s arm. The action made her feel like she was six and playing at being doctor instead of actually being one, and that shot her rioting emotions right into intense annoyance.
“I’m sorry,” he said utterly unapologetically. “How could I forget?” And then she could swear he muttered, “The worth of your hands and all that,” under his breath.
She couldn’t remember the last time her ears had heated with embarrassment. What was it with him getting so hung up on that? Her hands were worth too much to burn on saving a pot of caramel. Why was that so hard to understand? He should be glad—she was going to save his sister’s life, for shit’s sake.
“That’s okay,” she said, then she matched his mumble with, “It’s not like you need a photographic memory to cook food.”
Chapter Thirteen
Trisha Raje was without a doubt the most insufferable snob DJ had ever come across in his entire bloody life. He’d been the poor boy at a Richmond private school. He’d worked at a Michelin-starred place des Vosges restaurant for ten years. He’d seen far more than his fair share of self-important, overprivileged gits. But it had never bothered him. Not like this. Her snootiness didn’t just get under his skin, it chopped up every bit of pride he’d ever managed to gather up and flung it all over the place like a blender you forgot to put the lid on.
People were usually arrogant and snobby because they wanted to show you that they were superior to you. Trisha Raje’s sense of superiority was so inherent, so absolute that she couldn’t even seem to process why the oceans of other people’s approval may not automatically part for her. She actually had the gall to be impatient with the world for not getting how amazing she thought she was.
It’s not like you need a photographic memory to cook food? Really?
He’d been known to remember everything from allergies and pet peeves and wine preferences to the names of girlfriends and wives—which he never mixed up—after having cooked for a client just once. He could recite every one of Wordsworth’s poems from memory, thank you very much.
Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention to Nisha again as she beckoned him to follow the sisters into the bedroom. Getting into tussles with Trisha Raje was the last thing he needed. The woman literally held Emma’s life in her hands, and her family currently held his career in their hands. Why was he having such a hard time with this? The thing he prided himself most on was his even temper.
His mother had insisted on him keeping his head down and being nonconfrontational no matter what the provocation. Through his childhood he’d complied because he didn’t want to be one more thing that didn’t go her way. At seventeen he’d had enough of being a pushover, though, and had let his anger out. And it had tangled him up with a bunch of boys who thought nothing of setting things on fire when something made them angry. That had been the end of it. After that he’d never had to struggle with his temper. Until of course Trisha Raje had walked into his kitchen and knocked over his caramel.