Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(83)

A stop at Tangent had always signaled being near the end of their drive, and they were all addicted, rather pathetically, to those muffins and that coffee. The fact that Trisha had totally forgotten about it today ratcheted up all her restlessness.

She assured Nisha that she would not come home without the bounty of their favorite muffins and took the exit that led to the quaint little café. The first thing she saw when she pulled into the dirt parking lot was a hot-pink Volkswagen Beetle.

Her heart did a hard little kick start, the spasm almost painful in the charged blast it radiated through her body. She had clearly and certifiably lost her mind, because he wasn’t the only person in California who drove a hot-pink bug.

She took a deep breath and walked inside.

And there he was, the first person she saw. DJ Caine. Trisha pulled her jacket tighter around herself. He was laughing at something Naomi had said. And to see him like this, relaxed, restored, after their last meeting, made relief rush through her. The white-haired model-turned-baker had owned the café for a good thirty years. She had always been a beautiful woman, but today she looked stunning in a fitted black tank top and jeans, her long lean yoga-instructor muscles standing out under her glowing skin. DJ was looking at her as though she were a goddess—which she was.

“Trisha!” she said as recognition lit up her eyes. “How’s my favorite Raje girl?” She gave Trisha a quick hug.

“Nisha is great,” Trisha said dryly, making Naomi grin even wider.

“And the love of my life? Is he running for president yet?”

That would be Yash all the damn time. “He’s fine, too. You know Yash, he dreams only of serving California and Californians.” HRH would be so proud of her right now.

“Dr. Raje.” DJ came out from behind the glass display case arranged with luscious fruit-filled pastries. He wore dark jeans and white chef’s robes that made his hazel eyes look more green than brown. They reflected all the shock she was feeling at finding him here. Trisha’s heart zapped another ruthless blast of electricity through her body.

“You two know each other!” Naomi said with some surprise, then smacked her forehead daintily. “Of course you do. Through Ashna. And of course you’re doing work for the family, DJ. You did tell me about the fund-raiser.” She seemed incredibly familiar with him.

As if Trisha’s insides weren’t already mired in all sorts of quivery sensations, a stab of envy sliced through her and she wrapped her arms around herself. “And you two know each other,” she repeated stupidly.

“Yes! Andre—DJ’s old boss—is a dear friend. DJ was my savior every time Andre broke my heart when I visited Paris. Ashna told me he was here, so I had to have him come in and help with my pop-up in Carmel today.”

DJ smiled that smile he saved only for his work, and Trisha had to tighten her grip around herself.

“What can I get you? Other than two dozen blueberry muffins, that is,” Naomi asked, patting Trisha’s arm and pushing her into a chair.

“Thank you. I’ll take whatever the special for today is.”

“The special is a curried stew from the visiting chef.”

Every cell in Trisha’s body let out a ravenous moan. She nodded vigorously and felt like Oliver Twist holding out his bowl for more. Please, sir . . .

She was in so much trouble. So. Much. Trouble.

Her desperation did not improve when he brought her the stew, his big hands clasped around the white bowl.

It was magic stew. It tasted of everything. Every good thing Trisha had ever eaten, ever.

“Dear girl, when was the last time you ate?” Naomi asked, watching her inhale the stew in amused horror as she placed a bag of muffins next to her.

She mumbled something around the spoon.

DJ was watching her too. Was that a smile he was trying to suppress? A smile and food—was he trying to kill her?

Could she get a grip, please? All good sense was jumping out of her head and scattering about the floor with every sip of the stew. She was unraveling.

“I need to go out to the coops and check on the chickens. DJ, do you mind keeping the starving child company?” Naomi said, forcing Trisha to look up from her nearly empty bowl.

DJ opened his mouth as if to protest and threw a quick look at his watch, but in the end he smiled at Naomi. “Of course. Go tend to your chickens. I’ll hold down the fort.”

The way he said “fort,” as though there were no “r” in the word, made the hair up and down Trisha’s arms dance with awareness.

Was she drunk? Surely there was alcohol in this stew. Could she drive?

She took a sip of her iced coffee and it only made her more woozy. “Did you make this, too?” she asked without thinking.

That almost made him crack another smile. The dimple in his chin danced to life. He nodded and sank into a chair as she dived back into the Magic Stew. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you on a minibreak?”

Trisha had no idea what a minibreak was but it sounded like something she wanted to do. Over and over again. With him murmuring the word. Minibreak. Mini Break. Mi Ni Break-ah in her ear.

What was wrong with her? It was like having another person inside her. A person she had no control over. This having-feelings-for-someone business was like being infected by a tapeworm.

She thought about telling him that she was on her way to visit the art institute to see how it could help Emma, but she had no idea what she would find there, and she didn’t want to raise his hopes until she knew for sure. The way hope for Emma blazed in his eyes had been her constant companion for days, tapping at her mind every time she tried to sleep. “Sort of,” she answered finally. “How’s Emma doing?”