The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(15)

“What do you think of my new outfit?” He held his arms wide, showing off a burgundy Nehru vest over a yellow, floral-printed jacket and matching pants. Zara blinked rapidly, trying to figure out who had sold him such a fabulous kurta pajama and where she could buy a pair of the Kolhapuri chappals he wore on his slim feet.

“It’s fantastic. Very you.”

“You think the ladies will like it?” He turned once so she could see the colorful embroidered flowers from all angles. “I got it from that new store on El Camino Real. The one between the garden center and the tire shop. The saleslady said it was classy, masculine, but simple at the same time.”

He was so delighted with his new purchase, she had to smile. “There’s nothing simple about that outfit.”

“Simply the best.” Her father loved to quote commercial jingles when he wasn’t slaying chocolates and licorice whips in Candy Crush, banging on his drum, or painting up a storm in his canvas-strewn loft. “And look.” He turned his arms. “She said if I want to grab female attention at the sangeet, I need to roll up the sleeves of the kurta to my elbows. Show a portion of the forearms to look manlier. Women love that.”

This time she laughed. Her dad loved the company of women—all except her mom. “The outfit is perfect but this particular woman would like her dad to appear more dad-like. Maybe don’t show so much skin. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes, because look . . .” He held out his foot. “One inch off the cuff. She said the ladies like a turn of ankle, too.”

Zara grabbed her travel bag and her lehenga choli from the cupboard. She planned to change at the venue so she didn’t arrive all creased. “What happened to that sculptor who was renting in your building? I thought you and she . . .”

Her father waved a dismissive hand. “She took up metalwork. You know what a light sleeper I am, and the loft is open to downstairs. I couldn’t sleep with the blowtorch hissing all night, so I ended it. Just in time. I heard she set her last boyfriend’s curtains on fire. Now I’m free to mix and mingle as a single, and there’s no better place to meet a special someone than at a wedding.”

“We’d better get going.” She handed him the bag. “Your lucky lady might be waiting for you.”

Weddings weren’t just a good place to find happily-ever-afters; they were also the best place to find clients. This afternoon’s sangeet was about making connections as well as doing a little recon to identify singles for the matching. She only hoped that Tarun’s irritating friend wouldn’t be there to spoil her fun. Who did he think he was, strutting around in his tight T-shirts and sexy low-riding jeans? Smug, arrogant, and entirely too cocky, he needed more than a paintball in the ass to dent that supersize ego.

She gave a snort of irritation as she followed her father out to his minivan. She preferred the company of men who were open to suggestions instead of just barking orders. Men who would ask questions instead of assuming answers. She wanted a man who could open himself up to possibilities and new experiences—a man who could understand her family’s brand of crazy . . .

Except she didn’t want a man, she reminded herself. And she especially didn’t want Jay.





? 6 ?



Jay had never truly understood the concept of “running the gauntlet” until he walked into the courtyard of the Tuscan winery where Tarun’s sangeet was in full swing. Dozens of rishta aunties stood between him and the bar, heads swiveling in his direction, noses scenting his single status. To the middle-aged matchmakers, he was fresh meat, and he hadn’t taken more than a few steps before the frenzy began.

“What are your intentions?”

“Have you met my niece? She was former Miss Pakistan.”

“What are you looking for? Tall girl? Smart girl? I have all girls.”

“What job do you do? How much money do you earn?”

If Tarun hadn’t been a close friend, Jay would have turned around and walked back through the ivy-covered bower to the parking lot. No one would mark his absence. A sangeet was a celebration of food and dance, and a chance for the families to get to know each other before the formal wedding reception the next day. Jay usually put in an appearance for the meal and left when the dancing started. He had spent years cultivating the image of a successful CEO. He wasn’t about to ruin it by burning up the dance floor with his jalwas.

“Stay on target, Dayal,” he muttered as momentum propelled him forward across the manicured lawn and through the maze of matchmaking aunties. He spotted Tarun inside the restored open-front stone hacienda and changed course, biting back the feeling of doom.

Get a grip. They’re just middle-aged ladies. They can’t hurt—

“Who do we have here?” Three aunties accosted him only steps away from the door.

“He’s Padma Dayal’s son.” The tallest of the three women checked her phone, without waiting for an introduction. She wore a bright blue sari edged in gold, her dark hair twisted in an elegant bun. “Age thirty-four, single, ex–air force, now CEO of a security company. His shoe size is twelve and he enjoys sports, race cars, and Italian food.”

Jay startled at the accurate description. “Do I know you?”

“Mehar Patel.” She gestured to her companions. “My cousin Bushra, and my sister Lakshmi.”