The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(2)

“Cake is here.” Zara smiled at the twenty women seated around a long table covered with a white plastic Be My Bachelorette tablecloth.

“I thought you’d never get here.” Stacy gave a dramatic sigh and took the box from Zara. By some incredible twist of fate, Stacy had managed to “find” a brand-new perfectly sized pomegranate chiffon dress at the thrift store. With a waist-cinching bodice and elegant plunging neckline, the “secondhand” dress accentuated her slim figure and set off her beautiful auburn hair.

Zara gave Maria a quick hug before joining Stacy at the refreshments table where oblivion was waiting in the form of a five-gallon Box-o-Chardoneigh garishly decorated with pictures of galloping horses. She filled two glasses and gave one to Parvati before drinking hers in one gulp, shuddering at the bitter, acrid taste. Maybe the pictures of horses on the box were a hint that the liquid inside wasn’t actually wine.

“Oh. My. God. Your dress!” Stacy slapped a hand over her chest like the shock of a stained dress that was imminently going to be splattered with paint pellets might actually stop her heart. “You’re all wet.”

“I hear that a lot,” Zara said dryly. “And never as a complaint.”

Parvati choked on her Chardoneigh. Maria laughed out loud. Half-Portuguese and half-Spanish, Maria had gone from street kid to award-winning food-truck chef and was one of the most hardworking people Zara knew. After meeting Maria at her food truck one sunny afternoon, Zara had hooked her up with Tarun. Six months later they were engaged and Zara added another win to her matchmaking scorecard.

Not to be outdone, Stacy grimaced. “What’s on your arm?”

“I met Chad Wandsworth at the ice cream shop when I was picking up the cake . . .” She paused, waiting for the information to sink in. Timing was everything both onstage and in court. “He autographed me.”

“Well.” Stacy huffed. “It’s a good thing you’re not a bridesmaid. You’d have to wash it off.”

Zara mentally marked Stacy as her first target once she got the paintball gun in her hand. “This autograph is forever. I’ll be going strapless at the wedding reception so everyone can see it.”

“Say good-bye to your chance of meeting someone.” A woman in a formfitting strapless green dress with a delicate chiffon skirt and nary a frill or puffed sleeve in sight gave her a tight smile. With big blue eyes, her blond hair pulled up in a perfect bun, she looked like a fairy, all ready to flutter her way into somebody’s heart. “No guy will want to compete with Chad Wandsworth.”

“Maybe not, but our aunties will be there.” Parvati sipped her wine, smiling as if the vile liquid hadn’t just scorched its way down her throat. “Nothing can put them off pairing up all the young South Asian singles at a wedding. They have a competition every wedding season to see who can make the most matches. The only way to escape is to secure a quick hookup at the singles table or show up with a plus-one.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy to find someone.” Stacy expertly sliced the slightly melted cake into even pieces. “I mean, really . . .”

“When you’ve got five hundred or a thousand guests it’s easy to find someone—or even a dozen someones—you’ve never met before.” Zara finished her wine and followed it with a spring roll chaser. “Multiply that by at least five or six weddings during the summer season plus the same number of prewedding parties. Add the lovey-dovey atmosphere of single people all dressed up and eager to get out there and have some hot sex, and the hookup possibilities are endless.”

Zara instantly regretted her outburst, but Stacy had a way of getting under her skin. She reminded Zara of her mother.

“Well . . .” Stacy cleared her throat. “I would think most brides and grooms would be upset at the thought of people trolling their wedding for a hookup.”

“I’m not talking about me,” Zara protested. “I enjoy weddings for the opportunity to match people up. It’s just a hobby. I don’t get involved in the auntie competition.”

“Zara is an excellent matchmaker.” Maria beamed. “She set up Tarun and me.”

“If you’re so good, why are you still single?” Stacy shared a snide look with the woman in green.

Zara opened the spigot to pour herself another glass of wine. “I’m not interested in getting involved in a relationship.” Her parents’ devastating divorce had taken care of that. One minute she was part of a happy family; the next her world was ripped apart.

Stacy handed her a slice of cake. “That’s what people say when they can’t find a man.”

“I can find men,” Zara said. “I just don’t need one forever.”



* * *



? ? ?

Jay Dayal checked his paintball gun and slid it safely into the holster on his tactical vest. Although he’d left his career as a combat search-and-rescue pilot flying helicopters for the air force almost ten years ago, old habits died hard. A holstered weapon was a safe weapon. But once the game began, the blue team would be going down in flames. Whether he was in a boardroom pitching for funding to expand his security company, shooting hoops with his friends, or taking down enemy combatants in a bachelor-bachelorette paintball game, Jay played to win.

“I’ve split Maria’s friends between our two teams.” Tarun joined him at the weapons shed where Paintball Pete was explaining gun safety to three women in frilly dresses and heels. Along with Avi Kapoor and Rishi Dev, Tarun had been one of Jay’s closest high school friends, as dedicated to his goal of becoming a doctor as Jay had been to pulling himself out of poverty and making a success of his life. They had lost touch after high school when they went their separate ways, but a fellowship opportunity and a new fiancée had brought Tarun back to San Francisco, and they had reconnected, as tight now as they had been fifteen years ago.