Accidentally Engaged(17)

Okay, so maybe he had a point. This was cozy. She closed her eyes.

“So, you don’t want toast?” Nadim asked.

She sat back up. “I do. Just…” She rubbed her face. “Give me a second, and I’ll show you where to find the bread and the bread knife.”

“I can get it,” he said.

No, he couldn’t. Reena might be intoxicated, and Nadim may be a bit of a foodie himself, but there was no way she was going to let someone she barely knew be unaccompanied in her kitchen.

He was suddenly sitting next to her on the couch. “You really feeling that drunk?”

“No.” She sighed. “I think I’m sobering. This is more of an emotional crash than an alcohol crash. It’s been a hell of a day.”

He didn’t say anything, so she closed her eyes again. Maybe she should just go to bed. Maybe asleep, she wouldn’t feel so worthless.

“What’s this? Home Cooking Showdown? Did you enter this?”

Nadim had that damn piece of paper from Marley’s apartment in his hand. Why had she let Shayne force it on her?

“No, ignore that.”

“This looks fun! You should do it. Says here the deadline is tomorrow. A five-minute cooking video is no big deal.”

“I’m not doing it.” Reena snatched the paper from his hand and tossed it back on the coffee table.

Nadim shrugged and stood up. He headed to the cabinet that held Reena’s liquor bottles. “May I?” he asked, his hand on a bottle of gin.

She nodded. “There’s soda in the fridge. Make me one, too, please.” Another gin was as good as sleeping.

He pressed a glass into her hand a few moments later. When she took it, she noticed he had the paper again. “I don’t get why you won’t do this, Reena. I just googled the Asler Institute—they’re a big deal.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” She then realized that she couldn’t tell him the reasons why she had no intention of entering Shayne’s contest. Like the fact that her focus right now should be on getting a job. Or, that the contest was for couples and families, and she was much too alone to have someone to enter with. She sipped the gin.

“Not really into cooking contests?”

“I used to be.” She hiccupped. “I actually won a bunch of blogger ones. In fifth grade I was a finalist on Mini-Chef. And I was in a Muslim competition barbecue team once. We won first place.”

He laughed. “Reena Manji, you might just be the most fascinating person I have ever met. You should enter this.”

She took another sip, then stood. Deflect and distract. “C’mon. I’ll show you where my bread knife is. Let’s see how your toast-making skills measure up.”

But when they were in Reena’s small kitchen, the box of samosas on the counter distracted him. “Are these the samosas you forgot to eat? Samosas might be better than bread.”

“Hold your tongue.” Nothing was better than bread. “I needed comfort food. Help yourself.”

He took a large bite out of a samosa. “Nylon bhajias are my favorite comfort food.”

Nylon bhajias was another name for the potato bhajias Reena had planned to make later. She laughed. “Me too. I literally bought potatoes and gram flour to make bhajias.”

His eyes rolled back in his head with pleasure. “You make them yourself? Like, homemade? Not from a shop?”

“Yeah, I’ll probably make them tomorrow.”

“Make them for me now.”

She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Can you please make me bhajias? I’ll help…actually, teach me how, and I’ll make you nylon bhajias every day for the rest of your life.” He solemnly put his hand on his chest. “Swear to god.”

“You’re drunk.”

He nodded happily. “And hungry.” He opened the fridge. “And I would kill someone for fresh bhajias right now. Where are the potatoes? Yay! You have cilantro!”

“You really want me to give you a cooking lesson at”—she checked the time on the microwave—“twelve thirty a.m.?”

“Yes! This will be fun.”

He pulled out random other things from her fridge. None of them were ingredients needed for bhajias.

Reena cringed. “Ketchup?”

“No ketchup?”

She put the ketchup back in the fridge and took out some tomatoes and onions. “Fine. But we’ll make a tomato chutney, too. And I’m only doing this because I’m drunk and want to eat bhajias.” She giggled. God bless gin.

“First, you need to peel and slice your potatoes,” she said, pulling one out from the bin in her pantry. He grinned and held up his phone in front of her.

“Are you recording me?” she asked.

He nodded. “Since you’re doing it anyway, you can enter that contest!”

“Nadim! I thought I told you I’m not doing that video! Besides…” She frowned.

“Besides what?”

She should keep her mouth shut. “It’s not supposed to be one person. The video is supposed to be…pairs.”

He beamed. “I have a tripod! C’mon, grab everything you need.” He started filling his arms with the stuff on the counter: the potatoes, bag of gram flour, cilantro, tomatoes, and garlic/ginger paste. Also, the box of samosas and the bottle of gin, of course.