Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(11)

“Want another drink?”

He looked down at his club soda. “Sure,” he said. One was his limit when he was on call, and he hadn’t reached that point yet. “I’d love to buy you one as well.”

She looked at her glass that was two-thirds filled, and then, in a move that both shocked and delighted him, chugged the rest of it and placed the empty glass on the bar top. “Yeah,” she said after swallowing. “I’d like that.”

Prem motioned to the bartender, then leaned in close. Sandalwood and vanilla. The heady combination was intoxicating. “Rina, what do you do?”

“I . . . help women build businesses,” she said vaguely.

I’m going to want to know more than that, Rina. I’ll want to know everything about you.

“Do you enjoy it?”

Her eyebrows winged in surprise. “Yeah, I do. It’s my dream job. What about you? What do you do?”

“I . . .” Don’t say doctor, he thought. Sometimes, Indian women either avoided single Indian doctors like the plague, or immediately saw diamond rings. As pompous as that generalization sounded, he didn’t want to take the chance in ending this conversation too soon. “I fix broken hearts,” he finally said, then flashed her his most charming smile. “And I’m very, very good at my job.”

She leaned in closer, and even though he towered over her in her heels, she was close enough that Prem could swear the noise around them drowned out.

“Tell me more,” she said. “Can you fix someone like me?”

He lifted a hand, waited to see her eyes darken with interest, then brushed a wavy lock of hair off her face. Her shiver was like an electric bolt to his chest. “Absolutely,” he said.





Chapter Four

Kareena





Three Hours Later . . .



“I want to touch you,” he whispered against her neck.

Kareena felt like her bones were melting as his big hands ran over her back and under her sweater vest. She should be appalled at herself for following a stranger into a back room, but Prem didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt . . . perfect. After hours of nonstop conversation, she felt like she knew him better than her best friends. And that he knew all the secret parts of her.

She gasped when his lips traced the line of her neck and his teeth sunk in the curve before her shoulder.

“Oh god,” she whispered, clawing into his shirt. She was actually doing this. For the first time in her thirty years, she was making out with a stranger at a bar, and it felt empowering. Delicious. Hot as hell. Why didn’t she ever try this before?

Probably because she’d never met the right guy.

She groaned when his mouth returned to hers, and he commanded her lips like a general commanded an army.

“More,” she whispered into the kiss when he pressed her firmly against the wall of the dark office. “More.”

His hand fumbled before gripping the hem of her sweater vest. She saw a flash of his determined expression before the sweater vest came up and over her face.

“Ouch!” she yelped. The fabric of her vest caught on her earring and a sharp pain immediately had her pulling back. Her arms were straight up in the air, and because the vest was snug, she was wrapped up like a spring roll. A wave of embarrassment hosed over her desire.

“Oh my god,” he said. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

There was another painful tug, and she winced. “I wore earrings today for the first time in a while, and I think one is caught on my clothes.” Of course, something like this could only happen to her. She sputtered when she got a mouthful of high-quality knit fabric again.

“Here, let me—”

There was a distinctive cell phone ringtone, and then a muffled curse. Before Kareena could ask him what the holdup was, she heard sound of footsteps then the office door opening and closing.

“Uh . . . Prem? Hello? Are you . . . are you there? Oh my god.”


Twelve Hours Later . . .




Aunty WhatsApp Group



Mona Aunty: Darling, your grandmother told us about your father’s retirement.

Farah Aunty: If we had the money, we would give it to you for the house for sure.

Sonali Aunty: We’ll do pooja for you.

Falguni Aunty: Now is an excellent time to get married! For the money, of course. We can help you.

Kareena: Uh, thanks, aunties, but I think I’m going to search on my own first.

Falguni Aunty: Well, at least send us your information so we can put together a biodata. Your height, occupation, allergies, blood type, interests, and preferences. Just in case.

Kareena: Okay, maybe after I recover from this hangover.

Mona Aunty: Pedialyte, darling. Drink some Pedialyte and eat roti with ghee. You’ll be fine.

Kareena: . . . I’m not getting out of this matchmaking scheme you’re all thinking about, am I?

Sonali Aunty: Nope.

Mona Aunty: Nope.

Falguni Aunty: Nope.

Farah Aunty: Nope.

Kareena: Damn it.





Kareena pressed the cold bottle of Pedialyte to her forehead.

“You’re supposed to drink it, not hold it,” Bindu hissed. “You look absolutely ridiculous.”

Kareena glanced up at the bustling Jersey City TV studio. It was smaller than she expected it to be and filled with South Asian camerapersons, assistants, producers, and directors all bumping into one another. To think this was what her math professor-turned-content-creator sister wanted to do on a Saturday afternoon.