Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(43)

Kareena: Why are you an asshole?

Prem: Could be because the last time we were together, you ran away like someone lit your stilettos on fire.

Kareena: Hey, you can’t hold that against me. You’ve run away before, too.

Prem: Fine, we’re even. But just remember that your Mr. Right will never kiss you like that.

Kareena: My true love will be BETTER at it.

Prem: Well, until he comes along, buy yourself some time with me. The aunties invited me to Sonali Aunty’s husband’s birthday party next Saturday. I’ll see you then.

Kareena: WHAT.

Prem: Sonali Aunty told me that her husband had a few questions about my community center, so she invited me over.

Kareena: You could’ve said no.

Prem: Not until you say yes, Rina, honey.





If there was one thing Kareena hated more than anything in the world, it was obligation. She hated feeling obligated to keep her mouth shut or dress or act a certain way.

“Bas,” her grandmother used to say. “Bas. Enough, Kareena. You are taking your independence too far.” Like independence was something that was only allowed in small doses. In reality, her grandmother was blaming Kareena’s independent spirit when she was just mad that Kareena disagreed with her.

After her grandmother and father saw the picture of her smooching Prem, they’d read her the riot act about acting appropriately.

What would her job think?

What would potential matches think?

What would their community think?

Thankfully, the aunties were the ones who stepped in to protect her. This wasn’t 1950s India, after all, and Kareena’s parents apparently did their fair share of smooching before marriage.

But because she could only fight so many battles at the same time, Kareena let her grandmother have her way about the way she dressed for Dinesh Uncle’s birthday. She had to leave her hair down, put in contacts, and dress in a lehenga for a party that was supposedly to be a themed birthday get-together.

Themed Indian parties almost always meant some variation of Indian clothes to her grandmother. Even if the party was in their living room, they had to dress up like they were going to a three-hundred-person wedding.

What’s worse, because Dinesh Uncle was one of her dad’s good friends, the party was at their house.

Kareena affixed a single payal with a trio of chiming bells around her ankle. It was the one piece of jewelry that she enjoyed wearing when she was dressed in Indian clothes. The lehenga skirt that started as light pink at her waist and faded into orange, red, and then gold at the hem was a little too much for her, but at least the blouse was a tasteful peach with a row of eyelet hooks down the front.

She would’ve preferred pants.

Then again, what would Prem think seeing her in traditional Indian clothes? Would he notice the jhumka earrings glittering at her lobes or hear the subtle chime of her anklet?



“I don’t know what it is about sweater vests, but they make me feel like I’m in work mode. I’m comfortable in them.”

Prem leaned closer until their breath mingled and she could see the gold flecks in the deep brown of his eyes. “I bet you look stunning in Indian clothes.”



Kareena shook her head, snapping out of the memory. She couldn’t think about Prem right now. He’d robbed her of her concentration all week since their date at the Met, and since that kiss that fried her available brain cells. This was no corner-mouth kiss. This was a full-frontal assault on her senses. With the absence of alcohol, it was one of the best she’d ever had in her life.

There would be other men to kiss. Specifically, the one she planned on spending her entire life with. Here’s hoping he’d be just as skilled as Prem with commanding strokes of his tongue, and an iron grip around her body that made her feel like she was the sole source of water in the desert.

She could barely look at herself in the mirror after she realized that she’d masturbated more times in the shower that week remembering that kiss than she cared to admit.

“He isn’t the one,” Kareena whispered. “He isn’t the one.”

Her front door swung open, and her best friends burst in.

“Hey, where’s the fire—”

They shoved past her, their salwar kameezes glittering as they moved.

“You have got to see this,” Veera said as she and Bobbi rushed to Kareena’s window that faced the front of the house.

“The car pulled up right as we got to the front door,” Bobbi said. “They’re wearing Indian clothes.”

The words were said with such reverence that Kareena bolted after her friends and squeezed between them so she could get a clear line of sight through her bedroom window to the front walkway.

Then it happened.

Three desi men got out of the low-slung Audi at the curb with grace and power in every movement. They all wore black or slate-gray sherwani kurtas and dress pants. All of them carried flowers or bottles of alcohol.

Like a goddamn slow-motion movie scene, they either ran their fingers through their perfectly styled hair, or over their trim cut beards as their long, powerful strides ate up the concrete. Each one of them walked with swagger-and-plunder vibes.

Kareena’s heart caught in her throat when Prem, front and center, glanced up at her window, then did a double take. He slowed, and his friends, both taking their cue from Prem, came to a stop at his side.