Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(9)

She checked the time and realized that her train wouldn’t leave for another forty-five minutes. Kareena grabbed her bag and headed over to the crowded bar at the center of the restaurant. She’d have one drink by herself and go home and try to get some sleep. Then in the morning, she’d think about what she had to do to save her mother’s house.

After waiting for a few minutes, she found a spot between a group of older desi men and a couple on a date. She raised her hand to get the bartender’s attention, and after he acknowledged her with a brief tilt of his chin, Kareena turned around to people-watch until she could put in her drink order. That’s when she saw the man sitting at a table across the room.

Well, shit.





Chapter Three

Prem




Mom: Today is the three-year anniversary of Gori’s death, Prem. It’s been too long. Being single is for white people. You need to stop it.

Prem: How many times have we talked about this? You can’t SAY things like that.

Mom: Well, I don’t care what other idiots say. I know it’s true for my baby. You’ve mourned Gori long enough. It’s time to get married.

Prem: I’m focusing on building my clinic.

Mom: Yes, I know, when you could be a surgeon and married by now. Prem, if you get engaged this year so I can plan a wedding next year, I’ll pay you.

Prem: What?? Are you serious?

Mom: Yes.

Prem: . . . How much?

Mom: A lot.





Prem gaped at the most recent text he received from his mother and pocketed his phone. “My mother just offered to pay me to get married.”

“It’s the way of the modern arranged match,” Bunty said. Benjamin Padda, childhood best friend, restaurateur, and chef, motioned for one of his staff and held up two fingers. “I know my mother is breathing down my neck, too. No matter how much we succeed, some cultural beliefs last forever.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Prem muttered. He never understood how his parents could be so desperate to get him married. He was a product of a relationship based on hormones and an intense emotional reaction from the midbrain. His parents claimed they had a “love marriage” when they rarely showed any sort of affection toward each other. Which only proved that emotions fade, and with that, all common sense.

It didn’t seem to matter how Prem got married, just that he would. The promise of a great wedding, grandkids, and yes, seeing their son settled was probably why his mom was pushing old stereotypes.

There was also the aggressive need to see him move on from Gori. It appeared that his mother was convinced Prem had grieved enough.

“Thanks for treating me today, man,” Prem said. “I appreciate it.”

“I couldn’t bear to see you sulk by yourself,” Bunty replied. He held up his tumbler in toast. “To Gori. May her next life be filled with love from a man better than you.”

Prem gave him the finger, then tipped back his glass. Over the rim, a flash of sweater vest, rectangular glasses, and pouty lips had him pausing.

Then he promptly choked.

Well, shit.

“What? What is it?” Bunty asked.

Prem could see her intensely beautiful face clearly from a short distance.

Wow.

Her shoulders were slumped, and that full curved mouth was set in a glossy pout. She’d piled that thick black hair on top of her head in a messy ponytail, and the glasses did nothing to hide her large brown eyes. Her prim and proper outfit was somehow sensual as her sweater vest clung to the swell of her breasts.

“What? What are you staring at?”

Prem cleared his throat and pounded a fist against his chest. “Uh, nothing.” Prem’s interest turned to amusement when the sexy librarian looked right at him. Her eyes widened. Hello, there. Yeah, same here.

Bunty turned back in his seat and rolled his shoulders as if he was trying to find a comfortable position in his suit coat. He was probably going to fidget all night, Prem mused. The guy was six four and almost three hundred pounds of muscle. In all the years he’d worked as a restaurateur, investor, and chef, he’d never been comfortable in a suit, no matter how great it fit.

“Do you want to send a drink over or something or are you going to continue to eye-fuck each other?”

“That’s so crude, man.”

“I call it like it is. But seriously, I’ll tell my bartender to get her something. It’ll be super undercover.”

He finally glanced back at Bunty. “I know this is your restaurant. You don’t have to flex.”

“That’s all I got,” Bunty said ruefully. “That, or I’m the son of Naan King, the frozen Naan empire, and being an award-winning chef suits me better.”

Prem grinned. Bunty would always be the Naan prince to him. Ever since they were kids in SoCal, his best friend would wear his title like a straitjacket instead of a letterman’s coat.

Bunty picked up his whiskey tumbler and swirled the amber liquid. “Listen, if you’re interested in a woman, which you haven’t been for three years, at least go talk to her.”

Prem glanced at the sexy librarian one more time. She was trying to pretend that he wasn’t there and nursed what looked like a mojito from one hand while scrolling on her phone with the other. Someone was going to approach her soon. He had no doubt about it.