Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

by Sonali Dev

  That made her tilt her head in confusion again. Apparently, you needed no memory at all to get through medical school. Or maybe it was he who needed to have his head examined for remembering every word that had come out of her mouth like some fragile, egotistical half-wit.

  Instead of getting stuck in a power struggle over his hands, he should talk to the woman about how to handle Emma. Had Emma spoken to her yet about her asinine plan?

  “So what all do you need?” Ashna asked, pulling an aluminum tray out of the oven, effectively distracting Trisha Raje from his attempts at making a giant arse of himself. Holding his tongue was not a problem he usually faced.

  She looked at the tray with so much mortification he wondered what she was up to. “Some butter chicken,” she muttered, studying the foil instead of him, much to his relief. “And you said you have saag paneer and black dal?”

  “Of course,” Ashna said.

  “You’re an angel, Ashi!” She gave Ashna a grateful smile that reminded him of how very wrongly he had judged the humor in her voice before he had met her. Then she looked at him and got all uptight again before clearing her throat and giving Ashna a pointed look she seemed to think the hired help may not be able to interpret. “May I talk to you for a moment? Privately.”

  “Sure.” Ashna threw an apologetic smile at DJ. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”

  “By all means.” He turned back to the okra, the fresh crispness of the vegetable taking up his attention as he dipped it in batter and gauged how thin a coating would work best. He’d have to do a double fry, of course. He dunked a bunch of lightly battered pieces in the fryer and inhaled. The tang of fresh spices hitting hot oil set things to rights for a few seconds before the pain and worry he’d been suppressing came bubbling up like the oil around the frying vegetables.

  He turned around and stared at the door Ashna and Trisha had gone through. He could hear muffled sounds of conversation in the dining room beyond.

  He had to speak to Trisha Raje about Emma’s surgery. Surely no doctor would let a patient throw their life away the way Emma seemed to want to. But the idea of speaking to her again made distaste prickle across his skin.

  He sighed. His discomfort didn’t matter. Right now, Trisha Raje was Emma’s lifeline, and the fact that she made him feel smaller than he had felt in a very long time was entirely irrelevant.

  Chapter Eight

  Trisha didn’t know why her cheeks were flaming as she followed Ashna out of the kitchen and into the empty restaurant seating area. Her knees felt oddly wobbly. That was Emma Caine’s supernoble brother? Also, dear God, superhot! And had he just dissed the living hell out of her?

  Granted, she hadn’t recognized him immediately. But there had been a chef’s hat on his clean-shaven head last night, and the chef’s robes were not the same as the white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders right now. She shook her head to clear it. Granted, he’d burned himself because of her, but he was at least half to blame for that. And then he’d proceeded to be incredibly rude. What kind of chef was rude to people when they were dying of hunger? Also, didn’t being the person who was going to save his sister’s life count for something?

  Ashna turned to her with a raised eyebrow as if to say, What was that about?

  She could ask Ashi the same question.

  Meeting her cousin’s curious gaze with a shrug, Trisha leaned on a chair and her pinkie finger found a little rip in the faded upholstery. Ashna’s eyes caught the action and her shoulders did the tiniest slump.

  The decor of Curried Dreams hadn’t changed at all since her uncle had opened it when Trisha was in middle school. That’s when Ashna and her father had moved to California from Sripore. Or rather, that’s when HRH had forced his brother to move and open the restaurant to keep him from making more trouble in India.

  Brahmanand “Bram” Raje had by all accounts been the quintessential wild young prince. A stereotype of royal debauchery and entitlement with a glamorous public lifestyle, and the debts and arrest warrants to match. What Trisha remembered about her uncle was his larger-than-life personality. His hugs big and tight, his jokes loud and bawdy, his love for food and drink such that you never left his presence without being fed to within an inch of your life.

  Unlike his older brothers, Bram had barely made it through high school and had no skills other than knowing how to live large. HRH, in an attempt to fix his brother’s life, had deemed a luxurious fine dining restaurant the most viable enterprise to finally help him grow up. As it often turned out, HRH had been right.

  For the five years that Bram had run it, Curried Dreams had been Palo Alto’s hot spot. The original decor of the restaurant had been a replica of the grand durbar hall at the Sagar Mahal. The chairs were hand-carved teakwood. The brocaded cushions and the tapestries hanging from the walls were custom woven and hand embroidered in the local Kashida tradition by artisans in Sripore and then shipped over. Everything had been vibrant shades of turquoise and magenta stippled with coppery gold. Ashna’s father had loved to tell the stories detailing the history of each chair, table, and light fixture. The spirit of this place had once been as large and gregarious as Bram Raje himself.

  “I remember when it used to be beautiful,” Ashna said sadly.

  Trisha linked arms with her. “It’s still beautiful.” And filled with treasured memories. “Ma wanted me to tell you that there’s a buyer interested,” she said softly.

  “No, Shasha!” Ashna stepped away from her. “I know Mina Kaki is only trying to help, but I won’t sell. I can’t sell. Can’t you see that?”

  It was such a pain, being unable to separate yourself from your work. As Entoff had tried hard to teach Trisha, keeping your emotions out of your job was so much smarter. “This buyer is willing to keep the name and keep you on to run things. It’s the perfect solution.”

  Ashna was about to respond, but Trisha cut her off. “No, it’s not HRH trying to sneakily help you.” At least that’s what Ma had assured her when she had asked Trisha to speak to Ashna. But with HRH there were no guarantees when it came to limiting his meddling. “He knows you won’t forgive him if he tries that again. But listen, if you default on the loan, the bank is going to take this place away, and then you’ll have no say in who gets it.”

  “It’s not going to come to that. I have a plan for a revamp. DJ is a master at menus and he’s helping me. We’re going to turn the place around.”

  The place had been steadily sinking for ten years. “How is a new menu going to fix the upholstery and the carpet?” Trisha pointed out, feeling like a jerk when she saw Ashna’s eyes dim with worry. Trisha loved the restaurant, too, but even all her nostalgia wasn’t keeping the dank feeling away.

  “That’s what brings people in,” Ashna said stubbornly. “This is Palo Alto; everyone loves a little character.”

  Only when “character” cost millions of dollars to create. The Disneyland version of character was what had value here. Torn fabric and peeling paint didn’t count unless it was executed by a designer and not by time. But Trisha couldn’t say that to Ashi. Not about Curried Dreams. “Where are you going to find the money to pay this master of menus?”

  Ashna sank into a chair. “I’m not paying him. We’re bartering. Like the old days. He gets to use my kitchen during downtime for his private chef business.”

  “That’s actually brilliant! Why didn’t we think of that before?” Trisha sat down across from her, grinning.

  Ashi grinned back. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “No, I mean, renting the kitchen during downtime. With the rent prices here, you could totally make enough to redecorate and pay for revamping the menu!”

  “I’m not charging a friend to use my kitchen.” Ashi stuck out her chin. It was her immovable face.

  “I’m sure your boyfriend will understand that you’re going to lose Curried Dreams if you don’t charge him, or charge somebody, rent.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Shasha. He’s just a
friend. A colleague. We’ve known each other for years.”

  Right. And that whole “feed each other with a spoon and then wipe his chin” thing was what everyone did with their “just a friend.” But Ashna was always so damn serious, Trisha wanted nothing more than for her to have someone who could draw her out. Even better if that someone looked the way her chef friend did.

  Trisha had the odd urge to fan herself.

  “At least consider it. It’s your only choice. I’ll tell Ma to say no to the buyer, but let’s look at renting, okay? You’re going to need this. If he’s a friend, he’ll understand.”

  Ashna narrowed her eyes stubbornly, but entirely predictably she backed away from the confrontation. “You need food for this date or what?” she asked, her mood switching easily to amusement. “Come on, let’s get it packed up.” She stood.

  Trisha pulled her back into the chair. “Shhh. I don’t need your boyfriend—” Ashna glared and Trisha raised her hands. “Fine, I don’t need your just-good-friend to know that I mooch off you when I’m pretending to cook for my date.”

  Trisha had met Harry last month, when he’d been the plastic surgeon on one of her surgeries. He had walked into her office for a consult and seen her eating some of Ashna’s pakoras. She’d offered him one and he’d assumed that she had made them herself. He’d been so impressed that she hadn’t corrected him. The man was cuteish and recently divorced. He’d asked her out after tasting those pakoras. No one had asked Trisha out in a really long time.

  After their first date, he’d thrown caution to the wind and asked if she would cook more of that delicious Indian food for him. There had been something vulnerable about him asking, plus he kissed halfway decently and she hadn’t been kissed in an embarrassingly long time, so she’d said yes.

  Enter the chef cousin.

  Once she’d fed him Ashna’s food, Harry had practically worshiped Trisha in bed. So, here she was. This was only the third time—two surgeons trying to hook up was a scheduling nightmare—and she refused to feel guilty about the food.

  “You deserve better than to have to pretend to be someone you’re not.” Ashna’s hand went to her hip. It was her protective sister pose.

  “I thought you guys said my problem was that I don’t care enough about the men I go out with, and that I needed to try harder.”

  Ashna gave a giant sigh. “We didn’t mean that you should lie! We just meant . . . never mind. When the right person comes along, you’ll know what we mean.”

  Like that was ever going to happen.

  This is how Trisha’s dating life had worked since college: every now and again some guy came along and they confused the heck out of each other until he disappeared, leaving her more relieved than sad, and embarrassed as hell about her inability to know what was going on when it came to men.

  Why were men such complicated beasts anyway? Relationships felt like full-time babysitting jobs crossed with high-level code cracking.

  “Hey, I’m here stealing your food and pretending to be a domestic goddess just to get some. I think that qualifies as actively working on it. You don’t even have to steal food, you can literally have them eating out of your hands once they taste your cooking. And you’ve got someone who looks like that in your kitchen and you’re calling ‘just good friends’ on him? Come on, Ashi!”

  “Aw, Trisha thinks DJ is cute,” Ashi singsonged as though they were still in middle school.

  He wasn’t cute. No, most certainly nothing as mild as cute. Whatever he was, he hit you on the head with it. “Um . . . not the point. Come on, one of us has to figure out how this entire long-term relationship thing is done without selling out.”

  “You’re such a romantic, Trisha.”

  “What I am is a surgeon.”

  “And how could anyone ever forget it?” Ashi pursed her lips, half amused, half reprimanding.

  “Very funny. My point is that with neurosurgery there are always fifty things that could go wrong and often you have to choose the least damaging damage. So analyzing risk is what I do best.”

  Ashi relaxed into her chair, grinning like a loon. “Trisha Raje giving relationship advice. I should totally record this.”

  Trisha ignored her and went on. “He’s a chef, you’re a chef, you’ve known him for years. So the psychopath possibility is minimal. I say the odds of him being someone you can seriously consider are pretty high.”

  “Wow! Those poor men you date.”

  “Gah, let’s please not talk about the men I date.” How she hated that term. “What does dating even mean? What are the requirements?” Harry was nice enough. Maybe. They hadn’t ever really talked about anything but surgery. In that department, he was fabulous. As long as she didn’t compare him to herself.

  He’d just gotten out of a bad marriage and all he wanted was to make up for lost time in the sack and be fed some good food. Fill the two big holes his marriage had left in his life. So she was lying to him about where the food was coming from. But at least she was helping him heal from his marriage, and wasn’t she a healer?

  Dear God, she was a terrible person.

  Ashi was laughing now and looking at Trisha as though she were the most adorable thing since Minnie Mouse. This was the other problem. When you had so much love in your life, why would you waste your time on decoding men?

  “Look at what we’re working with here. Look at the men in our family. Yash, Neel, Vansh.” Her little brother was an annoying know-it-all, like the youngest of any brood, but probably the best human being she knew. “How on earth do we have any chance at all of finding men who match up? You have to take your chances on the ones that aren’t half bad.”

  At this point Ashi’s laugh got so loud she let out one of her little midlaugh hyena screams. “I’m sure DJ would love to know that he passes your not-half-bad test.”

  “No, seriously. We’ve been ruined—”

  “Are you okay, Ashna? I heard screaming.” The man in question walked in. At first he looked a little freaked out, like someone contemplating needing to perform CPR on a dear friend. But then he saw Ashna guffawing and a smile lit up his face.

  And by lit up Trisha meant: fireworks! His crystalline eyes sparkled, his skin glowed, the dimple in his chin deepened.

  “We are totally fine,” Ashi said. “Except I need to get Trisha to give relationship advice on YouTube. We could make a killing. And she thinks you’re—”

  “Ashi! I really need my stuff now. I have to go.” Trisha pulled Ashna off the chair. Was there anything more annoying in the world than cousins? Trisha dragged her still-laughing cousin into her kitchen and started putting Tupperware boxes Ashi had packed for her into a cardboard box and then picked it up to take to the car.

  “Let me help,” the chef said, going all stiff again, and gallantly took the box from her.

  “Thank you.” She held the door open, pointed the remote at her car, and popped the trunk. Then she watched him walk down the steps of the service entrance under the blast of sunshine that made her squint.

  “When you’re done admiring the view, come in and tell me what else you want,” Ashi said behind her.

  Trisha scowled, hoping it would hide the flush on her skin.

  As Ashi filled a few more containers, still grinning annoyingly, Trisha wondered if she should feel worse than she did about passing off her cousin’s food as her own.

  Nah. The fact that having her cook for him made Harry so ecstatic was sexist enough that it helped with the conscience easing. She also had a niggling feeling that his assumption that she could cook was based on the fact that she was Indian. That definitely helped with the conscience easing and if that made her messed up, well, that made two of them.

  Ashi placed the remaining Tupperware containers filled with her date-bounty into a cloth bag and handed it to Trisha. “How is Emma doing?” She threw a look at the door to make sure DJ wasn’t back.

  “Didn’t he tell you? It’s a good news/bad news situation. I didn’t have
a chance to tell you at the Anchorage. I can operate on her tumor and it will save her life.” Trisha swallowed and looked at the door. “But I can’t save her optic nerves. That means she’s going to go blind.”

  “Dear God.” Ashi pressed a fist to her mouth. “Poor Emma. Poor DJ.”

  DJ appeared in the doorway and the light framing him from behind made the pain in his eyes stark. The drama of those thickly lashed hazel eyes against that looming physique and dark skin made Trisha blink. She hadn’t registered quite how sad his eyes were. Maybe because of all the glowering he’d been doing at her. How had she forgotten a face like this even for an instant?

  “I have to go,” she said to Ashi, giving her a quick hug. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Caine. I’ll see you at the hospital later today, maybe?”

  He nodded and held the door open as she stepped out into the sun-drenched afternoon. Passing so close to his big body made the doorway shrink around her. His scent, something citrus and masculine, stroked at her senses and nudged her slightly off-balance in that way that a first sip of wine always did. Her feet stumbled on the top step and she grabbed the metal railing, throwing a look over her shoulder, hoping he hadn’t seen that.

  Naturally, he had. His expression didn’t alter as he watched her, the impassive look on his face only unsettling her more. She could swear he was trying to cover something else with that look. Something intense that vibrated beneath the sudden flatness in his eyes. Something that felt an awful lot like dislike.

  DJ LEANED AGAINST the heavy deliveries door and watched Trisha Raje walk to her car and tried to ignore the restlessness the woman kindled inside him. Reaching for every memory of warmth that he could dig up from the slim pickings of his thirty-year-long life, he called out, “Dr. Raje!” He pushed off the door and followed her down the steps. It thunked shut behind him just as she turned around to face him. “I was wondering if I could perhaps have a word.”

  She looked so shocked he might as well have asked her to jump in the car with him and elope.