The Marriage Game

by Sara Desai

“So?”

  “The man drives. That’s a man’s job. Just like fixing things, building things, taking out the trash, proposing marriage, mowing the lawn, barbecuing, carrying heavy furniture . . .”

  Layla snorted. “Wake up. It’s not the ’50s anymore. No one drives this woman’s Jeep. I can build anything from IKEA without help, and if I ever do find someone I want to marry, I’ll ask the dude myself. However, if you want to take out the trash or fix the leaky faucet in the restroom, knock yourself out.”

  “How about Layla takes her Jeep and Sam takes his car and I promise not to tell anyone that you two single-handedly destroyed the environment?” Daisy suggested.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sam snapped. “We’re going to the same place for the same reason. We only need one vehicle.”

  “This is my gig,” Layla said. “I’m driving my car. If you can’t get over your traditional sexist patriarchal controlling self, then I’ll meet you there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “THE speed limit is thirty-five miles per hour.” Sam pointed to the sign when Layla stepped on the accelerator to pass a car in their lane.

  “Thank you. I’m well aware of residential speed limits in this part of the city.” Layla watched the speedometer climb. It was childish but his supercilious attitude made her want to do the opposite of what he told her to do. A ticket would be well worth the satisfaction of watching the worst backseat driver in the history of the universe sweat.

  “There’s a stop sign up ahead,” he barked. “Start slowing down.”

  Layla’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Be quiet, or I swear I’ll stop this car and make you walk.”

  His hand clenched around the door handle, knuckles turning white. “You drive at excessive speed. You weave in and out of traffic. You tailgate people who are driving below the speed limit. And you stop only at the last second. What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re supposed to be impressed by the fact that I drive a Jeep and have a clean record, that you’re in a car with a woman that likes to drive fast and can do so safely, and tell me why you almost kissed me the other night.”

  Silence.

  She didn’t know where that question about the kiss had come from, and it had clearly made him uncomfortable. But at least he wasn’t backseat driving anymore.

  Sam cleared his throat. “It was a mistake.”

  “I’m glad you agree.” She didn’t really agree. Something had changed between them. She’d felt some kind of spark that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with Sam being smart, funny, protective, and exceedingly kind in a way she had never thought he could be. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t looking for another short-term hookup, and she’d wasted enough time thinking about what might have happened if Karen hadn’t interrupted them. With a sigh, she took a mental machete to her fantasies of speeding through the city to Sam’s apartment, tearing off each other’s clothes in the elevator, and barely making it through his door before they were overcome with helpless desire.

  “Also, I want you to cancel your shopping trip with Nisha,” he said. “It was kind of you to invite her, but you don’t have to pretend to be her friend because she uses a wheelchair. She’s been hurt enough.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  Layla shot him a sideways glance. “You are way overprotective. I genuinely like your sister. She’s sweet and funny and I enjoyed her company. It doesn’t matter to me that she uses a wheelchair. I grew up with a huge family and my grandmother wasn’t the only person who used a mobility device. Patels don’t treat people differently when they have special needs. We just try harder to let them know they’re loved.”

  Sam went rigid, his eyes fixed on the road, corded throat tightening when he swallowed.

  “Are you okay? Did I hit a pedestrian or something?” She slowed to a stop at a traffic light.

  He pulled out his phone. “I need to check my messages.”

  “It helps if you turn it on,” she said gently when she noticed him staring blankly at the screen.

  The light turned green and she stepped on the accelerator a little too hard, sending the car shooting forward and Sam’s head snapping back.

  He shook himself and cleared his throat. “Do you want children in your arranged marriage?”

  Layla frowned, trying to wrap her head around the sudden change of conversation. “That’s a very personal question. But, yes. I want to have kids. At least three, so if the first one is a boy and the second is a girl, she won’t feel like she’s in a competition she can never win because she doesn’t have a penis.”

  Sam lowered his window and drew in a breath of air.

  “Shocked you, didn’t I? Was it the word penis or the revelation that I would want children with a man I don’t love?”

  “I’m beginning to realize there is no end to your ability to surprise me.”

  Layla tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Why did you ask me about kids? Are you worried I might be pregnant after our almost-kiss? Like some kind of immaculate conception?”

  A laugh escaped him, a short chuckle that disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. “Harman is a professional bodybuilder. That means steroids. Prolonged use of anabolic steroids can have significant effects including reduced sperm count, infertility, genital atrophy, erectile dysfunction, and shrunken testicles.”

  “So you saw my penis and raised me a pair of shrunken testicles? I fold. You win. I dub thee Master of the Game.” She tapped his arm with two fingers, trying not to imagine how it would feel to have that strength wrapped around her.

  His face smoothed to an expressionless mask. “It’s not funny.”

  “Definitely not if he isn’t fully functional. But it doesn’t make him a bad person, and your job is to weed out the disreputable characters, not the impotent ones.”

  Layla pulled into the parking lot of the sports center, and they made their way into the warehouse-style training facility. Upbeat rock music pounded through the speakers, almost drowning out the buzz of grunts, groans, and clanking weights. Bodybuilders and powerlifters cranked it out in every corner. The air was thick with testosterone and the scents of sweat and disinfectant.

  “Sam, my man.” A god walked toward them, wearing a teeny-tiny pair of red gym shorts and nothing else. Six feet tall, lean and ripped, with short, thick, dark hair, a shredded six-pack, perfect teeth, and a killer smile, he was a study in the perfection of the masculine form. “Old-school chaperone. I like it.”

  Sam and Harman did a manly fist bump slash handshake followed by mutual shoulder pats like they’d known each other all their lives.

  “This is Layla Patel.” Sam pushed her forward.

  Layla opened her mouth but no words came out. Close up, Harman was even more breathtaking than his picture. She could see every muscle ripple as he moved, pecs so hard and smooth she could have bounced a penny off his bronze skin. “Give it here, babe.” Harman held up a hand.

  “Stop drooling,” Sam whispered in her ear. “You look ridiculous.” He lifted her hand and smacked it against Harman’s palm in a humiliating high five she should have been able to manage herself if she hadn’t been drunk on Harman’s beauty.

  “She’s quite traditional,” Sam said. “She’s not used to seeing bare-chested dudes.”

  “I’ve seen lots of shirtless men,” she muttered under her breath. “Shortless ones, too. Tons.”

  Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Do tell.”

  Harman laughed—at least she thought it was a laugh—although it sounded more like a girlish giggle. “Well, she’d better get used to it. Finding clothes to fit these pythons”—he held up an arm at a ninety-degree angle and flexed his biceps, making it swell to the size of a puffed naan—“is pretty damn hard.”

  “I hear you.” Sam nodded as if he
, too, were so pumped up on steroids he couldn’t find a shirt to wear.

  Layla snorted. “Oh, please.”

  Harman led them over to a small lounge with red leather seats and a big-screen TV showing highlights of yesterday’s football game. Over chocolate protein shakes, they traded information about their work and interests. Harman’s entire world was his sport. He traveled only for competitions, knew nothing about politics or world affairs, and hadn’t eaten sugar in the last ten years.

  “So what are you looking for in a wife?” Layla asked. “Companionship? Friendship? Homemaker? True love?”

  “I need a brown girl,” Harman said.

  Layla choked on her shake. “You need a brown girl?”

  He nodded. “I want to be the first desi Mr. Olympia, so I’m all about the brand. Brown skin. Brown hair. Accent. Some days I’ll throw on a turban. Other days I’ll wear a thawb. And when there’s a ceremony happening, my PR guy, Steve, and I head down to the local cultural center for some photo ops. Diwali. Ramadan. Vaisakhi. I celebrate them all.”

  “Those are ceremonies from three different religions, and clothing from two,” she pointed out. “Is there not one faith you follow?”

  “I didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

  Layla shook her head in disbelief. “So that’s all you want out of a marriage?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” Harman said. “Bodybuilding is my life. I don’t have time for relationships, but Steve says there’s tons of guys who do what I do. I need to stand out. I need a brand. We did some brainstorming and came up with brown.”

  “Brown is your brand?”

  “You got it, sista.” He made a hand gesture that was a cross between a fist pump, a finger wave, and a snap. “There aren’t many desi bodybuilders out there. I’m going to be number one.”

  “I’m not your sister,” she muttered.

  “But you could be my wife,” he said earnestly. “I need someone for photo ops and interviews and to keep the fans at bay. I am constantly being propositioned and, to be honest, I’m getting tired of being objectified. I want people to see me for who I really am—a perfect specimen of the ultimate masculine form.”

  Layla frowned. “So you do want to be objectified.”

  “Only for my art,” he admitted. “And for the fame and money that come with winning titles. But not in my soul.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  “At least he’s honest about who he is,” she snapped.

  “We’ll have to tone you up for the pictures,” Harman said. “You can go on my diet. Lean proteins, healthy fats, fibrous vegetables, and high-quality carbohydrates. That means no sugar, fried foods, or white flour. Four to six weeks and you’ll be slim and trim and filled with energy.”

  Her face heated, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a protective hug. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Steve!” He waved over a slim blond man wearing a leather vest over a Twenty One Pilots T-shirt and a skintight pair of khaki pants. The dude had a large camera around his neck and a tripod in his hand.

  “Snap a few shots,” Harman told him. “See how we look together.” He pulled Layla to stand in front of him. “You okay if I put an arm around you for the pictures?”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  Harman positioned himself behind her, one arm across her body, the other flexed by her head, his hips pressed against her rear. “She’s gonna lose that extra weight, Steve, so angle us with her middle in the shadows.”

  “Get your hands off her,” Sam growled.

  “Relax, dude. We’re just doing a couple of test shots.”

  Steve snapped a few pictures. Layla made note of three things: first, Sam was right about the effect of steroids on reproductive organs; second, she felt absolutely nothing being pressed up against a perfect specimen of the ultimate masculine form; and third, the moment he let her go, she was going to smash her fist into his perfect nose.

  Her gaze flicked to Sam. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he was eyeing Harman with visible disdain. Not once since she’d known him had Sam ever criticized her appearance. She’d felt comfortable enough with him to dance in a public fountain, and when he’d held her in his arms for their almost-kiss, she hadn’t felt anything other than his equal.

  “Smile,” Harman said. “How are her teeth, Steve? Will she need caps or just whitening?”

  Layla spun around, pulling her fist back, ready to strike. Only, Sam anticipated her move. He grabbed her hand, pushing it down as he wrapped his strong arm around her body.

  “Don’t do it,” he warned, keeping his voice low. “His face is part of his aesthetic. If he loses his career, you might face a lawsuit that will bankrupt you. And you’ll lose your chance to be Mrs. Harman Babu.”

  Her body warmed from the press of his hard chest against her, the strong arm holding her tight, his breath hot against her neck. Fire raced through her veins, searing her nerve endings and making her skin tingle. Why couldn’t she feel this with Harman? Why did she have to feel it for the one man on earth who irritated her the most—the one man who made her feel alive?

  Oh God. She didn’t want Harman. She wanted Sam.

  * * *

  • • •

  “ARE you crazy?” Sam walked quickly through the parking lot after saying good-bye to Harman. He caught up with Layla just as she reached her Jeep, his heart pounding in frustration. “Why did you agree to go out on a date with him? He said you needed to lose weight and had bad teeth. You were going to punch him in the face.”

  “He apologized. He said in his world anyone with more than five percent body fat is overweight, and everyone has veneers. And what’s wrong with getting in shape? He’s better than any of the others. Why not give him a second chance?”

  Sam leaned against the door, blocking her way. “So that’s what you want? A boy toy?” Harman had seemed like an easy strike until he had somehow maneuvered his way into a date.

  “Oh, come on. You have to give me a pass. I’ve never seen a man with a body like that. It was like looking at a rare painting, a perfect flower, or a glorious sunset. You can’t not appreciate that kind of beauty.”

  “You could have done it with your mouth closed,” he snapped. “I can’t imagine what you’d be like at the Louvre. They’d probably have to follow you around with a bucket and mop.” His blood pumped hot and furious through his veins, a potent cocktail of frustration, disappointment, and desire.

  “I don’t understand you.” Layla glared. “He’s got his flaws, but he doesn’t seem like a bad guy. If I wind up marrying him, you get the office. Why are you so annoyed?”

  “I’m not annoyed,” he bit out, although his pulse had kicked up a notch, and he felt like spending an hour in the gym punching a bag and imagining it was Harman’s face. “If you really want to waste your life on a shallow, egotistical airhead, you should do things the proper way. The families should meet . . .” He almost couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. He was anti-tradition. If anything, he should be delighted she had found a match so quickly. Hell, he should be on the phone right now arranging movers to get rid of the purple couch.

  “My dad is still in the hospital.”

  “Then what’s your hurry? Meet the other men on the list. Don’t rush such an important decision.” He took a deep breath and then another. When had he ever let his emotions override his common sense? Every day he dealt with angry employees. They called him names, threw things at him, questioned the existence of his soul. Nothing affected him. The walls that he’d built to contain his remorse and regret allowed him to do his job without succumbing to their pain. Except when it came to Layla.

  “Are you . . .” She tipped her head to the side and gave him a quizzical look. “Jealous?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Once he ages, all that stretched skin is goi
ng to sag, his face will prematurely age, and he’ll deflate like a popped balloon. Not to mention the hair loss and functionality problems.”

  Her eyes widened. “You are jealous. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “And I thought you were serious about finding a suitable partner, and not someone who just wants you to be his brown girl brand.” He shrugged. “Cleary I was wrong. The game is over. I win.”

  “You win?” She was shouting now. Sam glanced around quickly to make sure they weren’t disturbing anyone, but they were very much alone at the far edge of the lot where he had insisted they park to minimize the risk of her vehicle being scratched.

  “You don’t win, you conceited, egotistical ass. I’m going on a date, not marrying him.” She moved closer, standing less than a foot away, seemingly unconcerned that he was eight inches taller and outweighed her by a good fifty pounds. What was it about Layla that brought down his defenses so easily? He couldn’t even think straight. Wasn’t this what he wanted? The office, and Layla gone?

  “You’re just dragging it out because you don’t want to lose the game,” he retorted. “I know your type.”

  “And I know your type. You’ve spent so much time hiding how you feel, you wouldn’t know an emotion if it hit you in the face.”

  His lips pressed tight together, and he tried to find the inner calm that sustained him when he had to deal with disgruntled employees. But he was too wound up, too involved, too aware of the woman standing in front of him—the heat of her body, the flush in her cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest as she drew in breath after ragged breath.

  “I know cowardice when I see it,” he retorted. “You’ve let Dev’s death define you. You’re afraid to let people in because you’re afraid of losing them. That’s why you agreed to the date with Harman. There’s no chance you’ll ever fall in love with him because he’ll never love anyone more than himself.”

  “You don’t know anything.” She heaved in a furious breath, looking up at him through the thicket of her lashes. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Her soft lips parted.