The Marriage Game

by Sara Desai

  His face softened and he gave a satisfied rumble. “You like my kisses.”

  “Very much.”

  “What else do you like?”

  Layla licked her lips. “Take me to your place and I’ll show you.”

  Sam threw some money on the counter and yanked her off the stool. “Let’s go.”

  “What are you driving?” She half walked, half ran to keep up with him.

  “BMW M2. I made the first payment when I became a medical intern and drove it home to show my dad. He was so proud.”

  “Not too shabby.”

  Sam snorted. “It can do zero to sixty in less than four freaking seconds. If you have time for a detour, I can show you what it can do on the 101.”

  “Do I get to drive?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  A smile spread across her face. “Maybe just a little.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “IT was fun while it lasted.” A disheveled Layla climbed into the tow truck and slid across to the middle seat.

  Sam settled in beside her, wincing when he put weight on his left wrist. “Car accidents are not fun.”

  “Well, I wasn’t hurt, thanks to your quick thinking.”

  “There wasn’t much thinking going on when you put your hand down my pants.” He gritted his teeth against the stir of desire. Even after a car accident, the thought of her naughty touch aroused him.

  “I’m sorry about that.” She grinned, not looking in the least remorseful. “But it seemed only fair since your hand was under my skirt.”

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have taken you on the 101 at night. They don’t call it the death ring for nothing.”

  “Death ring?” She snorted a laugh. “A rogue mule deer jumping onto the road doesn’t make it the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Did you see the size of that thing?” He glanced over his shoulder at the destroyed front end of his car. “It had to be over two hundred pounds.”

  “I couldn’t help but see it. He was staring right into my eyes. I still can’t believe he walked away. Too bad there aren’t deer police who could hunt him down and make him pay for his crime.”

  “It’s not funny, Layla.”

  Her smile faded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just trying to cheer you up. I feel like I’m on some kind of high right now.” She dropped her hand to his lap. “How about we start where we left off?”

  “I’m sure the truck driver would enjoy that.”

  Her hand trembled slightly when he moved it away, and something niggled at the back of Sam’s mind.

  “All ready to go.” The tow truck driver climbed in beside them. He was a big man, at least six foot four with a barrel chest and thick thighs that stretched across the seat until they were touching Layla’s leg.

  That wasn’t happening.

  “Move this way. Give him some room.” Sam tugged her sleeve with his right hand, pulling her toward him so he could put an arm around her. She settled close, her warmth soothing his frayed nerves, loosening his lungs so he could breathe again.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Sam rolled down the window for the police officer who had been the first to arrive on the scene. “Everything okay?”

  “I hate to do this because I know you’re broken up about your vehicle.” The police officer handed him his license and a speeding ticket. “You were doing eighty-five in a seventy zone.”

  “Ajay Pataudi? Is that you?” Layla leaned over, peering into the semidarkness. “I haven’t seen you since Mansoor’s wedding.”

  “Layla.” Officer Pataudi reached over Sam to shake her hand. “How’s your dad? I heard he was in the hospital.”

  “Getting better. He still can’t talk but he’s already bossing people around. How’s Ayesha?”

  “Pregnant with our third.”

  Sam cleared his throat and Layla’s head jerked up as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Ajay, this is my friend Sam. Can you give him a break with the ticket? He bought that car with his first paycheck when he became a medical intern and drove it straight home to show his dad that all the sacrifices he’d made to give his son a better life were worth it. One minute he was #desiproud and the next, Bambi gets revenge Thumper style.”

  “I never liked that movie,” Officer Pataudi said.

  “Of course you didn’t, because you have a heart. You feel for the little guy, for all the Bambis who lost their moms and all the immigrants who came here for the American dream only to be crushed by the cruel deer of fate.”

  “You are so much like your dad.” Officer Pataudi laughed as he tore up the ticket. “For Bambi.”

  “Thanks, Ajay.” Layla smiled. “See you at the next wedding. Give Ayesha a kiss for me.”

  “What the hell just happened?” Sam asked as the police officer walked away.

  “Family. He’s my father’s cousin’s sister’s husband’s nephew.”

  “Where did you find this little firecracker?” the driver asked as they drove away.

  Sam tightened his arm around her. “I didn’t find her. She found me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “STOP being such a baby. I know what I’m doing.” Layla wrapped the tensor bandage around Sam’s wrist. After dropping the car off at the nearest garage, they’d caught a cab back to the office so Layla could close up and Sam could dig out his insurance paperwork. After the final checks had been done, she had insisted on wrapping his wrist, dragging him into the back office where the first aid kit was kept.

  Sam winced when she tightened the bandage, but it wasn’t the pain that discomfited as much as the lingering scents from the kitchen—the warmth of cardamom, the spice of cumin, the rich fragrances of incense and tarragon—so painfully familiar that he felt an unexpected pang of regret that he’d turned his back on a culture he had loved. Even in the office, far from the kitchen, there was no escape.

  “I’m the doctor. If I say it’s too tight, then it’s too tight,” he grumbled, his irritation not really with her but with the disaster of a night and the pull of longing that was making it difficult to stay still.

  Seated across from him on a worn, black desk chair, Layla froze. “I thought you’d given up medicine for the joy of firing people for a living.”

  “I don’t just say You’re fired and show them out the door. I give them a motivational speech about what a good opportunity redundancy can be.”

  “You—Sam Mehta—give them a motivational speech?” Her eyes widened, incredulous. “Does it consist of grunts and growls, or actual words?”

  “It’s a good speech. They appreciate it.”

  “How do you know they appreciate it?” She moved closer, rolling the chair between his spread legs. His blood rushed to his groin as he imagined wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight, reassuring himself that she was safe and unharmed. He had protected her tonight. When the deer had jumped in front of them, he had reacted with lightning speed, veering off the road and into the bushes, the damage to his car caused not by his lack of skill, but by the unfortunate position of a fallen tree.

  Sam shrugged. “They say ‘thanks.’”

  “Maybe they say ‘thanks’ because they’re in shock.” Her voice wavered the tiniest bit. “They don’t know what to say or do. Their minds are going a mile a minute thinking about rent and car payments and student loans and helping their parents out. Maybe it’s their friend’s birthday and they’re supposed to be picking up a cake and a bunch of balloons for a surprise party. Suddenly, the thought of spending that much money makes them sick. They almost can’t believe what’s happening. Maybe the boss made a mistake, and tomorrow she’ll be back at the water cooler with a box of donuts and a story about some guy the boss hired to fire her who gave her a pep talk after destroying her life.”

  Taken aback by
her outburst, he frowned. “Are these hypothetical people, or is this about you?”

  “Why would it be about me? I got fired but I was fine. I’d just lost my boyfriend, my apartment, my liberty, and my reputation, but I kept it upbeat. I tried to think of it as an opportunity. I went to the party, had a great time, filled my purse with hors d’oeuvres because I didn’t know where my next meal was going to come from, drank too much free booze so I couldn’t feel the pain, and threw up all over my friend’s bathroom floor. There was a guy in that mix, but I don’t remember anything about him except that he left before dawn.”

  The niggle of warning returned. He studied her face, noting the lines of worry on her forehead and the slight dilation of her pupils.

  “I think you’re in shock. I should have noticed it earlier.”

  “I’m not in shock.” She reached up and brushed his hair away from the cut she’d just tended, her touch feather light on his skin. “You’re the one who was driving and got injured. If anyone is in shock, it’s you.”

  Sam cupped her jaw, holding her head still. “Your pupils are dilated.”

  “It’s a design flaw. It happens when sexy men get too close.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “You think I’m sexy?”

  “You are when you talk in that soft, deep voice and sit so close I can feel the heat of your body, and wear that craze-inducing cologne, and cradle my face like I’m a delicate flower.” She licked her lips and his gaze fell to her soft, lush mouth. It was an invitation he couldn’t ignore.

  “You forgot the part where I tried to kill you by crashing into a deer at high speed,” he offered, just in case he was misreading the signs.

  “I’m trying not to remember it because you busted out some pretty slick moves to keep us from going over the cliff. Nothing sexier than a man who can stay calm in a crisis and save a girl so she can live to get fired another day. You, Sam Mehta, are a hero.”

  She thought he was worthy. It was a balm to his soul.

  Reassured, he slid one hand beneath her hair to cup her nape. “You’re trembling. That’s another sign of shock.”

  “I’m cold. I dressed to test-drive Harman, not pay a late-night visit to the ditch.”

  “Then I’d better warm you.” He edged closer and swept back her hair to nuzzle the soft skin of her neck.

  “Most men would offer a sweater or a blanket. Maybe a cup of tea.” She tipped her head to the side to give him better access, her hands sliding between them to press against his chest.

  “I’m not most men.”

  “Definitely not. Your warm-by-seduction technique is second to none. I’m hot all over except my lips. They’re still cold.” She hesitated only an instant. “Maybe you could warm them, too.”

  “With pleasure.” He twisted his hand through her hair and tugged her head back before giving her a soft kiss, his tongue sliding over hers. She tasted sweet and tangy, with a hint of spice.

  “Not bad,” she whispered. “But I think we need to get back to tending your injuries. Where else are you hurt?”

  “I think I bumped my head.” He pulled her off her chair and onto his lap, unable to fight the pull of desire any longer.

  Laughing, she kissed his temple. “Anywhere else?”

  “Here.” He tapped his mouth.

  “It’s not an easy fix,” she whispered. “Lips need a lot of attention.”

  “Then you’d better get started.”

  His brain short-circuited when she kissed him, and he gave in to the tidal wave of emotion he’d been holding back since the crash. He kissed her hard and fierce, his tongue touching, tasting, owning every inch of her sweet mouth.

  She moaned softly, one hand gripping his shoulder as he buried his face in her neck, licking and sucking her skin. He was hard as steel beneath his fly, his body pulsing with need. Everything about her called to his baser instincts—to protect, to claim, to hold, to own. He wanted her with a fierce, urgent need that he didn’t fully understand, but if her enthusiastic response to his rough kisses was any indication, she wanted him, too.

  “If you were planning on”—he cleared his throat, unable to even form the question as to what she meant by test-drive Harman—“a date tonight, does that mean you’re wearing easy-access underwear?”

  “Maybe you should take off my clothes and find out.”

  He licked his lips in anticipation and reached for her skirt.

  “Beta?” A woman’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Are you here?”

  • 19 •

  “BETA?”

  Layla froze when her mother’s voice rang through the restaurant.

  “Where are you? I’m here with Mehar.”

  “Oh God.” Layla jumped up and straightened her clothes. “They aren’t supposed to be here.” Hands shaking, she looked around for a means of escape. “Mehar Auntie can smell men. We have to get you out of here.”

  Sam buttoned his jeans. “I’m not embarrassed to be with you.”

  “Are you serious?” She hissed out a breath. “It’s not the same for women, and you know it. I’ll be grounded for life.”

  “You’re twenty-six years old.”

  “I’m living at home. I haven’t found a new place yet.” She pushed him backward. “Get into the closet and stay quiet.”

  He gave an indignant sniff. “I’m not hiding in a closet. I’m the CEO of a very prominent restructuring comp—”

  “You have to.” She pushed him again, cutting him off. “I can’t be here alone at night with a strange man. She’ll think we were up to no good.”

  Sam smirked. “We were up to no good—at least until we were interrupted.”

  “Sam. Please. You don’t understand. It’ll be a big deal. She’ll make assumptions . . .” Trying a different tactic, she leaned up and kissed him. “Stay in the closet and I promise to tell you the fantasy that I had about you and me and the Eagerson desk.”

  Sam ducked behind her father’s spare shirts. “Does it involve handcuffs?”

  “No handcuffs.”

  “Rope?”

  “No.”

  “Chains?”

  “It wasn’t Fifty Shades of Brown, so don’t get excited.” She closed the door, leaving it open just a crack so he could breathe.

  Not a second too late. Her mother and Mehar Auntie walked into the office.

  “What are you guys doing here?” She straightened the desk chair, surreptitiously checking for evidence of their illicit activities. “I thought I was closing for you tonight.”

  “Taara couldn’t remember if she’d left the gas stove on.” Her mother shook her head. “You weren’t answering your phone so I came to check after picking Mehar up from her sangeet. I saw your Jeep outside and—”

  “I smell a man.” Mehar Auntie sniffed the air.

  “I’m sure there were lots of men in the restaurant tonight.” Layla leaned over the desk and grabbed a stack of envelopes. “I thought I’d go through the mail and sort through the invoices. It’s been piling up ever since Dad went into the hospital, and the bookkeeper is coming in a few days.”

  “No.” Her mother grabbed the envelopes out of her hand. “That’s not for you to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you sure? You’ve already got so much on your plate . . .” Her eyes widened when she saw Mehar Auntie sniffing her way over to the closet, like a dog who had caught a scent.

  “This is a beautiful salwar kameez, Auntie-ji.” She interposed herself between her aunt and the closet door. “I love the bright orange and red embroidery. Very Bollywood. Did you get it at Nira Auntie’s store?”

  “She just got them in.” Mehar Auntie smiled. “Look at this beadwork. I thought it was too nice to wear as a guest, but she said it would be good for sales when I hit the dance floor.” She danced a few steps of “You Are My Soniya” from
Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, singing as she made wide circles with her arms and slapped her ample rear.

  Layla heard a snort from the cupboard and she moved to block Sam’s view. “I’m sure you were a hit.”

  Mehar Auntie segued into a more vigorous portion of the dance, bending over to shake her breasts. “You should have seen me on the dance floor. The men couldn’t tell the difference between me and Kareena Kapoor, even though I’m twenty years older.”

  “I can imagine.” Mehar Auntie was a sangeet hog, taking center stage at every celebration with choreographed dances that she practiced at home complete with outfit changes.

  Layla heard a muffled laugh and coughed loudly, trying to hide the sound.

  “Come, beta.” Mehar Auntie wiped the sweat off her brow. “Dance with me.”

  “There’s not really enough room.” She backed up to the closet as her aunt spun around, arms waving in the air. “And my skirt is too tight.”

  “You should have seen what the young girls were wearing,” Mehar Auntie continued. “These young people today. Everything is cut too low or too high and showing too much skin. I told them a good man doesn’t want a woman who is trying to get him into her bed before they are married.”

  “Exactly. You’re very wise.” Layla’s pulse kicked up a notch when her mother fixed her with a stern gaze. She knew that stare.

  Layla swallowed hard. “Times are changing, though.”

  “That’s true.” Mehar Auntie paused for breath. “Everyone had what they called a coffee bar name. Instead of Noopur, the girl is Natalie. Instead of Tarick, the boy is Ricky. And Hardik wants to be called Harry because he says Americans think his name means he is in the dirty movies.” She hesitated, frowned. “Do you have a coffee bar name?”

  “No, Auntie-ji.”

  “You’re a good girl.” Mehar Auntie patted her arm. “But you need a husband.” She turned to Layla’s mother, who was frowning at the closet door. “We need to find her a husband, Jana. Maybe when Nasir is out of hospital, you can start looking.”