Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(8)

“You need a monetary gift,” Veera said. “There is literally no other way you can get this house in such a short time frame. As your financial advisor, believe me. I know. But is this really how you want to go about getting it?”

“I’m open to other suggestions.” Kareena reached out for another shot.

“The aunties it is,” Bobbi said. “They are better than the NSA. They could get in touch with every eligible bachelor from here to the West Coast. And probably in Canada, too.”

Their words were a painful truth that Kareena hated hearing but knew was correct. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

A chime interrupted them, and Bobbi reached in her bag to get her phone. She looked at her screen and gasped. “Son of a bitch.”

“What happened?” Kareena asked.

Bobbi grabbed her drink and chugged it before she turned to Kareena. “My cousin is doing a wedding in Parsippany, and she needs me to come out there to help her. Apparently the Bollywood dancers they’d hired to perform at the sangeet are a bunch of strippers who dance to Bollywood. They started taking their clothes off, and the grandfather had a heart attack.”

No wonder Bobbi wasn’t pressed to find a man, Kareena thought. Her life was so full of drama and weddings that she practically lived out the stress between couples every day.

“Okay, let me get the check and we can all go,” Kareena said.

Bobbi was already on her feet, waving at her to stay seated. “I already put my card on file. Just sign for it when you’re done. Have another few drinks on me.”

“How are you going to get out there?” Veera asked. “Train or car?”

“Whatever I can get,” Bobbi replied.

Veera stood. “My car is parked around the corner. I can take you. I’m still completely sober. Kareena, are you up for a drive?”

“I can’t,” Kareena said. “I’m in the opposite direction. You two go. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Veera leaned down and hugged her. “Come back to Jersey City tomorrow then. We’ll watch movies and get really drunk on boxed wine.”

Kareena hugged her back. “I’ll let you know. I want to put in shelves in the laundry room tomorrow and I still have to work on the car.”

Bobbi hugged her next, then whispered in her ear, “Maybe you should reconsider having that fun hookup at the bar tonight to celebrate your thirtieth. You can start looking for your forever life partner in the morning.”

Kareena snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. The hookup, I mean. Text me details about the strippers.”

“I’ll take pictures.”

After her friends left in a flurry of chatter and energy, she was left alone at the circular table with empty dishes and half-finished glasses spread out in front of her.

“A fitting ending for the day,” she said. It had truly been shitty between her forgotten birthday and the news of her father’s retirement. Despite her friends’ advice, she was going home alone. Finding a hookup sounded exhausting.

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.