Page 3 of 'Tis the season of Wicked Deeds

Julian has picked a beautiful and very expensive restaurant with a month-long waiting list called Koishii. It serves one of my favorite dishes, sushi. Yes, it even rhymes. At least he has good taste in picking a place for a first date.

Thankfully, I didn’t run into much traffic, which is a miracle since it’s Mumbai, where traveling anywhere is a hassle.Especially on weekends. So, I’m relieved that I arrived ten minutes early. It will give me enough time to prepare myself.

Pretending to be someone else is no easy feat. Even if the other person is oblivious.

I kinda feel bad too for catfishing the guy, but needs must.

Perhaps he’ll be an arrogant jerk, expecting a housewife and dowry, so rejecting him will actually save my best friend from an asshole. I scan the restaurant for someone who might resemble a Julian, but my eyes are drawn to a hostess in a crisp black-and-white uniform, her demeanor professional and composed. The hostess gives me a once-over as I enter the restaurant in my favorite blue dress which reaches mid-thigh and has a daring neckline and cinched-in waist.

I wore it because it fills me with confidence, which I certainly need today as I channel my inner actress to play the role of Tina. I might even have practiced a bit. I’m praying he doesn’t ask too many questions about her publishing career. And if he does, he’s hopefully as clueless as I am, so when I feed him crap, he’s none the wiser.

“Would you like to sit and wait at the bar while Mr. Kashyap arrives?” asks the hostess when I tell her about my reservation. “Your table will be ready soon.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I walk to the bar and hop on a stool, pulling the hem of my dress down when it inches too high up my thighs. I wouldn’t want to mistakenly flash the older man beside me, who is ogling my breasts as though they’re served for lunch.

Yikes.

Subtly, I bring my hair forward and shift away, turning toward the waiting bartender. “A cranberry vodka, please.”

I indulge myself in the name of liquid courage and all. Once he serves me, I take a sip and sigh in pleasure at the taste, the familiar burn sliding down my throat. Continuing to drink,I keep my gaze at the front, watching elegantly dressed people come and go while I wait for Julian.

Since I didn’t want to look like a complete fool, I asked Tina to send me his picture. So, I at least have some idea of how he looks to recognize him. However, it became obvious that she was right when she said it wouldn’t be of help. The picture was of poor quality, small and grainy.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I realize he’s running a few minutes late. Hmm… tardiness is definitely a con. I think of texting Tina when my phone pings with a message from her.

TINA: How’s it going?

ME: Waiting for him at the bar.

TINA: He’s late. Rude!

I chuckle as I type.

ME: A few minutes isn’t the end of the world, Miss Punctual.

While she types her smart-ass reply, the bubbles dancing on my screen, I take a peek at the hostess’s stand. My breath whooshes out of my lungs when my gaze lands on the hottest and most gorgeous, out-of-my-league specimen I’ve ever seen.

And I’m only seeing his profile.

My catfish date forgotten, the hushed conversations blending into white noise, I study the larger-than-life and, oh my God… tattooed man. Two full sleeves of tattoos run down the length of his strong arms, peeking from his rolled-up black button-down shirt. A slight rebellion to the elegantly dressed people around us.

A quiet intensity radiates from the way he holds his tall and muscular stature. Resting his forearms on the hostess’s stand, which makes his sculpted biceps stretch the material ofhis dress shirt, he bends forward to listen to the graceful hostess speaking to him.

I take in the rest of his suave yet casual outfit. Dark denim jeans that mold to his perfect backside and powerful thighs, and my gaze drop to a pair of feet encased in military-style boots.

My whole being focused on him, I notice a few seconds too late as the woman points in my direction. Heart galloping in my chest, I hold my breath as he nods without peering my way and straightens to his full height.

Alarm spreads through me, mixed with tangible disappointment. No way it could be him. My—no,Tina’s—date. Yet there is no mistaking the truth sitting like a heavy weight in my gut. Julian is nothing like the man I had conjured up in my head.

The name itself doesn’t do him justice.

It doesn’t fit the masculine man with his unruly and mussed-up hair, as though styled hair personally offends his bad-boy persona. His looks, his build—it belongs on a sportsperson, rather than a boring businessman. Nor can I picture him working from behind a desk.

He turns.

Our eyes lock.

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