Page 40 of Yours for the Season
“That was all my mom and Barb’s doing,” Sameera reminded her friend.
“That’s what they want you to believe!” Bee said. “Just don’t get married and move there. It’s too far to visit, and I don’t handle the cold well. But wait, what are you doing talking to me? Shouldn’t you be smooching your not-so-fake boyfriend?”
“This doesn’t change anything,” Sameera said, and on the other line, Bee grew dangerously quiet.
“Wait a second. What did you say when he told you he liked you?” her friend asked.
“Nothing,” Sameera said. Bee’s shriek nearly ruptured her eardrum. “Stop screaming. I didn’t know what to say. Things are so strange. I got into a huge fight with my parents. Nadiya has been ignoring me. I don’t even know where my little brotheris. And let’s not forget I have a meeting with HR next week, whereupon I will officially be out of a job, unless I can convince a random billionaire to hire me. I can’t add whateverthisis with Tom to the chaotic mix. I just can’t.”
Bee’s voice was gentle when she spoke again. “Is this about Hunter?”
As usual, her friend knew to get to the heart of the matter. Sameera exhaled. “No. Maybe. I told Tom what he did. He promised to name his garbage disposal after him.”
“Good man,” Bee said with approval. “All joking aside, you don’t have to do anything but take care of yourself, Sam. And maybe talk to your parents. But other than that, you don’t owe anyone your peace of mind, or your happiness. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sameera said, and then she was crying again. What was up with all these tears? She thought Christmas was supposed to be a festive, joyous holiday.
Once she’d settled down and assured Bee that she was fine, and promised to call if she needed anything, Sameera got to work. She even made some headway, but it was hard to concentrate. Her parents still had not returned, and she resisted the urge to text her brother to find out what was going on. Not that the message would go through, she recalled, with the spotty cell reception in town. She forced herself to concentrate for another fifteen minutes before pulling out her phone and texting Nadiya. Hopefully her sister would still be up, despite the time difference.
Her fingers hovered over the keys and she typed:Nadiya, we need to talk. It’s not what you think. I miss you. Please, call me back. I love you.
She pressed send before she could overthink it. A moment later, the message appeared as read, but as much as she willed those three little dots to appear on her screen, Nadiya didn’t respond. Her sister had told her to sort her shit out. But how?
A knock on the patio door brought her out of her reverie, and she wasn’t surprised to see Tom at the sliding glass door, holding a grocery bag.
“I know you have work to do, but I thought maybe we could film a video, as per our legally binding contract,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. From his forced-casual posture, she knew that he was trying to play it cool, trying not to make things strange between them, and her heart warmed, despite her protests to Bee.
She liked Tom; more than that, she knew that if she begged off, he wouldn’t judge her, or say she was working too much, or try to make her feel guilty. It made the decision easy, really. She stepped aside, and Tom made his way to the brand-new kitchen as if he were approaching a holy temple. Feeling shy after his recent admission, Sameera followed him, even as another part of her was eager to spend time with him; it was a better alternative to brooding over her fight with her parents, or her silent sister, or whether Esa had returned to the house. She realized with a jolt that out of everyone she knew in Wolf Run, he was the one she felt the most comfortable around right now. He demanded the least from her, even though he had the most to lose if she broke off their arrangement. In some ways, his future career path rested on her, the same way hers did on him.
He started putting groceries away and rummaging through the cabinets with familiarity, which confirmed her suspicion that Tom had cooked in this kitchen before.
“What did your dad mean when he said you never cooked when you were home?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. “I usually don’t visit for long enough. I used to cook all the time when I lived here. It was something my mom and I used to do together, before she got sick. These days, not so much.” His words were glib. This was clearly a subject he didn’t want to talk about further. He had been so respectful of her boundaries; the least she could do was stay within his.
“What are we going to make, Chef?” Sameera asked brightly instead.
Tom placed a series of saucepans on the stove. “I thought we would dazzle our audience with a simple chai tutorial. We can make karak chai, Kashmiri chai, and maybe attempt Irani chai, too. What do you say?”
Sameera raised an eyebrow. He had clearly done a thorough investigation on three popular tea varieties from the subcontinent; the third one was a deep cut—Irani chai was a specialty from Hyderabad, the city where her parents were born.
“I’m impressed,” she conceded. “Most people can just about figure out that chai is tea. But you also have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into if you think you can make Kashmiri chai on the first try,” she teased. The drink, made by brewing green tea in milk, then garnishing with pistachios, almonds, cashews, and candied rose leaves, was a favorite, but the brewing process was notoriously finicky, as was achieving its famous pink hue. Unless he planned to cheat and add food coloring.
“Certainly not,” he said indignantly when she asked. “I’ve got some baking soda. I can do this. If you don’t believe me, how about a friendly wager?” He raised his chin in challenge, and she laughed.
“You’re on,” she agreed. “I bet you won’t be able to make real, pink-colored Kashmiri chai.”
“And I’m confident I can nail it on my first try. What do I get if I win?” he asked. There was a wicked glint in his eyes. He was flirting with her again, but after what he had said at the bakery, she wasn’t sure she should encourage him.
On the other hand, she was a Malik, and no one in her family could resist a challenge.
“IfIwin, you have to make me your three favorite meals when we get back to Atlanta,” Sameera said.
Tom instantly agreed. “Deal. And if I win, I don’t tell Barb and Rob our relationship is fake until after Christmas.”
She frowned at him. “What?”
His gaze took on a pleading expression. “I won’t ask you to lie to them if they come out and ask. I won’t introduce you as my girlfriendto anyone else. It’s just ... my dad keeps dropping hints, trying to make me feel guilty for not moving home. If he knew that I didn’t have any real ties to Atlanta—”
