The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,47

didn’t welcome.

She’d been starry-eyed that last night in here, dreaming of having a happily ever after with her Bollywood prince. Avi had been so suave, so self-assured, she’d never doubted they would have a wonderful marriage. After all, she’d been the one against it from the start, bucking tradition and her mom’s choice of groom, only to be wooed by his persistence and charm.

She’d been a virgin before she’d married, so she had spent her last night in this room hot and bothered, dreaming about her first time with Avi. She’d been so naive for twenty-two, her head filled with romantic notions and unobtainable fairy tales.

She may have blamed Kushi for pushing her toward Avi, but she’d also blamed herself for being so caught up in the whirlwind that she hadn’t stopped to question anything. She’d sugarcoated Avi’s faults, labeling his arrogance as confidence, his sleaziness flirtatious, his selfishness self-assuredness. He’d professed to love her, and she’d believed him, because for the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something bigger, embraced by the Indian community that had often eyed her sideways for the simple fact she had an American father.

She’d hated their stupid reverse racism, and the aunties her mom had ushered out the door had been a big part of that. Having her mom admit they’d ostracized her when she’d married someone outside her culture made sense of why they never socialized with her family. She’d assumed Kushi preferred being at home, but to learn the real reason . . . it made her mad. Especially as Kushi had turned to them in her hour of need because her own daughter hadn’t been around.

Her mom may have embraced them after her dad died because she felt alone, but Samira couldn’t imagine these judgmental women would’ve been truly supportive. She couldn’t remember them being at her dad’s funeral or his wake. Then again, her mom had wanted to keep both private, and only her parents’ closest friends had attended, her dad’s mostly. Nobody apart from Sindhu and Pia had attended from her mom’s circle. And Samira had been too wrapped up in her own grief to find out why.

Craving a glass of wine more than ever, she edged the bedroom door open and listened. Farewells faded down the corridor, and when she heard the familiar creak of the front door as it shut, she breathed a sigh of relief and exited the bedroom.

“You can come out now,” Kushi said. “They’re gone.”

Samira didn’t want to delve too deeply into her mom’s friendships. It was none of her business, because as Kushi had said, these women had been around for her when Samira hadn’t. But she needed to make it clear she wouldn’t stand for any interference regarding her love life while she was in town, and the sooner Kushi conveyed that message to the Bollywood battle-axes, the better.

“I’ll make some fresh chai,” Kushi said, linking her arm through Samira’s. “Or would you prefer something stronger after that ordeal?”

Samira smiled, knowing her mom didn’t drink but would have a ginger wine stock, her dad’s favorite.

“Chai is fine.” She leaned into her mom, glad for their renewed closeness. She hadn’t expected Kushi to take her side in what just happened. In fact, when she’d walked in on the aunties, she’d suspected an ambush.

But she’d been wrong, and having Kushi stand up for her meant a lot. It gave her hope that once she came clean about Manny, her mom would take the news well.

“I can do it,” she said, moving toward the cupboard above the stove where Kushi stocked her spices.

She’d learned how to make masala chai from a young age because she loved the tantalizing aroma of crushed cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom when they simmered together with pepper, nutmeg, star anise, and tea leaves. Kushi made her own blend by grinding the spices together and kept them in a small red-and-gold tin with a sizable dent in it. Samira had mentioned replacing it once, but her mom wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she’d become quite upset, so she’d backed down.

“You sit. I’ll make it,” Kushi said, guiding her toward a chair at the small dining table where they’d shared so many meals over the years. “You look tired. Is Pia working you too hard?”

Samira knew the dark circles under her eyes she’d tried to hide with concealer were a result of losing sleep over her stupid argument with Rory rather than working too hard, but one revelation