Page 61 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“And wheat-ish is?”

“The color of wheat. Brown, not light-skinned.”

The color of her skin again? “This is so fucked up.”

“You have no idea. Haven’t you seen any Indian matrimonial websites? They are treasure troves of astounding descriptors for body type, size, and explicit expectations of caste affiliations.”

I suddenly felt immensely grateful for my parents. And hers, I presumed.

“Do your parents know about all this?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. I’ve never hidden anything from them.”

I seized the opening with gumption. “Do they know about me, then?”

“No. Why would they? Hum aapke hain kaun?” she said with a grin.

I grinned back and shook my head. That was the movie I had watched with Mom. Who am I to you?

She frowned. “Although, that night at the pool, my mom was curious to know if you are good-looking and eligible.”

A warmth hit my belly. “What did you say?”

“The same thing I’m going to tell you: I don’t want to have this conversation.” She patted my cheek. “Go get the cake. I can’t wait any longer.”

Fuck, I was falling in love with her.

MIHIR

Sona promptly hijacked the dessert in her lap. I had to plead and threaten to sneak a bite.

“This cake definitely involves some sorcery,” I declared. “I don’t care for sweets, and I can’t seem to stop myself.”

“It’s the chocolate,” she said between bites. “It’s high quality. Also, the vanilla is really good. You can actually smell it at the back of your mouth, at your throat. I might be an average cook, but I’m an excellent baker.”

I snuck in for another small forkful. This time, she didn’t resist and instead moved her fork out of the way for mine.

“What’s your favorite thing to bake?” I asked, expecting her to say chocolate cake.

“I think that has to be my Ammachi’s plum cake that I make for Christmas every year. Every family has its recipe, but Ammachi’s is the best, and mine is the closest to hers. I’m extremely proud of that. Do you cook?”

“A little. You don’t grow up with my mom and not learn a thing or two in the kitchen. You’ve tasted my cooking, you know.”

She looked at me. “When?”

“The same place I tasted yours, which was very impressive, by the way.”

She dismissed the double entendre to compliment my talent in cooking instead.

“No!” She gasped. “Did you really make those casseroles?”

With only a smug look, I reached for another bite of the cake.

“Darn it! Is there anything you can’t do?”

“What can I say? I am that good.”

“And oh so humble!” she teased.

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