Page 72 of The Fake Dating War

Tarun Singh is at the Jago. He catches my eye and raises his drink at me.

There are no plans to talk about business during the event. We’ve been exchanging emails for that, even though I’m severely limited with what I can show him since I’m locked out of our system for being onvacation.So far, he’s not convinced he needs FINAN Group for his company, but he’s been asking more questions. That’s progress. With only a few days left until the bonus deadline, I don’t know if I can make him sign, but he’s my only option left to win.

What complicates all this is Patel. She shouldn’t, but shedoes.

I’m feeling this twisted knot in my chest. Some might call it guilt, but I’m trying to convince myself it isn’t. Especially since Patel already knows I’m here for my own reasons, so I haven’t lied about that?—

And fuck if that isn’t a grey area.

He hasn’t said yes. Chances are this is not going to work.

Whales are notoriously hard. Usually people with that much money have layers of people you have to get through before you can even land a conversation. This wedding is a rare opportunity to talk to him directly. As an extension of Patel’s family, I’m leveraging trust. Trust that doesn’t belong to me, but has taken me this far.

For someone as ambitious as Patel, I’m surprised she hasn’t done this herself. Then again, she has a blind spot when it comes to her family. Or maybe a fucking conscience against using them.

The guilt grows louder. To push it off, I think that if this deal becomes something, I’ll tell her about it. I’ll tell her why I need the bonus this year more than anything. She already knows more about my family than anyone else does, so there’s a head start there.

Who knows, she could understand. If we switched places, I might expect the same behavior from her. We understand going to whatever length is possible to get what you need?—

And fuck. I’m grasping again.

Someone calls my name. I’m at the Jago and need to focus. This event is louder than the Maiyan, and is full of singing, where relatives dance with pots that are decorated with oil candles on their heads. There is so much going on, and Patel is busy with all of it. I offered to help, but she, and a horde of her relatives, insist they have everything under control. Still needing to do something useful, I help her pregnant cousin Manu supervise a drawing and snacks station meant to keep kids entertained at the party.

A little boy tugs on my pants. He holds grubby hands up at me and orders me to give him a ride. I bounce him in the air. Other kids notice and soon I have a line of them waiting.

Manu tells me I’ve screwed myself over.

I don’t mind.

Later, she comes up to me.

“It’s sweet how much you’re a goner for Reema,” she says. “Even when you’re apart, you’ve been tracking her across the hall this whole time.”

Only to see if anyone is harassing her with unnecessary comments. It seems more tame today, probably because this event is chock full of different ceremonies. Guests are glued to what’s happening in front of them, instead of spending a lot of time talking to each other.

A little girl rubs her nose on my sleeve, then she gives me a toothy smile. “Can I have another jumping ride?”

“Sure.”

After bouncing her in the air a few times, I take her back to her seat. Parents have drifted over to the table with plates of food for their kids. It’s time to eat. I’m asked to transport drinks over, so I do. On one of my runs, Patel’s Bebe ambushes me, quizzing me about children. I tell her none of my brothers are married, that they are allergic to commitment, and that my mother has stopped harassing us for grandkids because she’s given up.

Her face contorts, so I follow-up with how being the oldest, I helped raise my brothers. And that I volunteer at a youth football camp every month. Both are true.

That cheers her up.

Going back to the snacks and drawing table, I hand out napkins. Some kids are finger-painting with their food. Before I can decide whether it’s rude to start cleaning the table, the back of my neck prickles.

I look around until I spot her.

A jolt in my chest hits twice. Once at the sight of her, and again when our eyes meet.

Patel is staring at me. She has a funny look on her face.

I drop the napkins and go to her.

“Stomach issues?” I wonder.

“Excuse me?”

---