"What's with the coyness?"

She glanced away, but there was no hiding her dopey grin. "I was going to tell you but maybe now isn't the right time?"

"Tell me what?" I leaned forward, eager to latch onto any news to take my mind off my own misery. Besides, I had an inkling. Kapil, eat your heart out.

"Rakesh and I are getting married."

I screamed and grabbed Rita, hugging the life out of her as we alternated between sobbing, laughing, and squealing. I released her and dabbed at my eyes, gritty as if sandpaper had been rasped across them since I'd walked out of The Plaza two hours ago. "I'm so happy for you."

"Crazy, huh? I send you all the way to India to get me out of the marriage then I take one look at the guy and fall apart."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Memories of my time with Rakesh in India flashed through my mind and I smiled, pleased one of my hunches had panned out. As for the other involving Drew and me and a chance at a real relationship... one out of two ain't bad.

"We haven't told our families yet so keep it quiet, okay?"

"I'm guessing the families already know. Wasn't it their idea in the first place?"

"Ha, bloody, ha."

Rita reached for a Dorito and crunched it, a flicker of doubt shadowing her eyes before she blinked.

"What aren't you telling me?"

She sighed. "We want it to happen quickly, in a few weeks, and we want it here. No big Indian wedding, no hordes lingering over days of celebration-just a simple Hindu affair with my parents, his family, and you."

And Drew. Though Rita didn't say it, I knew Rakesh would invite his business partner, especially to a small intimate affair in a foreign city. Which meant I had to see him to clear the air before the wedding. So much for a clean break. Seeing him again had the potential to get messy.

The least I could do for my best friend who'd stood by me through the traumatic months post-Toad. "So what's the problem?"

A tiny crease appeared between Rita's brows, doing little to mar her beauty. "You've met Mama Rama and you know my mom. Do you seriously think they're going to agree to a no-fuss wedding? Months have gone into the arranging, so do you think they're going to settle for a quickie at the Town Hall followed by a low-key reception at The Russian Tea Room?"

I remembered the force behind Mama Rama's slap all too clearly and I'd hate to think what she'd do to Rita if deprived of a chance to show off as mother of the groom. "Good point."

"We have a plan, though it's risky at best."

"Tell me." At least the intrigue had snapped me out of my funk. I'd stepped back into another Bollywood extravaganza, though thankfully I wouldn't have the lead role this time.

"My folks are due home any day and the Ramas are heading back to Mumbai. Both families want us to get married and Mama Rama is sucking up, thinking I'll get cold feet and ditch her son again. So we thought we'd give them an ultimatum. Either it happens our way now, or it doesn't happen at all."

"Think they'll go for it?" Doubt spiraled through me. Anyone who'd seen Rakesh and Rita together could see how crazy they were for each other. To believe they wouldn't get married at some point in the future would require a serious suspension of belief. Then again, both families were fixated with Bollywood films so it might not be such a big leap for them to make.

Rita quirked an eyebrow and struck a pose. "You think you're the only one with acting talent around here? Wait 'til you see me give Rakesh the cold shoulder and watch Mama Rama fold like a deck of cards."

I chuckled, the sound of my laughter a welcome surprise. When I'd left Drew's suite I felt like I'd never laugh again. "If you need anything, let me know."

Rita's smile waned. "There is one thing."

"What?"

"Mama Rama needs a pedicure before the wedding and I told her you'd be perfect for the job."

"Bitch." I grabbed a handful of Doritos and pelted her as we tussled, laughing until our sides ached.

Drew called.

Eight times, to be precise.

Four on the home phone, four on my cell.

Very even, very precise, very British. His messages ranged from polite and cool to annoyed and deranged, the last one something like this: "Shari. This is insane. You cut out on me because my mother drops in for a visit? I know the battle-axe comes across a bit strong but I thought we had something. Surely you can tolerate her for a little while? Anyway, call me."

He thought I should tolerate the old bag? See? Deranged.

When I didn't return his calls that night, he arrived around midnight, ringing the buzzer like a man possessed. I could've let him up but what would be the point? I hadn't formulated what I wanted to say, let alone mentally rehearsed it, and I knew the minute I saw him my hormones would go crazy and start ruling my head again.

I needed space. Space to let my head start talking sense to the rest of my traitorous body and I prayed it made a damn good argument.

Even if the Amelia engagement farce was a ruse Lady Muck used to get rid of me, Drew had lied to me. He was a Lord. A real, honest-to-goodness, ten-foot-up-himself Lord, and no matter how close we got, how far this relationship went, I couldn't see Lady Muck welcoming a half-caste Lady Lansford into the family.

Half-caste.

Racist old bitch.

I cringed in the darkness as the buzzer eventually silenced, wondering if Lady Muck told Drew about our fond farewell. Being raised to respect my elders, I wasn't proud of my departing line. Then again, who said I had to take shit from a stuck-up meow like her?

I'd take a day or two, marshal my thoughts, set a plan of action, and stick to it.

Then why the sinking feeling in my belly that going through with this plan might be the hardest thing I'd ever have to do? "Plan" being the operative word as, lying on my bed with the blinds pulled up and moonlight spilling through the sheer chiffon drapes and speckling the ceiling, I had no idea what this so-called grand plan would entail. If Rita was right and the engagement thing wasn't true, he deserved a chance to explain the title. It's the least I could do.

My cell beeped.

I ignored the text message for two seconds before curiosity got the better of me. Eight calls, a personal visit-which must've damaged the buzzer by persistence-and a text. Not bad.

Rolling over, I grabbed the cell off the bedside table and checked the message.

U & I NEED 2 TALK.

PLEZ CALL.

BB 4 MJ.

MA.B. 4 EVER?.

I scrolled through the message several times, having no control over my easily pleased heart that leaped at his cuteness. The 'Bollywood Boy for Miss Jones, maybe forever?' struck hard.

Guys didn't talk about tomorrow, let alone the future, yet here was my lying lord tugging on my heartstrings with inferences about forever.

What did forever mean to him? I'd be forever available whenever he lobbed into town? I'd be forever waiting for something more, something he couldn't give? Waiting was for suckers. For women without confidence. For women with low self-esteem and high expectations who ended up middle-aged and still waiting.

That wasn't me. Not anymore.

I should call him.

Don't you dare! screamed my voice of reason.

He's been pretty persistent.

So? Let him sweat.

He's sweet to be this concerned.

You think he's sweet on you? Forget it. He's after one thing while he's in town. That forever crap is B.S. Remember when Mom said 'why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?'

"Shut the hell up," I said, tired of arguing with my voice of reason. I rolled onto my side, clutching the cell like a lucky talisman and toying with the touchpad.

Technically, sending a reply text wouldn't count as calling.

Emotionally, what happened to time-out and my grand plan?

Logically, I owed him some kind of explanation for my lunatic dash, seeing as Mommy Dearest hadn't enlightened him.

Mentally, I didn't have a hope of getting any sleep if I didn't do something right now to bridge the wide chasm between us, even if it was only to kick him hard and swiftly up the ass.

Mind made up, I punched in a reply before I chickened out.

GIVE ME A FEW DAYS.

C U THEN.

BTW, 4 EVER 2 LONG.

Stabbing the send button, the text whizzed through cyberspace-or wherever the bizarre little letters ended up flying through-before crash-landing on Drew's screen. My message might not have the same punch as his but at least I'd been honest.

The new and improved Shari had starred in a Bollywood film (starred being a slight exaggeration, but Pravin said I'd struck a very evocative pose in the rear chorus), been stalked for my beauty (so the Lone Ranger needed his eyes checked; nice sentiment all the same), and done the horizontal mambo with Hugh (tragic to fantasize about doing it with a movie star but I swear it only happened once and Drew looked so much like Hugh right at THE moment I couldn't help myself).

The new me was a vast improvement on the old Toad-trampled mess I'd been before India.

The cell buzzed in my hand and I swore this would be the last time I'd check it before switching off. If I didn't want to talk to Drew, I sure as hell didn't want to waste time texting him like an adolescent.

W/OUT U 2 LONG.

CALL ME.

I'LL W8.

Short and sweet.

I hit the cell's off button, wondering if he would wait. Did he truly believe forever was too long without me? Or did he want another fix of milk before he dumped the cow and returned to greener pastures?

I closed my eyes, willing sleep. Nada. Why the heck was Drew talking about forever? Especially when I'd run out on him like a madwoman and refused to take his calls? Could he really feel something for me?

May be plausible, but the image of Lady Muck's distaste as she surveyed me from head to foot burned into my retinas. She knew nothing about me but on first appearances, I wasn't good enough for her lordly son. Judgmental, narrow-minded and bigoted? Hell yeah. But the fact I still hadn't found a job and was living in a short-term apartment rankled.

Drew might not care about those things but his mom did, and if we moved past this, what hope did I have for a long-term future without more to offer?

With an exasperated grunt, I rolled onto my stomach, grabbed my netbook from the bedside table, and flipped it open. I'd bookmarked countless job application sites and had enlisted with several job agencies. The call-backs kept coming, but no offers. Right now, that Subway sandwich artist position looked tempting.

I giggled at the thought of Lady Muck's expression if her precious boy dated a bread-butterer, scanning my inbox in the vain hope I'd landed an executive assistant position with Donald Trump. I scrolled down, past spam for million-dollar Nigerian lottery winnings and penis enlargements before spying the subject header JOB APPLICATION. Nothing extraordinary considering I'd emailed a ton of them, but what set this one apart was the sender.

Viand Magazine. Newly launched glossy travel mag focusing on food and featuring real-life reports from travelers roaming the world. A magazine I'd had a call-back interview for, an interview I'd bluffed my way through with countless tales of my Mumbai adventures and Indian recipes I'd cohesively blended together in my first official article.

My finger cramped over the mouse pad and I flexed it a few times before opening the email.

Dear Ms. Jones, Following your successful interviews and well-formatted article, we're pleased to offer you a trial position as a contributor to Viand Magazine. We were particularly impressed with the food angle of your piece and would like that to be the focus of your articles during the two-week trial period.

While this is not an offer of permanent work, we will be happy to reevaluate the situation at the end of your trial with the hope to extend your contract.

Please present to human resources next Monday, where your trial will be discussed in greater detail.

All the best, Jorg Lundgren, Editor-in-Chief, Viand Magazine I reread the email three times before leaping off the bed and doing a hip-swaying, shoulder-shimmying, happy dance.

I'd done it. Landed a trial at a hip magazine, one I had every intention of nailing. The highlight? It was an occupation out of my comfort zone, away from boring legal dissertations, and encapsulating two of my new favorite things: travel and food.

I pinched myself, registered pain, and didn't give a shit.

I had a potential new career.

A freaking fantastic potential new profession.

Might not be much of a step up from Lady Muck's wannabe starlet but to me it was a giant leap. Today, fledgling magazine contributor, tomorrow J.K. Rowling.

Okay, so the euphoria had gone to my head but come Monday, my first day on trial, I intended on kicking some serious literary ass. If one considered travel ramblings and recipes literary.

Regardless, I'd be there. Polishing my prose. Reciting recipes. Kowtowing to the editor-in-chief. Doing whatever it took to get this job and be able to confront Drew with my head held high.

"Shari, my girl."

I staggered back as Anjali, her arms laden with Punjab Sweet Shop boxes, bowled into the apartment two days later, the familiar garlic/curry powder odor hitting me like a blast straight from Mumbai.

She deposited the boxes on the hallway table and turned to face me with a wide grin. "You're way too skinny again, like when you first arrived in India. You need flesh on your bones and I have just the thing."

She ripped the seal off the top box and offered me a piece of cashew halwa, guaranteed to add a pound or three with the first bite. "I brought ladoos and barfi and gulub jamuns, plus all your favorites."