"You mean a lot to me, too-"

I held up my hand, needing to finish. "I didn't return many of your calls these last few months because I knew what would happen if I did."

Smart guy, he didn't butt in and risk talking to the hand again.

"Hearing your voice would've made me jump on the first plane out here and I didn't want to be that person anymore."

"I'm not following." He rubbed the back of his neck, bewilderment slashing his brows.

"Bear with me for a bit longer." I slipped off the desk and slid my hand into his, threading our fingers together. "I'm impulsive. I jump into situations, hoping they'll work out in the end."

He squeezed my hand in encouragement. "Like agreeing to impersonate your best friend to break her engagement?"

"Exactly like that." I managed a weak smile. "Considering how that worked out, it wasn't all bad. But rash decisions I've made in the past have been disastrous."

"You're talking about the jerk that did a number on you?"

I nodded. "I wasted a year of my life on him, and he didn't mean-"

He placed a fingertip under my chin and tilted it up. "Mean what?"

"Mean half as much as you do."

His lips kicked into a proud grin and I exhaled in relief. So far so good.

"I've come back because I want to give us a chance. I want to get to know you without the surrealism of sleeping over at The Plaza and making snack runs to Sassoon's and doing the romantic touristy stuff like walking through Central Park and sharing hot dogs on street corners."

I glimpsed excitement and hope and something indefinable in his eyes.

"I don't want to rush into this. I want us to take our time, get to really know each other, develop our friendship, and see where this relationship takes us. You in?"

"I'm all in." Three little words that may not pack the same punch as 'I love you' but based on how I felt at that moment, they came pretty damn close.

"I'm planning on hanging around a few months. You okay with that?"

He froze, and my heart stalled. Jamming a hand through his hair, he muttered a curse. "You turning up, saying what I've been dying to hear, distracted me."

I tried to quell my rising panic and failed. "From?"

He pointed at his desk. "Major acquisition deal in the UK. We're in a position to buy an Internet provider, and Rakesh is on his honeymoon, so I'm booked to fly out there tomorrow."

Okay, not so bad. I could hang out with Anjali for a few days. "For how long?"

"Six weeks."

Shit.

So much for getting to know each other. What could I say? Don't go? I'd busted my ass to be here, juggling my work duties-lying, for goodness sake-and the moment I arrive he has to leave. I'd never been a clingy girlfriend and I didn't intend to start now, not when Drew meant more to me than any other guy I'd ever known.

Uncertain, I dithered over a suitable response when he stalked around his desk and jabbed at his keyboard.

"Give me a second." He squinted at the screen, tapped some more, his fingers flying while I fidgeted, rubbing the bare spot on my forearm where my TAG used to reside.

His cell rang and he answered it as he typed one-handed, his frigid tone and escalating volume culminating in an extended argument. He paced, alternating between gesticulating with his free hand to dragging it through his hair, barking orders into the phone.

With "you're in charge" and "you make the deal happen" ringing in my ears, he opened his top drawer, flung the cell into it, and slammed it shut.

Had he just done what I thought he'd done?

His exultant whoop as he vaulted the desk made me jump.

I mentally crossed my fingers. "What's happening-"

"I'm not going anywhere." He picked me up and whirled me around until the room spun, our insane laughter echoing in his cavernous office.

When he put me down, I clung to him, determined to never let go. "But the acquisition? If it's that important-"

"Nothing's as important as you and me." His arms wrapped around my waist, snug and secure. "Business has always been my entire world." He paused, the emotion shadowing his eyes making me hold my breath. "Until I met you."

Don't cry... don't cry...

"I know it's early and we're hell-bent on exploring our connection, but you're the one, Shari Jones."

"The one?" I squeaked before clearing my throat, not daring to imagine what he meant.

He ducked his head to hum the bridal waltz in my ear and whispered, "I love you."

Elated, I buried my face in his chest so he couldn't see my soppy grin and big fat tears.

When we straightened, I laid my palm over his heart, the consistent, steady beat, indicative of the guy I loved.

"Thanks for being patient with me."

"My pleasure." He kissed me, a soft, understanding kiss filled with promise and hope for our future.

Technically, I'd never lived with a guy. Tate had dropped by the Park Avenue apartment when it suited but we hadn't spent longer than a weekend together. So cohabitating with Drew for a few months proved to be a good test of our relationship.

We'd wanted to explore beyond the spark we shared, to test the depth of our commitment. Living with someone who snored when he slept on his back, who made odd disapproving noises when he read the newspaper, who didn't like my mess, proved to be challenging and enlightening and encouraging. Thank goodness the guy wasn't perfect.

He even let me pay a measly rent now I could afford it-I'd insisted, complete with a threat to fly back to NYC-but we both knew it was token value. I couldn't have afforded the rent on his amazing apartment on Marine Drive, featuring some of the highest land prices in Mumbai, if I starred in the next Bollywood blockbuster.

While he had his faults and I had mine, we managed to muddle along in some semblance of domestic bliss, and every morning when I woke, warm and cozy with his arm draped over my waist, I couldn't believe how damn lucky I was.

I'd lie there for ten minutes, almost holding my breath not to wake him, so I could watch him sleep. The spiky shadows cast by his eyelashes, the tempting stubble, the strong jaw. I knew every inch of him intimately: the ticklish spot behind his knee, the sensitive patch in the curve of his hipbones, the way he liked his back scratched.

Though it was more than physical. We strolled along Marine Drive every evening, the Arabian Sea stretching like a sparkling slick, talking about anything and everything. We attended work functions and movie premieres and nightclub openings as a couple. He even tolerated being dragged along to every restaurant and street stall I could find, all in the name of research for my column, never doubting our growing bond for a second.

At least, Drew didn't. Me? After two months, with my money running out as the column switched from weekly to monthly and the online version of Viand cut back on contributors, I knew the time fast approached where I'd have to make a permanent choice.

I knew what I wanted.

I wanted it all. The guy, the job, the transcontinental thrill.

Ideally, I'd expand my work to include freelancing for other travel magazines while dividing my time between NYC and Mumbai. For research purposes, and other more pleasurable pursuits. Namely, my evolving relationship with one very sexy Brit.

When Drew had to visit Goa for a few days on business, I took the opportunity to head back to Arnala. My birthplace had made a lasting impression during my first, all-too-brief visit. Fitting that I'd be contemplating a momentous decision there.

For a glorious five days I existed on thalis (a banana leaf plate covered in small mounds of rice, vegetables, dahl, raita, and pickles). I spent my time exploring the town, seeing the sights, absorbing the culture my ancestors took for granted on a daily basis. I took enough photos to fill two memory sticks and wrote continually, filling four journals with recipes and ramblings, all good fodder for work.

I soaked up the serenity of the people and the place, the peace infusing me with clarity.

Yeah, I missed Drew. Would he find the sea view from my dorm-like window enchanting? Would he like to sit under a banyan tree and listen to the lilting singsong accent of the locals swap stories? Would he favor the sambhar over the dahl?

Everywhere I went, with every new experience I had, it all came back to Drew.

He was my world.

It was as simple as that.

I didn't have to second-guess this decision.

Tate had been a minor aberration in the overall scheme of my life and I'd learned from it (never trust a man who has a designer shoe fetish to match yours). My self-confidence had taken a beating, making me doubt any decision I had to make.

Not anymore.

Living with Drew, trusting Drew, opening my heart to Drew, had restored my faith in myself.

I'd healed, with the help of a vibrant, startling, eye-opening country and the love of an incredible man.

Best of all, I'd done this for me. Every step I'd taken, every risk I'd chanced, had been worth it because it led me to this moment. Realizing how far I'd come and how far I was willing to go to secure my future.

Smiling, I hugged my knees to my chest as I sat on Arnala beach.

I wouldn't waste another minute.

I knew what I had to do.

Anjali helped me prepare.

She loved the intrigue, and I couldn't blame her. While I was terrified he'd think I was a lunatic for doing this, considering we'd only been living together two months, I couldn't wait to see Drew's face.

I hadn't seen Anjali for three weeks, and while she helped me dress, she caught me up on the latest gossip. She'd met someone, another musician (sitar player this time)-groupie!-and had lost twelve pounds. Amazing what a new love interest could do to subdue ladoo cravings.

Rita and Rakesh were flitting around Europe and nauseatingly in love. We Skyped them, and by Rakesh's devotion it looked like Mama Rama was out of the picture and he'd walk on hot coals for his new wife. Rita appeared radiant, and we made a pact to continue Mojito Mondays once we were back in New York. Or Mumbai, if I was lucky.

Not much had changed with the Ramas. Anu continued to terrorize Senthil, who in turn spent more time at Film City. Diva had given up her crush on Drew and moved onto someone more attainable, a guy from her local call center. Pooh had hooked up with the owner of a sweetshop. Shrew continued to watch everyone and became so good at it she was a hit at local parties, weeding out crashers.

As Buddy drove me through Mumbai's chaotic streets I forced myself to sit back, relax, and not hold onto the seat for dear life.

Despite the traffic, the pollution, the people, and the food (I patted my expanding waistline and vowed to never allow another ladoo to pass my lips) I'd grown to love this place. In a bizarre way, Mumbai rivaled New York City: buzzing, cosmopolitan, with a vibe all its own.

Throw in a few extra billion people, the heat, the congestion, the vile black fumes that hung over everything, the traffic mayhem (I would never curse a New York cabbie again), and a caste system that confused the hell out of anyone who didn't live here, and you get the general idea.

Mumbai dazzled and frazzled and had a unique smell-a mix of diesel fumes, smoke from burning cow patties, and sandalwood-and I'd fallen for the madness in a big way.

When we reached Film City, Buddy dropped me off inside the gates and I headed for the main office, where my man would be after returning from his business trip an hour ago.

My man.

Had a nice ring to it.

Desiree, in on the plan, gave me a thumbs up sign of encouragement as I snuck into the office. I smiled my thanks, turned the knob, and eased the door open.

Drew had his back to me, cell glued to one ear while gesticulating with his free hand, brokering some deal involving megabucks. His ivory business shirt stretched across his shoulders and my fingers tingled with the urge to touch his back as the muscles bunched and shifted beneath the crisp cotton.

I soundlessly shut the door and waited, shifting from side to side, desperate to run across the office and fling myself at him.

My chest constricted when he caught sight of me, his eyes lighting with excitement and pleasure and joy mirroring mine as he hung up mid-sentence.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too." He stalked around the desk and my heart flipped. "You're wearing a sari."

I gnawed on my bottom lip, botching Anjali's makeup job. "Uh-huh."

"A red sari."

He took a step.

"Yep."

Another step.

"Edged in gold jeri."

"Hmm."

"A bridal sari."

Three more steps, bringing him within touching distance.

"But you're not Hindu."

I whacked him playfully on the chest. "Play along with me."