“Nothing.” Jia came to a stop in front of the beach house they were spending a couple of nights at. Nerves started to tremble in her belly, too many to appreciate the beautiful home.
“Are you okay?” Ayesha whispered.
Jia nodded without looking at her sister and circled the car to help her dad get their bags. Her parents pulled ahead, leaving her and Ayesha to walk slowly behind them toward the imposing home. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She smiled at her sister. It was probably a tight smile.
“Um, I don’t think you need me to list all the reasons you ought to be freaking out right now.”
Ayesha was right. She didn’t need the list.
They came to a stop outside the door, and Farzana turned to face them. She fixed her collar. “Do I look okay?” Herwhisper was fierce. “I don’t want to risk meeting Shweta looking too rumpled.”
Jia raised an eyebrow. If she didn’t know better, she’d think her unflappable mother was a little starstruck. “You look pretty, MashAllah.”
Mohammad cleared his throat and bared his teeth. “I don’t have any stuck lettuce, do I? I knew I shouldn’t have had a salad for lunch.”
Was her dad starstruck too? “You’re fine, Dad.”
Their mother considered her husband’s teeth with more care. “Yes, you’re good.” Farzana straightened her shoulders. “Best behavior, girls.”
She and Ayesha exchanged a glance. “Um, can someone press that doorbell?” Jia suggested.
Farzana jumped. “Yes, I shall.”
Jia shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress to keep from picking at her nails. Her dress was modest enough for their mom, but it was also a bright sunshine yellow. The color gave her courage, and she needed it for this, meeting her fake fiancé’s world-famous grandmother.
The door opened, and they were greeted by a smiling woman in plain clothes. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Mohammad’s voice went up and he cleared his throat. “I am Dr. Ahmed.”
The woman inclined her head and stepped aside. “Come,” she said, and they followed her into the home. “I will—”
“Ahmed family. Welcome.”
The deep, throaty voice made them all jump. They looked up the stairway, and Jia did a double take. She wasn’t surewhat she’d expected from a Bollywood legend, but the woman with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in leggings and an oversize tunic, all of which was smudged with dirt, wasn’t it.
Jia’s father was the first one to break the spell. “Mrs. Dixit,” he said, and the reverence in his tone startled Jia. She’d never heard her father speak like that to anyone. “You need no introduction. I am Mohammad Ahmed, this is my wife, Farzana, and our daughters, Jia and Ayesha.”
Shweta’s gaze moved over each of them. “You may call me Shweta,” she said in Hindi, and unfortunately, that exhausted most of what Jia knew in Hindi.
“Our daughters only speak English, unfortunately,” Farzana said regretfully, like it was her greatest shame in life that she hadn’t raised bilingual children.
Shweta raised one eyebrow. Damn. Jia only hoped her eyebrows remained that perfect when she got to Shweta’s age. “Not even Urdu?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” Shweta came down the stairs with an old world grace. “Did you have a good drive?”
“Lovely. We took the long way and drove all along the coast.” Mohammad’s voice was hoarse.
“How nice. Apologies for my appearance. I was repotting the plants on my balcony when I saw you arrive.”
“Please, we came off a long flight,” Farzana said. “We are the ones who are rumpled.”
Shweta looked between Jia and Ayesha. “Which one ofyou is Jia?”
Jia took a step forward. “I am.”
Shweta looked her up and down, and Jia felt stripped naked in that pause. “Hmm,” Shweta said again. “I like your dress. I wore that exact color to an award show last year. Bright colors are appropriate for a pretty girl like you.”
