Recipe for Persuasion Read online

  “Shut up!” she hissed at it before hitting talk and pressing the blameless thing to her ear.

  “Hello, beta.”

  Shit, being woken from sleep meant she hadn’t checked caller ID. Ashna pulled the phone away from her ear and checked the time. Three A.M. Had Shobi really ambushed her in the middle of the night, knowing she might answer the phone without checking?

  “What’s up, Mom?” She got off the couch and stretched her stiff back, half expecting to feel the sandy cliff from her dream beneath her bare feet.

  After her call with China, Ashna had obsessively mixed and sampled tea blends, labeling them things like Apocalypse Averted and Nowhere to Run. Then she’d settled into the couch to think with a cup that she’d finally gotten right (Hidden Strength). Her social media and text messages were filled with The Video and her brain had shuttled wildly between knowing that China was being her dramatic self and believing that her best friend’s job hung in the balance. With so much spinning in her head, it was a miracle she had fallen asleep.

  On the phone Shobi sounded almost surprised that her ambush had worked. “I’m just checking in to see if you’d given any thought to our conversation?”

  Okay, so at least Shobi hadn’t watched the clip. Thank heavens for tiny mercies.

  Was it still called a conversation if only one person speaks? “Our last conversation ended with you telling me what I do is worthless. What exactly did you want me to give thought to at three A.M.?” Ashna made her way up the stairs to her room.

  “Ashna, please let’s not argue,” Shobi said in her deliberately cool negotiator’s tone, which made Ashna dread the thought of backtracking.

  Please let’s not argue was Shobi code for Let’s do this my way.

  Thanks to her grotesque luck, right now doing it Shobi’s way was the only way to not end up in front of a camera with Rico again.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” Shobi said in that same determinedly calm tone. “I understand that you aren’t excited about my Padma Shri. I even understand why coming here and being part of the awards ceremony would make you uncomfortable, but having you resort to lying about a new job, that just broke my heart.”

  Ashna stopped at the top of the stairs and squeezed the banister. Shobi didn’t believe that Food Network would employ her daughter. That shouldn’t have surprised her, and Ashna was livid at herself for letting it.

  Shobi let out a long-suffering breath when Ashna didn’t respond. “I know you’re angry with me, but do you have any idea what the Padma Shri is? Can’t you see, I want you—and all women—to believe that you can achieve whatever you want.”

  “Except saving my restaurant, or being on television?”

  “Come on, Ashna. I’m your mother, I know how much you hate the spotlight. You won’t even cook with your grandmother watching. You want me to believe you’re going to cook on television?”

  Ashna’s mouth went dry. How on earth did Shobi know this? No one knew this about her.

  She swiped the stupid tear that slipped from her eye. Letting the woman make her cry was not something she did anymore.

  Stay upbeat.

  “Food Network believes I can do it.” She didn’t care that she sounded like a petulant child.

  How was it fair that Shobi got to be right in this? Ashna was cutting off her nose to spite her face. Twice over.

  Something trembled in Shobi’s voice. “Listen, beta, the way I said it last time was wrong, but what I said wasn’t. At least consider getting away for a while. Come see the work we do at the foundation.” She sounded so sincere Ashna almost believed it, then she went on. “You’ve given so much time to your father’s dream, don’t I deserve the same consideration?”

  No. Baba’s dream meant something because he’d used Curried Dreams to give Ashna a life. Shobi had used her work to take herself out of Ashna’s life.

  “You have to let that lost cause go.” That sounded an awful lot like an order. The thing Shobi hated most.

  Baba had loved poking at her about it. FYI, that was not an order. Before you go off saying no just because you’re too important to be ordered about. Growing up around parents who fought constantly was not something any child should ever experience, because it was impossible not to carry it with you for the rest of your life.

  “Get to know the foundation. It might be something that speaks to you, and it’s not in shambles.”

  Laughter spurted up Ashna’s throat. She tamped it down. “You were doing so well and then you had to go ruin it. You may not believe this, but I am going to win this show and then I’m going to pull my restaurant out of shambles.”

  Guess she was breaking those chains after all, and if she had to deal with the boy—man, now—who had ruined her once, then so be it. She’d free herself by breaking both those chains in one fell swoop.

  Chapter Nine

  Why had Rico thought that freeing himself from his cast would free him from pain? The thing Rico hated most about being a man was this dumbass notion of never being allowed to show pain. Except on the pitch of course. There you got to milk the heck out of it. His knee hurt like a . . . like a witch. A witch with a broom stuck through her knee. A broom with spikes that had been dipped in acid and set on fire.

  Nonetheless, he smiled at the journalist from Sports Illustrated sitting next to him in the back of his limousine as though he had never in his life suffered an iota of pain.

  She was furiously taking notes, so he focused on the Quality Street–style San Francisco homes slipping past them like the reels of the old films his mãe had been obsessed with.

  “It’s okay to admit you’re in pain,” Zee had said to him that morning on the phone. “Even if it’s just taking a moment to whimper like a puppy in the privacy of your bathroom.”

  Rico needed a moment in a bathroom.

  He also needed to channel Zee’s disregard for preconceived notions, radical in their world. Zee was the kind of pretty boy who made Rico look like a lumberjack. But he was so comfortable with it he matched up the earrings he wore, in both ears, with Tanya. They even had a hashtag. #TeeZeeTwinning. The fans loved it.

  We’re not here for the macho stereotypes, we’re here for the game. Zee had the best lines. Zee also still had the game. Rico didn’t. Not that he would ever be jealous of Zee.

  Rico wondered what the journalist was scrawling away on that pad. All her questions had been about endorsements and what he did for leisure. Other than good old CK, he endorsed brands if they backed the causes he believed in. One of the best things that had happened to advertising in this past decade was that social conscience had become part of it. Sure, brands exploited causes for profit, but they brought focus to things that needed attention. The world was nothing if not symbiotic, and one of the things Rico was proudest of in his life was that Manchester United had partnered with UNICEF to raise funds to build schools across Asia and Africa.

  As for leisure, well, there hadn’t been much of that in the past decade. In his future there seemed to be nothing but leisure stretched out like endless desert sands.

  Not that he could say that when asked about his plans—another favorite question. He’d mouthed the same drivel he’d been handing out since he signed on for the show. He was excited about turning to his causes and hobbies. Learning how to cook was step one. Then he’d plugged the show some.

  The journalist put down her pen and started the recorder up again. “So, you’d only recently had surgery and you still dived to catch that knife?”

  Truly, he wished they’d stop with the knife. It wasn’t like he’d meant to do it. It was a damn reflex.

  A reflex that came from muscle memory. When it came to Ashna Raje, even though his brain felt nothing, clearly his body begged to differ—proving that it was time for him to deal with whatever issues his subconscious had held on to for so long.

  There were only so many ex’s children he could be godfather to. He’d just found out that Myra was expecting a baby. She’d hint
ed at how she wanted no one but Rico to hold the title, because he was going to make a fabulous father someday. He would certainly like to give it a shot. With someone dependable and loyal. Not someone whose opinion swayed with the tide of those around her.

  “Of course I dived to catch the knife. You can’t just let someone get hurt when you can do something to stop it.”

  Rico shifted his leg and a good hard jolt of pain shot through him, a perfect reminder that he was only here to let go of the delusions his grieving teen self was still holding on to.

  She’s just a girl I dated in high school.

  He was ready to move on, to get on the pitch and win. You always started the game not knowing how you were going to win. All you knew was that you had to. The only workable strategy was one you developed as you went along.

  “A true hero,” the journalist said with a level of worshipfulness that was always a bit disconcerting in close quarters.

  “It’s not heroic to help people when you can,” he said calmly, even though he had the urge to snap: It was a bloody reflex! He smiled and sent up a prayer of gratitude when the car turned into the studio parking lot. The need to get out and straighten his leg gnawed ruthlessly at him. “It was lovely meeting you. If you have more questions, reach out to Rod. Let George know where you need to be dropped off and he’ll take care of it.” He patted his chauffeur on the shoulder and thanked him.

  The journalist smiled. “This has been fantastic. Thank you and good luck with the show.” Then she threw him one of those knowing winks that people had suddenly taken to tossing his way. “Just make sure there are no knives around when you see Ms. Raje, eh?”

  He tried to smile, he really did, but the limo pulled under the portico of the studio and he got out with the speed of someone who hadn’t just had his knee run through a shredder. He had never been so relieved to be done with an interview.

  Taking Zee’s advice, he stopped in the washroom to stretch his leg and whimper like a baby. He pulled his toes toward himself the way the physical therapist had taught him, and whimpered away as several spasms cramped up and down his leg. He stuck with the pain as his calf and hamstring loosened. Then he let out another whimper just because it felt so bloody good.

  The pain had to be influencing how he was feeling about everything: retirement, the show, the reason why he was on the show. Had he really thought about fatherhood back in the limousine? What on earth was going on with him? He hardly ever gave thought to family. There was no reason to. He hadn’t had any for a very long time and been just fine.

  By the time he entered the studio staging area, arranged from end to end with state-of-the-art cooking stations, he had his urge to whimper well under control. It was like walking into an oversize display case of model kitchens.

  There was something ridiculous about hearing clashing cymbals when his eyes met Ashna’s, because that rom-com bullshit was not real life. So, when he heard the loud crash as Ashna looked up at him with eyes that took up most of her face, he knew it was either his mind playing tricks on him or someone’s awful sense of humor.

  It was option two. Thank God.

  Usually, Rico would have laughed. But terror flashed in Ashna’s eyes when the bang of the cymbals went off. He thought she’d sink to the floor; instead she wiped a hand across her face and the bright horror was gone from her eyes. The set was filled with cast and crew, all of them in hysterics. With a determined swallow, Ashna pushed out a laugh through lips gone white because she’d bitten them too hard.

  Rico followed suit and made the obligatory motions, an embarrassed but sportsmanlike laugh, a sufficiently self-deprecating shake of the head. The moment he reached her the entire set burst into applause.

  One thing he’d say about her—she blushed like no one else he’d ever met. Her gorgeous skin went from warm brown to an almost fiery pink. It didn’t help that Rico knew she was blushing with her entire body right now. He had loved to chase that blush across her skin.

  From beneath her spiked fan of lashes she met his gaze.

  He was about to ask if she was okay, but she caught the question before he spoke the words and it made humiliation tighten her jaw and fade the flush from her cheeks. The Raje pride was alive and well.

  How embarrassed she must be about the video. The girl who loved her secrets, viral on the internet. How was she even here right now?

  “You two never got a chance to be introduced the other day,” Jonah, one of the assistant producers, said, and threw a painfully obvious glance at the knife block on the red quartz countertop of their kitchen station. Everything on the set was accented in red, including the jackets all the chefs were wearing. A cruel joke, given how the color made Ashna look. But he was immune now.

  He stuck out a hand. “Frederico Silva.”

  She raised her chin, which made her jawbones stand out sharply against her skin. He had spent an absurd amount of time thinking about that jaw once. Now he looked past the poetically sharp curve, unaffected, and offered her a stranger’s smile.

  “This is Chef Ashna Raje,” Jonah said when she didn’t introduce herself. Ashna had never been tongue-tied around him.

  Her gaze traced the many cameras around the sprawling set, some hanging from the ceiling, some mounted on cranes, then found its way back to the hand Rico was holding out.

  Another thing he’d never seen before was Ashna frozen. The speed with which she could block a goal had gobsmacked him every single time. The video going viral had to have shaken her, or maybe she simply hadn’t expected someone she’d tossed out like garbage to return. His best guess was a little of both.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, and finally, she shook his hand.

  Quickly. Pulling away so fast he couldn’t be sure they had touched at all; maybe that’s why his own hand hung there in her wake, his palm strangely alive when he pulled back and shoved his hand into his pocket.

  With another suggestive smile—which was getting a little annoying—Jonah told them that they had the next fifteen minutes to familiarize themselves with each other before the mics went on. Then off he went with the self-congratulatory gait of someone who had just won the lottery.

  The network couldn’t have asked for a better accident than Rico’s idiotic knife dive. Since it had happened on Jonah’s watch, he had to be the hero of the hour.

  Thinking about the knife sent a fresh jolt of pain through his knee. Maybe the decision to tweak his meds right now hadn’t been his smartest idea. His old meds made him sluggish and the new ones did nothing.

  Ashna’s eyelids fluttered down as she glanced at his knee. “How is it?” she asked.

  She hadn’t bothered to come to the hospital that day. She hadn’t bothered to reach out in the weeks after to ask how he was. Given that she was the reason his almost-healed wound had ripped open, it was the least anyone with even a modicum of decency would have done. Her warm bearing and impeccable manners had always felt so soothing, so familiar to him. They had reminded him of his mother. But his mãe wasn’t just polite, she was kind. There was a difference. It was another thing he had gotten wrong about Ashna.

  “It’s been two weeks. It would be fine now, wouldn’t it?” he said, proud of how bored he sounded. Fine was a broad term, after all. He’d had to have another surgery, albeit a small one this time, to sew up the opened rip. Having fluid drained from your knee was never a party for anyone.

  She blinked again. Had she always used her eyes quite so much instead of words? The only times he remembered her clamming up was when it came to her parents. In contrast, he’d talked about his mãe and pai to her constantly. She’d been the only person he’d ever been able to talk to about them. That ease, that openness, it’s what had gotten him in trouble in the first place. So, this new her was going to make life so much easier for him.

  Come to think of it, everything about her seemed different now. She was so altered, in fact, he barely recognized her.

  “I’m glad,” she said, deep tiredness dr
agging at her lids.

  He should ignore it, but the exhausted disinterest annoyed him more than it should.

  “That’s all you have to say about me saving your toes from being severed?” It came out an angry hiss.

  She threw a glance around the room to make sure no one was listening. Everyone seemed too preoccupied to pay them any attention. The crew was pretending to give the chef-celebrity pairs space to get acquainted, but of course any camera-worthy moment would be fair game for the screen.

  From the way Ashna was looking at him it was clear that getting acquainted with him was akin to diving into a pit of snakes.

  “You took me by surprise,” she finally answered his question. “I should have been more careful. I’m sorry about your knee.”

  It wasn’t like there was no remorse in her voice. It was more like there was a determined effort to keep her apology contained. She wanted him to know that she was apologizing for his knee and nothing else.

  I’m sorry. But only for this.

  A direct response to what he had said to her the other day.

  As though recognizing the burden of its role in this mess, his knee let loose another shot of pain. The knee that had cost him his sport. The sport that had saved him after being dumped by her.

  This apology that she gave only for the ripping of stitches, only for that second tearing of skin and muscle, meant nothing.

  Just like that, Rico knew why he was really here.

  For years now he had burned with wanting that one word from her. Sorry.

  When she’d first walked away from him he had felt nothing but panic. After that, for months, all he’d wanted was for her to change her mind. Then finally, when he’d lost hope, all he’d wanted was for her to at least be sorry. To give him some remorse, something that proved that he hadn’t been such a colossal fool in judging her.

  When he didn’t acknowledge the apology, her chin lifted again. “I do appreciate you saving my toes from being severed.” Instead of remorse an icy coolness dripped from her tone, a mockery of what he’d done.