Logline

To win the praise of her overbearing parents and rebound her professional life, a woman enters a fake relationship with her town's mayor who's trying to win his reelection.

Blurb

After being rejected from her tenth job application and on the verge of losing her apartment, down-on-her-luck Diya Basu returns to her hometown of Amore Hills, reluctant to face the disapproval of her parents. She's resigned herself to the fact that she'll never be as good as her star sister, but when an opportunity arises that could potentially make her parents proud, Diya jumps at the chance, even if she has to play the doting girlfriend to Amore Hills' grumpy Mayor, Theo Brighton.

His proposition is simple enough. All she has to do is help him win his reelection by pulling off a successful Diwali Festival. It's easy enough until her time with Theo makes Diya begin to reevaluate her life and the meaning behind the decisions she's made. Coupled with the electric chemistry she battles with Theo, Diya's forced to confront decisions that she's long abandoned and make choices that could either make - or break - her future. 

Chapter One

She should have expected this to happen.

Diya stared at the dimly lit computer screen. She sat cross-legged on the floor facing her coffee table and resting her aching back against the couch. Her hands balled against the side of her thighs; her nails sank into her palms.

With each hot flash barreling through her, Diya's skin grew thicker and thicker, insulating her nerves and trapping the cruel flush rising in the short column of her neck. Like the poisonous tail of a serpent, shame crept along her jaw, wiring it shut and causing saliva to gather under her tongue as her caramel eyes swept over the page again and again, trying to commit each word to memory, then burn it.

Dear Ms. Basu,

Thank you for your interview. We appreciate every applicant that we have the pleasure of meeting. Our spots for the accounting department filled rapidly, and while we were impressed by your resume, you were, unfortunately, not selected.

Our team at Washington Law Firm wishes you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Kind regards.

Her finger hovered over the mouse pad. The white cursor blinked over one of the harsh letters that had torn the air from her lungs. She should have expected this; she had been bracing for the news, and yet, a cruel part of her system hung onto whatever shreds of hope she had left.

Like a fool, she'd tried to fix those hope-shreds and make them into something tangible, only for reality to rip them beyond repair.

Not. Selected.

Diya's cursor shielded her glassy eyes from those two words stabbing her soul. She slammed her laptop shut, wincing at the resounding snap. She brought her knees to her chest, rocking on her backside as the paint-chipped walls and gloomy space encroached.

Piles of semi-used, brown boxes teetered precariously atop one another, chafing against the drab white walls smeared with odd colors of paint–a futile attempt to brighten her bleak environment.

Her chest dropped with a shaky exhale. Hot tears pricked her eyes, but Diya didn't allow herself to cry–she wouldn't.

Today's letter wasn't any different from the previous iterations. Some companies bolded their rejection and others made you play word search to find out if you'd been accepted, the latter of which Diya despised for getting her hopes up for nothing.

Tilting her head so that her spine arched backward and her head rested against the plastic cushions of her couch, she released a defeated sigh. The crunchy film created static against her hair. Should she wash it before the next day? Looking at the time, her body ached with physical and emotional pain that seemed to dull all her senses and desires except the pummeling need for sleep.

She'd be a dangerous alcoholic.

Diya pulled her hair into a quick, neat bun and walked into her kitchen. She took out a wrinkled piece of paper from the drawer closest to the oven and used the pencil attached to the spine of the notepad to cross out the last checkbox.

"Well, I can always tell them that I tried," she muttered, pressing the tip of the sharp pencil against the box. Her mother's neat, cursive handwriting glared back, drowning her surroundings into a white cell and thick black, squiggly bars that trapped and suffocated her.

A fit of rage overwhelmed her; a fit of shame, of resignation, of utter failure, and despair, and she tossed the pencil aside. Ten chances given to her through pulled strings, ten disappointing outcomes. With fast, deft fingers and blurred vision, she tore the list, a wicked satisfaction rising as the flakes fluttered over her slippers and onto the cool wood floor.

"Eat your list, Mama," Diya sneered at the empty walls and kicked the pencil into the pile of shredded paper. its broken tip skimmed the jagged paper edges. "I didn't even want these jobs."

All she cared about was the impossible–staying here in an apartment that didn't make her feel like a prisoner or give her the urge to puke from claustrophobia. Hovering over the mess, her chest heaved, and her hands grasped the air fruitlessly. Hot tears melted her vision and slid down her cheeks, which simmered with unbridled, unknown emotions under a layer of dark caramel.

"Enough," she told herself, breathing through her nose.

Unable to leave a mess, Diya squatted and collected the papers, dusting them into the trash bag before she picked up the pencil and removed a sharpener from her laptop bag. As she fixed the tip, her eyes traced over miniscule, intricate, and yet crooked carvings below the eraser. Her vision blurred, and when she refocused, she wasn't looking at the pencil anymore, but rather the calloused, wrinkled skin beneath the wooden object.

M for money.

She traced the lines on her palm creating an 'm' shape. "You lied again, Mama. This...talent has gotten me nothing."

Shoving the pencil and eraser into her bag, she put the sack atop a pile of medium-sized boxes. The piles of canvases could be left for the next family, but the voice she hated in her head compelled her to spend an extra fifty dollars that she didn't have on boxes to transfer the canvases back into the dusty corner of her natal bedroom where they'd resided throughout the majority of her teenage years.

Three rings slashed through the contemplative silence. Diya almost jumped out of her slippers before cursing under her breath.

"Finally," came a familiar, high-pitched voice as Diya cradled the receiver to her ear. "Were you going to ignore me until you came home?"

"Hello, Tushara. Yes, I'm doing well. How are you?" Diya mocked, smirking as her friend groaned.

"You've gotten snarkier. It must be city life getting to you."

"Snarkier? Have you met my family?" Diya leaned her hip against the side of the countertop as Tushara's flighty laugh chipped into the ache in her chest.

"More times than I'd like," she said. "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"Everything's packed. Haul Your Home is coming tomorrow at six." Diya's bemusement subsided as the conversation shifted to the day she dreaded more than anything.

"Was it your choice, or—?"

"My mom suggested I book the earliest appointment." Her voice was tight. "She already booked the ten o'clock ticket. I didn't have a choice." She wiped the pencil shavings beside her on the marble.

"Ten o'clock? So, you'll be home by afternoon, right?"

"Something like that." Diya sighed, walking around the creaking wooden floors and running her fingers over the dusty box lids, peeking under straps of tape to ensure everything was packed. "If I don't conveniently get lost or fall into a ditch on my way there."

"Diya."

"What? It's a possibility."

"Yeah. A possibility that it's less due to chance and more due to your avoidance tendencies," Tushara's sarcasm was biting. "At least sound excited to come home, Di. Amore Hills is beautiful during the fall."

"I know. I grew up there."

"Wow, sassy much?" A scowl filled her best friend's voice. "And here I called with a reason to delay meeting your parents."

"A reason?" Diya's brows knitted together. "What reason? Do you need help with something?"

Tushara cleared her throat. "Sort of. You know that elections are around the corner, right?"

"Yeah. That's all Daddy talks about." Diya released a slight groan. "He'd blabber nonstop about the robot of a mayor and how he wished there was someone friendlier. As if that matters when running a town."

"Well... that 'robot of a mayor' has asked yours truly to prepare the confections menu for the Diwali festival and—"

"Hold on, what?" Diya pursed her lips. "Diwali Festival? In Amore Hills? Since when?"

"Di, half the population is Indian."

"And half isn't, including the mayor." Diya's feet shuffled her into the bathroom. Empty, a last check revealed. "We've never had a Diwali Festival before. I bet it's just some slapstick event the mayor is shoving together. Kind of like that cake Aulyn made for the Christmas—"

"Nope. Don't even start with that son of a..." Tushara inhaled. "Anyway, yeah, this year, Mayor Brighton is hosting a huge Diwali event. Most details haven't been revealed yet, but he asked me to do the desserts." Her voice rose with a cushion squeaking from Tushara's bouncing. "Isn't that amazing? This is my comeback chance!"

"It is." Diya couldn't help but smile at Tushara's enthusiasm, despite the chasm of gloom in her stomach enlarging with each shared detail. "I'm happy for you."

"I can't let this opportunity pass up," her friend continued. "It could change so many things but..."

"But?"

"Erm, well..." Tushara cleared her throat. "I have to cook in city hall, and you know...well...it's not my shop or anyplace that I know well enough for...for Michelin."

"Oh." Diya nodded. Tushara's large, heavy, and ridiculously expensive wheelchair, Michelin, was cumbersome in tight spaces.

"With the new setting, my big wheels, and... It's just not appealing to have a stranger help me and touch Michelin."

"I guess I can understand that."

"Will you help me? Just for the first few days, until I get comfortable with the surroundings and make the place accessible. Once we have all the important tools at eye level, I can handle everything."

The tempting offer would save Diya from facing her parents when she had no excuse for her life's downward spiral, and the list shredded in her trash meant no proof that she had tried. Nor did she want to hear about the chores she'd have to do and last-minute preparations that her parents had all of October for.

Or even worse–Kareena.

She shivered at the thought. "Sure, I guess I can lend a hand for a while. I'll see you around two tomorrow?"

"Great!" With relief clear in Tushara's voice, Diya almost felt her beaming. "I can't wait. It's been...a while, you know? Especially since I came home..."

Home. Tushara could say that so easily. It was a meaningless word for her, something she'd grown accustomed to throwing, just like tossing her fluffy curls over her shoulder whenever she'd win an argument with her brother.

Diya wished she could say the same. Home held a different meaning to her, if any.

"I can't wait to see you too."

Honestly, Tushara was the only person she was excited to see again. Returning to the kitchen, the flickering candle from the dollar store on her table faded from bright orange to white, like the silicone flame surrounding it.

Like snuffing out her last sparks of independence, Diya extinguished the light with a flick of her thumb, retreating into the shadows of her room.

*     *     *

Diya's hands shoved under the waistband of her jeans as she rolled on her heels, watching a group of teenagers chatter as they passed the central water fountain in the long strip of gray cobblestone. Amore Hills was proud of them, their uneven textures enough to trip the steadiest feet, but to Diya, they were like walking on eggshells, testing her strength until she'd eventually collapse in a pile of disappointment.

Rows of lush, green pine trees flanked the town in a crooked heart shape, with the tip resting behind City Hall. A cool autumn breeze swept through Diya's dark strands as she rubbed on her thighs, casting constant glances at the dark doors of the town building.

"Diya!"

Tushara's voice swept into the wind, directing Diya's gaze to the ramp behind her, where the dark-skinned, onyx-eyed Tushara wheeled toward her, waving with glee. The wheels of Michelin creaked as she pulled the brakes forward, leaning so she could wrap her arms around Diya's torso in a tight hug.

"I'm so glad you're back!" Tushara said. "Were you waiting long? Did you get your things moved to your parents' house?"

"I wasn't waiting so long," Diya replied, smiling slightly. "And, er, yeah, the loading company brought my things to my parents' house. My dad took care of it."

A pit of dread roiled in her stomach at the impending reunion, but she quelled it in favor of following Tushara up the ramp and into the Dior-scented halls of the city building.

"That's good. Hopefully, the loading company didn't handle your things roughly."

"Not the loading company I'm worried about," Diya muttered.

The gap between Tushara and Diya widened as she paused at a framed painting in the lobby. Poised stiffer than the canvas it was painted on, a man in a sharp suit's smile bordered on a scowl.

Theo Brighton–Mayor, a brass name plaque underneath read in bold, scratched lettering. He was younger and more attractive than her father had painted him, yet, his dignified image served as a warning–an allusion to the unbridled temperament simmered underneath the picture-perfect sneer.

Diya shuddered.

Tushara glanced over her shoulder and hummed. "Is there anything specifically you're worried about?" She asked. "Any spicy novels or certain–ahem—objects or—!"

"No!" Diya huffed, her neck burning as Tushara broke into giggles.

"Sorry, I couldn't help myself." Tushara led Diya down a wide hallway with portraits of various modern art. "The kitchen is at the end of the hallway."

"Hm." Diya observed the paintings flanking them. Endless one-dimensional colors, plain shapes, and lack of depth made her soul shrivel. She reached to touch one, but the hiss of opening doors made her recoil.

"Come on!" Tushara beckoned her into a pristine, white kitchen resembling solitary confinement. Cooking equipment hung on hooks or hangers on the wall, and various heavy machines were laid on the lower slots of shelves.

"What do you think?" Tushara showed Diya a pan of freshly baked red velvet cupcakes, their scent providing the only warmth in the claustrophobic space. "I have yet to decorate them because I can't make the buttercream. Can you grab the mixer from the shelf?"

"You made the cupcakes without a stand mixer?" Diya asked, grabbing the metal bowl and mixer cord.

"Yeah. It took a while so I'm a bit behind." Tushara joined her hands and stretched her arms, sighing when a muscle popped.

Diya set up the stand mixer and put her hand on the wheelchair handle, smiling down at Tushara. "You'll get there. We have a while before Diwali."

"Not long enough." Tushara nudged her chin toward the window, where a poster hung on a lamppost. "The mayor insisted on a pre-screening taste test. He's picky, so we only have a couple of weeks."

"And the festival preparations haven't begun yet?" Diya squinted at the poster, trying to discern who the man standing before a background of clay lamps was.

"They're...in process. Since this is Amore Hills' first Diwali festival, everyone is trying to marry different ideas and customs, especially since the mayor is also focused on his reelection campaign."

Diya reconciled the dates in her head. "Right...maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have them coincide."

"Maybe. But don't tell the mayor that." Tushara cracked eggs with easy snaps of her wrists and the precision of an assembly line. "He's a pressure cooker permanently on the edge of explosion."

"He—"

A calamity of voices echoed from the hallway. Near-shouting, men's voices grew in volume along with a heavy pounding of approaching footfall.

"You'll get used to it," Tushara didn't blink, continuing to beat her eggs. "Men in suits. Always stomping like Godzilla." She turned on the mixer, the whirring sound overriding the hallway commotion. "Can you get the powdered sugar for me? It's up there." She gestured to a ledge high enough to touch the rotating fan.

"Sure." Diya grabbed a nearby ladder, climbing up the metal steps. Tremors from its uneven legs pitched her forward, so she braced one hand on the wall as she retrieved the large, heavy bag of sugar. "Is there a difference between—"

BANG!

"Ahh!" Diya screamed and jerked. The force of the doors slamming open rattled the ladder and sent it careening. In her infinite wisdom, Diya lunged in the opposite direction, crushing the powdered sugar sack to her chest.

Tushara's call of her name was swallowed by the rush of air in her ears, her friend's hands suspended in horror as Diya fell for what seemed like an eternity. Closing her eyes, she braced every muscle for the impact, but instead, two large, warm arms grabbed her.

The cradled impact cushioned Diya's fall, but the intensity of her grip on the powdered sugar caused the bag to explode. With a heart-dropping pop, a cloud of sugary puff exploded, coating everything within a six-foot radius, including a powdery flurry into Diya's face.

"I'm so, so sorry—" she began, wondering who'd caught her.

Blinking, a pair of stormy eyes framed in white powder-coated lashes came into focus, bolts of fury crackling through two round, black pupils. The sharpest glare stole her breath. Coupled with ghostly-white eyebrows crossed, such disgusted disapproval struck her core with a bolt of fear, leaving her staring with stunned senses.

The details of his face were defined by sharp edges and wicked creases that promised wrath, twisted in tempered rage, and much more interesting than what the lobby painting's brush strokes had glossed over. Powdery grains shifted off the shoulders of his pristine suit and silk tie. Lips normally forming a Cupid's bow were coiled and slanted with a barely contained snarl.

Recognition inflamed her cheeks and gutted her stomach. The gloomy chasm in her chest grew heavier.

She had not only spilled powdered sugar over herself and half of the kitchen, but also on the infamous, short-tempered, and strikingly handsome...

Mayor Theo Brighton.