The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,1

Her mom would never change. She had to deal with it.

With three strides, she entered the kitchen and spied Kushi by the stove as expected. While Kushi tidied the spice rack she would’ve raided to create her culinary masterpieces, it gave Samira time to study her. A few extra pounds graced her mom’s five-foot-two frame, smoothing out the scant wrinkles that creased her face, lending her an ageless quality Samira hoped she would inherit. A new shade of gray streaked her glossy black hair, which was woven into a thick plait that hung halfway down her back. And her signature gold bangles adorned both wrists, jangled as she hummed a vaguely familiar Bollywood hit.

Samira loved the musical clinking of those bangles. It signified warmth and peace and calm: Kushi all over. Except when she was meddling in her love life.

“Hi, Mom.”

Kushi glanced up from the stove, her face easing into a beaming smile that made Samira’s eyes sting and her throat tighten.

“Just in time, betee. I’ve made your favorites.” She bustled toward Samira, her voluminous sari billowing like a giant blue shade sail before enveloping her in a hug.

Samira wrapped her arms around her mom and lowered her head to kiss the top of hers, fragrant with coconut oil, a smell that never failed to invoke comfort, a smell of home.

Samira knew her mom begged for blessings from Shiva, Lakshmi, Vishnu, Durga, and whatever other Hindu deities would listen to her to keep her safe and happy, because Kushi told her during phone calls that went on forever. Though she’d never admit it, those phone calls kept her grounded. If only Kushi could lose the obsessive focus on her unwed state, their relationship would have a better chance of repairing.

She missed her mom. Missed the closeness they’d shared in her childhood. Back then, her mom had been her champion, her best friend. Then Kushi had pushed her toward Avi, and everything had imploded.

Hating how thoughts of her ex-husband infiltrated every interaction with her mom, she lowered her arms.

“Hope you’re hungry, betee.” Kushi released her and waddled back to the stove, where she removed pot lids with a flourish. “Rasam, spinach with paneer, and okra curry.”

Samira’s stomach rumbled, and saliva pooled in her mouth. No meal came close to her mom’s home cooking. “Let me help.”

She ladled rice onto two plates, then dished the delicious food over it and poured the rasam into a cup. She had loved drinking the fragrant Indian broth flavored with tamarind and spices this way ever since she’d been a kid.

However, they’d barely sat at the table and Samira had taken a sip before Kushi said, “I want you to meet someone.”

Samira’s appetite vanished, and she put the cup down. “Mom, I haven’t seen you for five years. Can we please leave the matrimonial machinations until dessert at least?”

Kushi snorted, the battle gleam in her narrowed eyes alerting Samira to the fact her mom had been softening her up with her favorite dishes. Single at thirty-seven did not make for a happy Indian mother. “No one is pushing you into marriage, betee. I’m merely making introductions in the hope you will find happiness.”

Kushi had called her “daughter” three times since she’d arrived, something she always did when she had some romantic scheme in mind. This latest “introduction” must be a real prince—not. But Samira knew all the arguing in the world wouldn’t stop her mother in matchmaking mode.

“I promise you, this one is the opposite of that good-for-nothing ex of yours.” Kushi pressed a hand to her heart and lowered her eyes. “He fooled us all, and I made a very poor judgment call in facilitating your romance with that slime.”

Samira gaped. Not once in all their conversations since her divorce had her mom admitted she’d played a part in the resultant mess of introducing her to Avi. It gave her hope for the two of them.

“You never mention Avi—”

“That’s because he’s a kutha.” Kushi made an awful hawking noise in the back of her throat. “Pure scum.”

Samira agreed her ex was a bastard, but there was more behind her mom’s uncharacteristic vitriolic outburst. Kushi couldn’t meet her eyes, and she stabbed at a piece of paneer with particular force.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

The Indian community in Dandenong was close, and it wouldn’t surprise Samira if her mom heard regular updates about her ex.

After jabbing at the paneer another few times, Kushi raised her gaze slowly. “Avi’s wife is expecting another child,” she said, her voice soft