‘Tis the season of Wicked Deeds (A Holiday romance Book 1)
‘Tis the season of Wicked Deeds: Chapter 2

His name is Julian middle-name-I-can’t-remember Kashyap.

Thirty-one years old. Interracial parents. Tall, dark, and handsome. CEO of some hotshot company whose name I can’t recall either. Not that it matters. I’m here to shoot down the guy, not get to know him. He obviously isn’t all that interesting if Tina couldn’t bother to come herself.

I just want to be done and go home to binge-watch Bridgerton for the hundredth time. Drooling over all those sexy dukes never gets old.

Julian has picked a beautiful and very expensive restaurant with a month-long waiting list called Koishii. It serves one of my favorite dishes, sushi. Yes, it even rhymes. At least he has good taste in picking a place for a first date.

Thankfully, I didn’t run into much traffic, which is a miracle since it’s Mumbai, where traveling anywhere is a hassle. Especially on weekends. So, I’m relieved that I arrived ten minutes early. It will give me enough time to prepare myself.

Pretending to be someone else is no easy feat. Even if the other person is oblivious.

I kinda feel bad too for catfishing the guy, but needs must.

Perhaps he’ll be an arrogant jerk, expecting a housewife and dowry, so rejecting him will actually save my best friend from an asshole. I scan the restaurant for someone who might resemble a Julian, but my eyes are drawn to a hostess in a crisp black-and-white uniform, her demeanor professional and composed. The hostess gives me a once-over as I enter the restaurant in my favorite blue dress which reaches mid-thigh and has a daring neckline and cinched-in waist.

I wore it because it fills me with confidence, which I certainly need today as I channel my inner actress to play the role of Tina. I might even have practiced a bit. I’m praying he doesn’t ask too many questions about her publishing career. And if he does, he’s hopefully as clueless as I am, so when I feed him crap, he’s none the wiser.

“Would you like to sit and wait at the bar while Mr. Kashyap arrives?” asks the hostess when I tell her about my reservation. “Your table will be ready soon.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I walk to the bar and hop on a stool, pulling the hem of my dress down when it inches too high up my thighs. I wouldn’t want to mistakenly flash the older man beside me, who is ogling my breasts as though they’re served for lunch.

Yikes.

Subtly, I bring my hair forward and shift away, turning toward the waiting bartender. “A cranberry vodka, please.”

I indulge myself in the name of liquid courage and all. Once he serves me, I take a sip and sigh in pleasure at the taste, the familiar burn sliding down my throat. Continuing to drink, I keep my gaze at the front, watching elegantly dressed people come and go while I wait for Julian.

Since I didn’t want to look like a complete fool, I asked Tina to send me his picture. So, I at least have some idea of how he looks to recognize him. However, it became obvious that she was right when she said it wouldn’t be of help. The picture was of poor quality, small and grainy.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I realize he’s running a few minutes late. Hmm… tardiness is definitely a con. I think of texting Tina when my phone pings with a message from her.

TINA: How’s it going?

ME: Waiting for him at the bar.

TINA: He’s late. Rude!

I chuckle as I type.

ME: A few minutes isn’t the end of the world, Miss Punctual.

While she types her smart-ass reply, the bubbles dancing on my screen, I take a peek at the hostess’s stand. My breath whooshes out of my lungs when my gaze lands on the hottest and most gorgeous, out-of-my-league specimen I’ve ever seen.

And I’m only seeing his profile.

My catfish date forgotten, the hushed conversations blending into white noise, I study the larger-than-life and, oh my God… tattooed man. Two full sleeves of tattoos run down the length of his strong arms, peeking from his rolled-up black button-down shirt. A slight rebellion to the elegantly dressed people around us.

A quiet intensity radiates from the way he holds his tall and muscular stature. Resting his forearms on the hostess’s stand, which makes his sculpted biceps stretch the material of his dress shirt, he bends forward to listen to the graceful hostess speaking to him.

I take in the rest of his suave yet casual outfit. Dark denim jeans that mold to his perfect backside and powerful thighs, and my gaze drop to a pair of feet encased in military-style boots.

My whole being focused on him, I notice a few seconds too late as the woman points in my direction. Heart galloping in my chest, I hold my breath as he nods without peering my way and straightens to his full height.

Alarm spreads through me, mixed with tangible disappointment. No way it could be him. My—no, Tina’s—date. Yet there is no mistaking the truth sitting like a heavy weight in my gut. Julian is nothing like the man I had conjured up in my head.

The name itself doesn’t do him justice.

It doesn’t fit the masculine man with his unruly and mussed-up hair, as though styled hair personally offends his bad-boy persona. His looks, his build—it belongs on a sportsperson, rather than a boring businessman. Nor can I picture him working from behind a desk.

He turns.

Our eyes lock.

With it, sucking the rest of my oxygen. My grip tightens around the glass involuntarily. A sudden need to press the cold glass against my skin rises, to ward off the heat spreading all over my body like lava. Ever so slowly, as though he purposely wants me to feel the caress of his stare, his aloof and unreadable gaze roams down the length of my shamelessly hot and bothered body.

They hover a second too long on my lips, which part in response as I fight the urge to bite them nervously. Only after he has checked me out, as I do him once more—because it’d be a crime if I didn’t—does he move.

His effect on me is unnerving.

Terribly and dangerously so.

And it’s just from one single intense look across a crowded restaurant.

He saunters toward the bar. Toward me. His gait is purposeful while people part for him without him uttering a word. I mentally chastise and remind myself that he is off limits. Forbidden, because he belongs to my best friend.

Even though it’s temporary and they’ll never meet.

Nonetheless, the closer he gets, the harder I want to squirm, press my thighs together, and quell the ache building in my core. Small details take shape as he closes the gap between us. Like his hair, which shifts color between dark brown and black, depending on the lighting. Longer on the top and shorter on the sides.

The piercing in his left ear glints and, fuck, even that is sexy on him, not taking away from his masculinity. It is those light brown eyes, though, that ignite the low ache into a full-blown need. My nipples bead into hard points behind my padded bra. Thank God for that small mercy.

No man has ever elicited such a visceral reaction from me.

Just my luck he had to be the one man I couldn’t have. Even temporarily. Unless I want to blow my cover. Besides, he must have more in common with Tina since they were paired together by the matchmaker. I need to remember he came on this date with the sole intent of replaceing a girl to marry. If all goes well.

Alas! It won’t.

So hot or not, I’m not in the market for settling down with any man anytime soon. Even if by some miracle I could tell him the truth and be the real me. However, all my thoughts evaporate into mist, my mouth incapable of forming speech, when he takes the last step that puts him right in front of me, towering over my seated frame. I crane my neck to peer into his magnificent eyes.

Holy mother of God.

Fuck me sideways.

Tall, dark, and handsome—my ass.

The man is extremely tall, well over six feet, which is a rarity. Rugged and sinful with a hint of darkness. Ravishing features that make handsome sound too tame a word. Straight eyebrows slashed over his eyes, surrounded by laugh lines, straight nose, and lips that have a pout, as if made for kissing.

He’s attractive with his clothes on; I can only imagine what lies beneath.

Seriously! Am I supposed to reject him? Him? Hell, he probably would reject me.

Because no sane woman would turn him down. He could have his pick of the women in this expensive restaurant. Younger, older, married, models. Anyone. Especially combined with the fact that he is searching for “the one” and desires a white picket fence. A breed very rare to replace these days.

“Hi.”

One simple word and a swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach.

I curse my luck to hell.

I’m so, so, so screwed.