Chapter 1
Kamila Hussain didn’t have a lot to complain about in her life. She realized self-loathing was all the rage among her millennial peers, but in her opinion, she didn’t have much to loathe. She was blessed with a steady income as an accountant at Emerald, her father’s accounting firm. She loved her job and had recently redesigned the office with soothing pastels and stress-relieving greenery, so it was a joy to be there. She had no shortage of friends, and if she wanted a little something more, she had no problem finding dates or hookups. She adored her living situation—a quaint brownstone in Toronto’s east side that had also been recently redone. And of course, she had Darcy, her adorable bichon frise. Darcy was arguably the cutest dog east of Yonge Street, with more Instagram followers than many reality stars, and who had gone full-on viral on TikTok five times.
But in her own eyes, the most significant of Kamila’s blessings was her father. Dad was easily the sweetest, kindest, most supportive parent in existence. Being a daddy’s girl was such a cliché, but Kamila had no shame in telling anyone that she happily lived and worked with her father. He wouldn’t do well alone, and Dad deserved to be healthy and happy more than anyone in the world.
In fact, it was for him that she was awake at eight on a Saturday morning, even after she was muddling fruit for virgin caipirinhas pretty late last night. Dad’s annual physical was in a few days, and she intended to do whatever she could to make sure his blood pressure and cholesterol were in line. She couldn’t leave the men to fend for themselves for breakfast this time. Nope. No eggs fried in ghee and boiled chai on her watch.
She smoothed her robin’s-egg blue apron over her red floral full-skirted dress and admired her kitchen prep. The toast toppings she’d mashed, diced, and sliced were in colorful handmade Portuguese bowls that glowed against her white marble countertops. She snapped a pic and uploaded it.#dreamkitchen. #blessed. #homecooking.
“Kamila is cooking,” Rohan said from the stairs. “Isn’t this the third sign of the apocalypse?”
She glared at him. “Shush, you, or you don’t get any.”
He was still in his pajamas—a matched buttoned-up set. Did he dress like this even alone at home? His hair needed to be combed, and his chin needed a shave, but somehow Rohan still managed to exude the air of the powerful corporate executive he was. Hearing his voice, Darcy’s ears perked up and she rushed to him. Because of course she did—the only human Darcy loved as much as Kamila and Dad was Rohan, despite Rohan’s usual indifference to her. Kamila really needed to have a girl-to-girl with her dog about when to ease off if your affections weren’t returned.
Rohan chuckled at the dog while rubbing his fingers over the scruff on his own chin.
Kamila put her hands on her hips. “No snark from you today, mister. Dad needs to eat better. Every weekend he fries eggs in ghee.”
“I’m looking forward to trying something new,” Dad said from behind Rohan on the stairs. “Kamila takes such good care of me. Can I help you, beti?”
Kamila looked carefully at her father’s eyes as he reached the bottom step. They looked a little tired, which was expected for early on a Saturday. But there was a hint of amusement and contentedness there. Good. Kamila spent a great deal of time studying her father’s eyes. It helped that they were so expressive. Some people wore their heart on their sleeve, but Kassim Hussain showed it in his eyes.
“I got it, Dad. Go ahead and sit. I’ll pour your tea.”
He smiled and planted himself at the dining table, then opened his iPad to read the news. “You always take such good care of everyone, Kamila. Rohan, did she tell you she’s in charge of the puppy prom for the animal shelter this year? That’s the last event at Dogapalooza, right, beti?”
“That’s right, Dad.”
The Dogapalooza was an annual fundraiser for the animal shelter where Kamila had volunteered for years. This year, she and her friend Tim were in charge of planning the festival’s final event—the Sunday-night puppy prom.
Rohan looked sideways at Kamila. “Can’t say I’m surprised Kam would volunteer for a party. She’s a consummate host.”
“Did you just compliment me?” she asked playfully as Rohan joined her in the kitchen.
“That’s up for interpretation.” He looked at the spread of dishes Kamila had already prepared. “You know, when I said yesterday that your Uber Eats account might see more action than your Tinder account, I wasn’t hinting for you to cook. Chai and toast are fine.” He swiped a cherry tomato from the colander and ate it. “Are those sweet potatoes? For breakfast?”
“They’re high in potassium to lower Dad’s blood pressure. I got hibiscus tea, too. It’s good for both blood pressure and blood sugar. He’s going to nail his physical.”
He leaned back against the marble counter. “Food to manage his blood pressure? Wow, Kam, I’m impressed.”
“Why are you impressed? I can google.”
“Clearly.” He looked again at the spread laid out on the counter, then at the new canvas print she’d hung on the kitchen wall. It was Darcy’s head photoshopped onto a French chef’s body, standing outside a Paris bistro. Rohan shook his head, laughing at the print. “At least you’re cooking and not Darcy. Actually, you have more cooking ability than I realized. Or at least”—he looked into the bowls again—“mashing-black-stuff ability. What is that sludge, anyway?”
“Crushed black beans.”
He raised a brow, skeptical, then looked at the clear glass teapot where vibrant red hibiscus flowers were steeping in hot water. “Can I have regular chai instead?”
“You know where it is.”
He filled a pot for his chai. Normally, Kamila would never expect a guest to make their own tea, but Rohan was hardly a stranger in this house. He spent most Friday nights in her spare room after her Bollywood-and-biryani party instead of driving back to his downtown condo, so he and Dad could talk business after breakfast. “I don’t get why you go through all this trouble, Kam. After last night’s spectacle—”
“Last night’s party wasnota spectacle. It was low-key. I didn’t even serve a signature mocktail.”
“Then what were those Brazilian things you all were drinking?”
“Virgin caipirinhas! Ernesto brought them. Wasn’t that sweet of him? He brought the makings for alcoholic ones, too.”
