LITMIR.BIZ

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with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.’

      ‘Fine. You’re a cold, heartless businessman who takes no prisoners. Better?’

      ‘Much.’

      His bold smile had her scrambling for her notebook, flipping it open to a crisp new blank page, pen poised. ‘Now, take a bite of that kebab and tell me what you think.’

      He cut the kebab—spiced lamb moulded into a sausage shape around a skewer and cooked to perfection in a tandoor oven—and chewed a piece, emitting a satisfied moan that had her focusing on his lips rather than her notebook.

      ‘Fantastic.’

      He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. ‘I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic and cumin.’

      He polished off the rest with a satisfied pat of his tummy, a very lean, taut tummy from what she could see of it outlined beneath his shirt.

      Great, there she went again, noticing things she never normally would. This wasn’t good—not good at all.

      Pressing the pen to the page so hard it tore a hole through to the paper underneath, she focused on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or fabulous tummy.

      ‘Not bad, but that’s why you’re the guy who owns the restaurants and I’m lucky enough to eat in them and write about the food.’

      He smiled, pointed at her notebook. ‘Go ahead, then. Tell me all about the wonders of the seekh kebab.’

      She glanced at her notes, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. She loved her job, every amazing moment of it, from sampling food, savouring it, titillating her taste buds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow food addicts.

      As for Indian food, she’d been raised on the stuff and there was nothing like it in the world.

      ‘The keema—’ he raised an eyebrow and she clarified ‘—lamb mince is subtly spiced with an exotic blend of garam masala, dried mango powder, carom seeds, raw papaya paste, with a healthy dose of onion, black pepper, ginger, garlic and a pinch of nutmeg.’

      ‘You got all that from one bite?’

      She bit her lip as she pushed the notebook away, unable to contain her laughter as he took another bite, trying to figure out how she did it.

      ‘My mum used to make them. I memorised the ingredients when I was ten years old.’

      Her laughter petered out as she remembered what else had happened when she was ten—her dad had dropped dead at work, a cerebral aneurysm, and the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist.

      She’d loved listening to her parents chat over dinner, their tales of adventure, the story of how they’d met. She’d always craved a once-in-alifetime romance like theirs. Richard hadn’t been it. Now she’d never find it.

      ‘Hey, you okay?’

      She nodded, bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. ‘I still miss my mum.’

      He hesitated before covering her hand with his. ‘Tell me about her.’

      Tell him what?

      How her mum used to braid her waist-length hair into plaits every day for school, never once snagging the brush or rushing her?

      How she’d concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices and little else?

      How she’d loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad had died?

      She couldn’t put half of what she was feeling into words let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her barren soul that she was here on this train and Khushi wasn’t.

      Besides, did she really want to discuss her private memories with him? Revealing her innermost thoughts implied trust and that was one thing she had in short supply, especially with a guy hellbent on charming her.

      ‘Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.’

      ‘Watch Bollywood films,’ she said on a sigh, reluctant to talk but surprised by his deeper, caring side, a side too tempting to ignore.

      The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many a Sunday afternoon curled up on the worn suede couch in the family room, a plate of jalebis, milk burfi and Mysore pak—delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Hollywood’s top A-list celebrity.

      They’d laugh at the over-the-top theatrics, sigh at the vivid romance and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.

      Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, she’d never felt a huge connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons she’d been transported to another world—a world filled with people and colour and magic.

      ‘What else?’

      ‘We loved going to the beach.’

      His encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.

      Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.

      That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage had continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband had slowly revealed a cruel side that, to this day, left her questioning her own judgement in marrying someone like that in the first place.

      He’d never actually hit her but the verbal and psychological abuse had been as bruising, as painful, as devastating as if he had.

      Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, for he continued prodding. ‘Any particular beach?’

      She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum.

      ‘It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.’

      They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach had reminded Khushi of meeting her dad for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.

      Her mum had been trying to hold on to precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason she’d been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a plain bun on top of her head.

      ‘Sounds great.’

      ‘It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.’

      She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. ‘My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a year off after med school. Mum was working for one of the hotels there.’

      She sighed, swirled the water in her glass. ‘Love at first sight, apparently. My dad used to call Mum his exotic princess from the Far East, Mum used to say Dad was full of it.’

      ‘Why didn’t she ever go back? After he passed away?’

      Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. ‘Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian, as my dad would’ve wanted.’

      ‘But you’re half Indian too. This country is a part of who you are.’

      ‘Honestly? I

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