Dev closed the windows. He’d love to fall asleep to the noise of the ocean, but when he slept, his brain couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and fake. He didn’t want to wake up homesick.
You told me you’d searched the universe for a woman like me.
He climbed into bed naked but for his boxers. Dev removed his glasses and placed them on the nightstand, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, but he couldn’t shut away her memory. Why couldn’t he? He was usually so good at compartmentalizing.
He held his hand up and studied it. It was blurry without his glasses on.
Who was she? It made no logical sense, her reaction. Was she a fan? A stalker? He shuddered at the latter. He’d already had a couple of those, and he’d rather not repeat the experience, no matter how much of an instantaneous connection he’d felt with her.
If she was a stalker, though . . . he should know who she was, right? For his own purposes, for protection?
Yes, you most definitely need protection from that little scrap of a woman.
He hesitated, then rolled over and grabbed his phone. His agent had arranged for an assistant for him here. He’d met the boy, John, earlier in the week, and found him to be eager and bright.
Dev typed out a quick text. Can you get me a guest list for tonight’s party? Tomorrow is fine. He’d surely be able to narrow the hundred or so women down before he googled the more likely names.
Though it was late, John immediately replied. Sure. I’ll email it to you right now.
Of course he would. Dev typed a thanks, then went over to his email. One refresh, and there it was.
He opened the attachment and quickly scrolled the names. He’d try the more familiar ones first.
There were only three possibilities. He tried the first two, but came up with actresses he didn’t recognize. The third one, though. There he hit gold.
Dev didn’t really like social media, was reluctant to even have the apps on his phone. His agency handled those things, adding periodic photos of him, updating his appearances, if any, posting things like tributes to his brother and grandfather.
Jia Ahmed, though, really liked social media, judging by the links that popped up from a name search.
He clicked over to YouTube. She wore a green dress in her profile photo, her eyes popping from the green eyeliner she wore. She was as stunning in emerald as she was in gold.
He ripped his gaze away. She had a ton of videos under her name, and even more followers. He raised his eyebrows at the number of subscribers she had. Literally millions.
He clicked on one video at random. Music blared through his speaker and he fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it.
He toggled the volume down to a more manageable level in time for Jia to layer over the melody. Her voice was pitched slightly different, professional, peppy. When she’d walked up to him at that party, it had been lower, more tentative.
Her face was shiny and makeup free, but it didn’t matter. She was beautiful with the makeup and without it, and so confident it honestly wouldn’t matter what she put on her face.
He’d seen that kind of innate confidence in his cousin and brother and grandparents. As the only seminormal person born into a family of exceptional artists, it was fascinating to him.
Dev wanted to click away and learn more about her, about who she was, what her story was, but she’d mesmerized him. There was an irrepressible gleam in her eyes, like she held a secret he needed to discover.
“Start with eyeliner, at the corner of your eye. Follow the line of your lower lid, you’re going to draw a triangle, and then connect it to the line over your lid . . . Great, you did one beautiful wing. You’re half flying! Now we copy it on the other. Remember, they can be sisters, not twins.”
He checked the date. This video was almost four years old. She had been doing this quite some time. He scrolled up. Her more recent videos had millions more views, plus better production quality.
Dev rolled to his side and clicked on another video at random. Tomorrow, he’d ask his assistant to discreetly check to see if she had any kind of history with other actors or famous people. If Jia was an obsessed fan, he’d protect himself and Luna from her.
What if she’s not?
Well, then, in that case, his path was a little more complicated. He tucked the hand that had touched her dupatta under his head and closed his eyes, her voice wrapping around him. And when he finally did sleep, she wrapped around his dreams.
Chapter Three
USUALLY ONCE Jia woke up for morning prayers, she started her day. Today, she’d groggily crawled right back into bed. Sleep was nice. Sleep meant she didn’t have to face herself.
Unfortunately, she had an internal alarm that didn’t quit, even when she wanted it to. Jia blinked open one crusty eye, then the other. She loved this room, with its cotton candy pink walls and feminine white furniture. It was the first place she’d lived on her own, outside her parents’ home, and had been free to decorate to her taste.
It was far too bright for her mood this morning, though. She’d forgotten to close the shades the night before when she’d crept in, and the Southern California sun was blinding, reflecting off all that white furniture.
She groped for her phone on the bed next to her but came up with a spoon instead. Her therapeutic ice cream binge had clearly exhausted her. Thank goodness she’d tossed the empty ice cream container before falling asleep clutching her utensil like a security blanket, or she’d have a real sticky morning today.
Jia swallowed and made a face. Blech. That’s what she got for not brushing her teeth before falling into her ice cream and depression coma.
She peeked under the covers and the pillow for her phone. She always woke up with her phone under her or beside her, the result of falling asleep while scrolling.
Except last night, when she’d thrown her purse—with the phone inside—on her bureau and dug face first into her dessert.
She eyed her purse, the strap innocently hanging over the side. Her fingers itched, but she knew what she’d do as soon as she had it. She’d click on Dev’s texts, read them incessantly, and obsess over what the hell had happened. Maybe even text him more. Something subtle, like what the fuck or who the fuck or why the fuck, though years of being hyperconscious of playing role model to her young fan base had knocked most of her swearing tendencies out of her.
Jia shoved back the comforter and rubbed her exhausted eyes as she rose. Her golden shot dress was draped over her armchair in a crumpled heap. She normally took good care of her clothes, but that particular dress could stay crumpled. Like her romantic dreams.
Jia yelped when she entered the bathroom and saw her own reflection. Yikes, this was not pretty. Raccoon eyes, smeared lipstick, one fake eyelash clinging to her cheek. Her bun had slipped loose at some point while she slept, and her hair was a tangled mess.
Luckily, her counter was filled to bursting with skin products and hair supplies—another perk of having her own space—and she cleaned herself up as best as she could. Once her face was scrubbed and her hair was relatively knot-free and in a low ponytail, she left the bathroom.
She got dressed quickly in tie-dyed sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Sienna, where are Jas, Katrina, and Rhiannon?” she asked out loud.
There was a beat, and then a red pad next to her door lit up. “Jas has left the house. Rhiannon and Katrina are in the kitchen,” came the pleasant robot lady voice overhead.