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 was not a 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.”

Kamila did drink, but not very often. And she never drank at her own parties—she preferred to be alert and sober when hosting her friends. She went back to quartering bright cherry tomatoes for the pico de gallo. Kamila accepted that low-key by her standards was a pretty swank party to most, but since she hosted her friends for dinner and a movie every week, the party wasn’t that much exertion for her anymore. She may have sourced a special Kashmiri biryani last night to match the old Kashmiri movie Rohan had picked, but the charcuterie board didn’t have any single-origin dark chocolate on it this time. She hadn’t even put out her special party throw cushions and candles.

“Besides,” she said, dropping the tomatoes in a bowl, “considering you’ve never missed one of my movie parties, I’m surprised you’re complaining.”

“I’m not complaining. But I’d be here even if you served potato chips from a bag.”

Probably true. Rohan loved old Hindi movies more than the average tax lawyer. “Maybe next week we can get you to join in the postmovie sing-along.”

Rohan snorted. “Who taught you to play Bollywood hits on the ukulele anyway?”