And there he was. Rohan being Rohan. Her suit-wearing, stiff, tax-lawyer CEO friend was wearing her red polka-dot apron so he could help fix her mistake. This was why she could never stay mad at him. Also…the apron looked adorable on him. “What do you know about making momos?”

“Nothing. But I can cook. Lisa’s grandmother taught us to make har gow once. I’m sure I can handle this.”

Turns out, he could handle this. It shouldn’t have been a surprise—Rohan excelled at anything he did, so of course making a wheat dough was one of his many talents.

She watched his hands as he rolled a ball into a circle. “How are you doing that so well?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to make rotli? Zayan and I had to learn to roll a perfect circle before she would teach us to drive.”

Kamila’s mother had not taught her to cook. She’d taught Shelina. “My mom decided I wasn’t capable of cooking.”

He took another ball of dough and started rolling it out. “That’s ridiculous. Anyone can cook.”

Kamila sighed. “Let’s just say she thought teaching me wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Rohan stopped rolling and looked at her.

He, of course, had known her mother. He’d grown up with her, just like she’d grown up with his mother. But he didn’t really know Mom. Most people saw the stylish woman with the impeccable house who threw lavish parties. Most didn’t see the criticisms, the comparisons, the complete disappointment in anything her youngest daughter did. Kamila was mostly over the verbal abuse she’d endured from her mother, thanks to years of therapy, great friends, a loving father, and of course, Darcy. But even healed wounds left scars.

He had to know some of what her mother was really like, though, right? How could he not? His brother was literally married to her sister. He’d seen slivers of her mother’s passive aggression when they were kids. He’d been present when Mom led the others in a rousing round of “let’s talk about everything wrong with Kamila.” But he didn’t know about the last fight she’d had with her mother.

He was still watching her, sympathy in his eyes. Kamila’s breath hitched…His stare was so intense. Maybe he did know. Mom could have told his parents. Expressed her shame over her harpy of a daughter’s loose morals. Apologized for Kamila throwing herself at someone as upstanding as Rohan Nasser.

His stare bored into her, and for a moment it felt like he was going to touch her. A huge part of her wanted to touch him—to rub his arm reassuringly. Tell him it was fine. That he shouldn’t worry—she was okay. Not traumatized. Not hurting anymore. Just the fun, quirky Kamila who he never underestimated.