She rolled her eyes. “Of course I want people feeling things for me. Just not, like, permanent commitment-type feelings. Casual is the new exclusive.” She exaggeratedly looked around the empty room before lowering her voice and stepping closer to him. “It’s pretty great to only have shiny new-relationship sex and never boring routine sex. Nothing like that new man smell.” She licked her lips, watching a cute shade of pink rise up Rohan’s cheeks.

This was fun. “Although…” she continued. “I am going to miss Ernesto. We had a private final date on Thursday, and let me tell you, that man is talented. He could do this thing with his fingers and his tongue in sync—”

Rohan slapped her hip with a tea towel to stop her. Probably best. She loved knowing she could unravel Mr. Buttoned-Up like that, but she knew he wasn’t getting much action. It was cruel to rub it in.

“Anyway,” she said. “You know why I only do casual. I have no intention of abandoning Dad, and that’s what a serious relationship would do. All a girl needs are friends, companionship, and sex. I have plenty of the first two, and I always know exactly where to find the third.”

Her father wasn’t over Kamila’s best friend, Asha, who’d lived just around the corner, moving four kilometers away into her new wife’s McMansion. Bad enough that Kamila’s sister, Shelina, and her husband, Zayan, who happened to be Rohan’s brother, moved two hours away to London, Ontario, with their sons a few years ago.

Rohan was still a touch pink, so she decided to see how frazzled a CEO could get. “You should think about having casual sex sometime, old man. You’ve been divorced for what—a year now? I saw an ad for a seniors mixer at the community center. Want me to get the deets for you?”

He looked comically affronted and almost said something before shaking his head, smiling. “Kamila Hussain, you are trouble. Capital T. I have no idea why I put up with you.”

She smiled her sweetest smile and ran her finger over that scruff on his cheek. “Because I make you feel young again.”

At thirty-two, Rohan was only five years older than her twenty-seven, so hardly an old man. With his rock-climber’s body, chiseled jaw, and seriously intimidating demeanor, he was the perfect example of a high-powered King Street executive. Except, of course, on Saturday mornings when he was in his pajamas and swatting Kamila with tea towels. Rohan would have a lineup of women happy to be casual, committed, or anything in between if he wanted it. But he didn’t seem to be interested after his wife left him.

Dad reappeared then, a small box of bandages in his hand. “Sorry, beti, I had a phone call.”