Ajay leaned back and watched her for a moment. She looked so much younger like this. Her lips were bare, and she was lacking the exquisite jewelry that usually winked at her earlobes and from her neck. He wanted more, though. More vulnerability, more honesty, and more of the real Raj. “My family’s company is personal. It was built by people with passion.” He switched to Punjabi. “Your polish is sexy, but I need to see beneath the veneer. I want your passion.”

The struggle was visible on her face. She didn’t want to show herself, but she was a smart woman. She could read him, his resolve, and knew this was important.

“My mother . . .” she continued slowly “. . . used to make the best bature chole ever. It was the one thing that the staff wasn’t allowed to help her with. She’d create this yeasted dough that would puff up into a dome, and then pinch off perfectly sized pieces, roll them out flat, and then drop them into this sizzling oil. The minute I heard that sound, it didn’t matter where I was in the farmhouse, I’d come running.”

Farmhouse, Ajay thought. Farmhouses in Punjab were often palatial. It made sense that her family, with its drug trafficking roots and poppy fields, had a lot of money.

He remembered what he’d asked Sri to do the previous night. If he was going to get into a relationship with this woman, he needed to trust her. It might be in his best interests to pull the project from Sri for now. He’d have to remember to take care of that when he got home.

“You miss your mom’s cooking,” he said.

“I do. Mom’s chole were made from a generations-old recipe,” she continued. “To make the chickpeas, she’d be cooking them for two days. Washing, rinsing, draining, and then stewing them in her special sauce. To this day, I don’t know what masalas she used. Not that it would do me much good. Who knows if she still cooks, with her health . . .”

Ajay squeezed her hand. “Whether she cooks or not, it doesn’t change the fact that you still didn’t get the skill from her, right?”

Her lips twitched. “I guess so.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to do all the cooking. Except chole. Maybe we’ll leave that to true experts. Honestly, this place might not make chole as memorable as your mother’s, but I bet they’re pretty close.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She’d crossed her arms and leaned on the table. A wistful expression, one of memories reflected in her eyes.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Twelve years last month. I came here when I was eighteen.”