Just Playing House

by Farah Heron

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy; Family Life

Synopsis

A rising movie star reunites with his high school prom date, now a personal stylist, in this delightful rom-com for fans of forced proximity, second chances, and celebrity romance.

This has to be a joke. Stylist Marley Kamal has waited years for the chance to be a private shopper for a major celebrity. But finding out that her first big client is the guy she went to prom with—and slept with and was promptly ghosted by—seems like the universe is mocking her. Because Nikhil Shamdasani is back, about to star in a major movie, and is more drop-dead hot than ever . . . at the worst possible time.

Marley’s only weeks away from an elective double mastectomy and breast reconstruction that’s supposed to save her life. But this surgery is going to change things in more ways than she can possibly imagine. For one, Nik is so eager to have her as his stylist, he’s offered to stay in her home and take care of her while she recovers. Now Marley is about to learn that as the door to her old life closes, something—or rather someone—else will enter . . . if she’s ready to let him in.  

Release date: July 2, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

When Marley Kamal was a young girl imagining her future, she pictured fabulousness. Gorgeous clothes, tons of friends, and the most glamorous job in the fashion industry. She wasn’t too upset that reality came nowhere near those lofty expectations, since as an adult she discovered that peopling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway. But she was surprised so much of her adult life would be focused on breasts.

Talking about breasts. Looking at breasts. Worrying about breasts. And corralling breasts was the most challenging of all.

“I need my boobs to sit here!” said Angel Durand, Marley’s customer in fitting room one, with her thick French-Canadian accent. “Center ice! Maybe blue line! Not end zone!” Angel was currently topless with a black vegan-leather jumpsuit unzipped and hanging at her waist, and her long, nude nails were indenting dimples into her ample breast flesh. Marley was skeptical that Angel’s bosom had ever seen that particular gravity-defying resting place since puberty, but Marley had been selling dreams, aspirations, and illusions—otherwise known as luxury fashion—for almost a decade now. She knew how to make the customer happy.

Marley tilted her head with feigned sympathy. “We can try adhesive supports again. We just got a new line—”

Angel made a face of disgust. “Absolutely not. My nipples were on fire the last time I wore pasties. Pink nipples are fine, but mine looked like maraschino cherries!”

Great. The last thing Marley needed now was the painful image of cherry-red nipples in her brain. “I think that jumpsuit might be challenging without shoulder support. Maybe something with transparent straps?”

At that, Angel whipped a strapless underwire bra at Marley’s head. Thankfully, ten years of working with spoiled sports wives had given Marley reflexes as impressive as those of Angel’s hockey defenseman husband.

“I want my boobs to be like yours!” Angel’s hands reached out, ready to grab Marley’s own breasts in her slim white blouse, but again, Marley’s quick reflexes got her out of the way before contact was made.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Marley said, closing the fitting room door. She plucked the expensive bra off the floor. If Angel knew a thing about Marley’s breasts, she wouldn’t want them. Even if they were full and round, no one would want breasts that were silently plotting to kill their owner. Which was why Marley’s breasts were going to be ousted from her body very soon.

Marley twisted the ring on her index finger, reminding herself she was almost done for the day. It had taken six years at this job, but she was officially burnt out from working on the selling floor and dealing with invasive comments and abrasive customers.

She checked on her other customer in the fitting rooms, Paris Mousavi. “How are you feeling in that Armani?”

“It’s too big,” Paris said. “I look like an overcooked eggplant. I cannot be seen in court like this.” Lawyers in Ontario wore robes in court, so no one would be seeing Paris in the eggplant-esque suit in the courtroom. And the suit fit fine, anyway.

Marley smiled sympathetically. “These Armani suits are not meant to be worn off the rack—they always need tailoring. I’ll send someone up.”

Marley left the ladieswear fitting rooms, her black patent stiletto heels echoing over the marble floor of Reid’s Department Store, and headed toward lingerie while calling alterations to send someone to Paris.

Tova, another sales consultant, caught up with her as she hung up her phone. “Did Angel Durand really tweak your nipples in the fitting room?”

“Of course not,” Marley said. “Angel is lovely.” She knew Tova was waiting in the wings to steal the customer out from under Marley the moment she disclosed that things weren’t rosy in the salesperson-customer relationship.

“Oh god,” Tova said, looking toward the customer service desk. “I’m pretty sure Aubrey Ashton got implants while she was on vacation in Mexico.”

Marley’s head shot to Tova. Aubrey was a sales associate in the store, not a customer. It was highly inappropriate to be discussing the body of a coworker like that. Also… Aubrey didn’t have implants, did she?

“I can smell the silicone a mile away,” Tova said. “Highly suspicious that her Insta didn’t have any beach pictures in Cancún.”

Marley took a quick right and straightened the YSL blouses on a rack, mostly to ditch Tova. She really disliked her. Actually, Marley was at the point where she didn’t like most of the people who worked on Reid’s selling floor. Bunch of snooty vultures. Marley was one of the biggest sellers in the store, which meant most other consultants frothed at the thought of dethroning her.

Ruby Dhanjee was working at the lingerie counter. She was Marley’s cousin and easily her favorite person at the store. Ruby had just returned to town six months ago after years away, and Marley had referred her for the position at Reid’s.

Marley gave Ruby a pleading look. “Please tell me you have a bra in a 42G that won’t show under the Alice and Olivia jumpsuit.”

Ruby shook her head. “Impossible. That’s backless and strapless. Why don’t you show her some other jumpsuits? The green Stella McCartney one or the Vivienne Westwood.”

Marley chuckled at Ruby’s suggestion. “You know we do carry lines that aren’t from the UK, right?” Ruby was obsessed with anything from England. Except colonialism, of course.

“I’d put her in Halston,” Tova said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

“Tova,” Ruby said sweetly, “there’s a woman over there looking at formal dresses.”

“On it,” Tova said, rushing away. She didn’t even thank Ruby for giving her the customer. Marley raised a brow once Tova was gone. Was Ruby handing Tova commissions now?

Ruby snorted. “I saw the girl looking up each dress on her phone on a designer dupes site. She’s not going to buy anything. Erin Prichard was just here with a message for you.” Ruby put on a fake British accent. “Her Excellency has requested your presence in the personal shopping suite at five o’clock sharp.”

Marley’s jaw nearly dropped to the counter. She checked her watch. That was in twenty minutes. “Why?”

Erin was Reid’s personal shopper. She worked by appointment only in her gorgeous private office. There had been rumors in the store for months that Erin was pushing to expand her department and hire a second personal shopper to work with her. Marley would give her left arm for that job, just like every other consultant in the store.

Well, actually, Marley probably shouldn’t be even thinking about removing more healthy body parts.

“Apparently, Her Excellency needs you to consult with a client,” Ruby said.

Erin was notoriously protective of her customers and never allowed anyone to assist her, other than the personal shopping assistant. And Erin was extremely difficult to get close to—she didn’t socialize with the rest of the staff. Marley had been trying to cultivate a friendship with her, but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t even aware that Erin knew her name.

But maybe Jacqueline, the store’s general manager and Marley’s boss, finally agreed to hire a new personal shopper, and Erin was testing out the top consultants. Marley nearly shook with the excitement of that prospect. Moving to personal shopping would mean her own office and her own dedicated assistant. She could be selective with her clients. No more hockey wives whipping undergarments at her. No more staff waiting for Marley to lower her guard so they could steal her customers. No more gossip. After Marley had had the absolute crappiest of years, it was high time something went well for her.

Marley knocked on the door of the personal shopping suite at five sharp. Erin’s assistant, Ernesto, wearing a perfectly tailored Thom Browne suit along with his normal bored expression, let her in. As the city’s premier luxury department store, Reid’s was expertly designed, but the personal shopping suite was the flagship. No expense had been spared in the fixtures and decor. Gleaming white walls with colorful designer chairs and the softest white leather couch imaginable. And a pink feature wall that made everyone’s skin glow.

Erin stood to kiss Marley on each cheek. “You’re here. Wonderful. You look radiant as always. Utterly flawless.”

Marley smiled. Erin herself was the flawless one. Wearing black wide-legged pants and a frilly, puffy white blouse, Erin somehow looked both luxurious and effortless. With Erin, the devil was in her details. The silver charm bracelet. The oversized vintage brooch. The immaculate platinum-blond hair with nary a millimeter of dark roots showing. Marley knew not to get too excited by this warm greeting, though. Erin treated everyone exactly the same—with polite praise. “Come. Meet Lydia Chambers.” She indicated a small woman sitting on one of the designer chairs. The client in question, Marley assumed.

Lydia stood, eyes narrowed, shrewdly sizing Marley up. She was white, with smooth pale skin and wavy brown hair reaching her shoulders. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five, but Marley assumed midthirties, and she was dressed in slim ankle jeans paired with an army-green T-shirt and a black blazer with the sleeves pushed up. And she had her phone clipped to her belt with a hideous leather harness.

Marley put on her client smile and held out her hand. “Marley Kamal. Are you looking for something for an event, or a new wardrobe?” This client would be easy enough. She seemed unassuming and had a proportional figure, if a little small. She would be a breeze to dress.

“Oh, no,” Lydia said, shaking her head and sitting back down. “This isn’t for me.”

Erin sat gracefully at her glass-topped desk and indicated for Marley to sit next to Lydia. “Lydia is a celebrity handler with a film studio. She’s come to contract with Reid’s to exclusively style a VIP for several upcoming appearances, but you’ll need to sign her NDA before we go any further. Ernesto and I have already signed. You must also sign the standard Reid’s NDA for personal shoppers.”

Marley’s brows furrowed. She served wealthy clients all the time, and she liked to think she had a reputation for professionalism, maintaining privacy, and of course, making the impossible happen. But A-list celebrities… true VIPs who needed NDAs—those were usually brought in through the secret back door straight into the personal shopping studio. Marley had never signed an NDA in her six years at Reid’s.

Lydia immediately slid a thick agreement to Marley, and Marley started reading it while adjusting her initial impression of the celebrity handler. Lydia was actually formidable. Her agreement was terrifying. The clauses and stipulations were… intense.

“Do I need a lawyer for this?” Marley asked.

“There isn’t time,” Lydia said, voice dripping with impatience. “This is a standard agreement. You sign this or we go elsewhere. There are still plenty of stylists in this city.”

“Of course, there are more consultants in this store, too,” Erin added. She gave Marley an annoyed look. Marley bit her lip. If Marley ever wanted to move to personal shopping, she needed to play along.

Marley flipped to the next page. The actual VIP’s name wasn’t on the agreement—they were only called the subject. “Will I find out who the VIP is before signing?”

Lydia shook her head. “No.”

Marley read the next clause, which was about the use of recording devices. Marley’s mind was racing. Who could the VIP be? Whoever they were, she kind of felt bad for them. Imagine having to go through all this to buy a pair of jeans. The verbiage about big lawsuits, fines, and even employment termination if Marley broke the confidentiality agreement was alarming. She looked at Erin, but Erin’s expression was blank.

“Any questions?” Lydia asked once Marley was on the last page.

Marley nodded. “Yes. There are separate clauses here for before and after an event. What, and when, is the event?”

Lydia shook her head. “You will be told after you sign.”

This could be a problem. Marley had surgery scheduled in a couple of weeks… Would she even be able to take this client?

She reached the final page and noticed it had been printed with her legal name, Mahreen, instead of Marley. Lydia had done her research.

“The studio has a considerable wardrobe budget here,” Lydia said. “If this goes well, we’d consider bringing more talent to Reid’s.”

The situation was crystal clear to Marley. If she refused to sign and Lydia walked, Reid’s would lose thousands of dollars in sales. And Marley would likely lose her job. If she signed, then learned the timing of this event didn’t work with her surgery and recovery, Marley might not be fired, but it would be unlikely that she would get promoted to personal shopper anytime soon. If she signed it and was able to take the client, she’d have to work her ass off for what sounded like the biggest client of her life. If she failed, she could expect never to get an opportunity like this again.

But if she succeeded… this could be amazing.

“He’s waiting outside,” Erin said.

Marley looked up from the contract of doom with one brow raised. “He? I’m a ladieswear specialist.”

“We’ll be needing menswear for this,” Lydia said.

Erin frowned, crossing her arms in front of her. “Marley, personal shoppers are specialists in all areas of the store. You can learn what you don’t know.”

Marley exhaled. She didn’t have a choice. She needed this job—and, importantly, the health benefits and paid sick time that came with it. With a shaking hand, she signed both copies of Lydia’s contract, then opened the Reid’s NDA. It was considerably shorter—and simpler. It basically said she must keep the identity and any private information about any personal shopping client confidential, or she would lose her job. Marley signed it as well and slid both agreements across the desk.

Lydia took one copy of each agreement and handed the others to Erin. “Excellent. Looking forward to working with you, Marley,” Lydia said. “Now that you’ve all signed, I can give you more information. The primary event we need wardrobe for is in just under two weeks. He’ll be needing at least three distinct looks for the event and for a press junket following it.”

Whoa. That was fast. Marley nodded along, but her mind was reeling at how the hell she could become a menswear specialist so quickly. But also… this wasn’t going to get in the way of her surgery in two weeks. Thank goodness.

“Tailoring that quickly might be an issue,” Marley said.

Erin waved her hand. “You’ll be assigned a dedicated tailor.”

Marley nodded. “Is there anything else that might make him a challenge to dress?” There wasn’t time for any made-to-measure bespoke pieces.

Lydia snorted at that statement. “Oh yes. He is definitely a challenge. This is our biggest issue—he’s a little… resistant.”

“Spoiled celebrity bad boy?” Ernesto asked.

Lydia gave away nothing with her smile. “This is why we need confidentiality. The person you will be styling has recently been cast in a starring role in an upcoming blockbuster.”

Ernesto whistled low. “An A-list movie star?”

Lydia shook her head. “No. He’s not a movie star… yet. That’s the problem. Movie stars already have stylists. They know how to present themselves to the press. They know when to shut up and listen to experts. But God only knows why the studio has cast a complete nobody in easily the most coveted role of the year.”

“My god,” Erin said, her hand going to her mouth in shock. “This is for Ironis 3, right? You’re talking about the Bronze Shadow.”

Marley wasn’t really into superhero movies or comics, but she’d have to have been living under a rock to not know how popular the Ironis movies were. Based on a comic book franchise, two huge blockbuster action films had already been made, with more expected.

Lydia nodded. “Simon DeSouza, otherwise known as The Bronze Shadow, has been a fan favorite from the comics since day one. There are Vegas bookies taking bets on which Chris will be cast in the role. Many are sure it will be Tom Cruise, or Daniel Craig, despite them being much too old. This role should be going to someone like Pattinson. Cavill would be amazing. Hell, there is a whole email newsletter out there stating that fans will accept none but Timothée Chalamet as the Bronze Shadow. This role should be going to an A-lister. Not a nobody Canadian. And especially not a nobody Canadian who dresses like coastal-grandma-meets-frat-boy.”

Marley frowned at that image in her head. “Yay Canada, though.” She had no idea which Canadian would be up for such a huge part. Keanu Reeves? Maybe he’d be too old, too. Marley didn’t exactly keep up with Hollywood.

Lydia made a disparaging noise. “Suffice it to say that there will be a lot of disappointed fanboys when the casting is announced. We are attempting to mitigate that by relying on hometown advantage and announcing at Toronto Comicon—before filming. We’ve been working our asses off to get him ready, but this man needs help. He’s fired five stylists so far, and he’s on his third personal trainer. And we’re not even going to talk about dentists.”

“A diva?” Erin asked.

Lydia nodded. “I would almost feel sorry for the guy—he’s about to walk into a media zoo. But he accepted the role. He knew what would happen. And honestly, existentialism is so passé. No one cares about his impostor syndrome. We all have our own to deal with.”

Marley wasn’t sure she felt a whole lot of sympathy for him, either. He was probably being paid a fortune for this role. He’d already fired five stylists. He sounded like an insufferable, inexperienced man-boy. “Why did the studio cast him?”

Lydia shrugged. “I’m not in casting, but there are reasons the studio wanted to move in this direction. It’s my job to turn him into a movie star whether he wants to be or not.” She sighed. “Fans haven’t embraced every Ironis casting decision, but everyone knows the backlash here will be exponentially worse.”

“Well, if he’s dressing like Chris Pine during the pandemic…” Ernesto said.

Lydia shook her head. “No, it’s not because of his lack of fashion sense… It’s because the Bronze Shadow is the fan favorite. No one is expecting a South Asian actor in the role.”

Marley inhaled sharply. Of course he was having an existential crisis—he knew he was about to be put in front of a firing squad of racist neckbeard fanboys. Poor diva boy. Her heart kind of broke for the man. And that was probably why they’d requested Marley—they wanted to work with a South Asian stylist so he’d have someone with the same skin color as him on his side. And Marley was the only South Asian sales consultant at Reid’s.

Marley nodded. “Okay. When can I meet him?”

Lydia stood. “Right now. My assistant is with Nik at your back door.” She pulled out her phone. “I’m telling them to come in.”

Marley stood and stepped toward the door, putting on her shopgirl smile to greet the VIP. She wasn’t going to be the next stylist he fired. Her job was depending on it—but also, as a South Asian, she was already protective of him. And weirdly proud. It was amazing that a desi had been cast in the biggest action role of the year.

When the door opened, first a small white woman with honey-colored hair walked in—Lydia’s assistant, presumably. Behind her was a tall, brown-skinned man—clearly the VIP. The first thing Marley noticed, of course, was his clothes. A faded, stretched-out Superman T-shirt with an oversized cream cable-knit cardigan over it. And a pair of wide-legged ripped jeans… wait. Were those painter pants?

Finally, Marley looked at his face and frowned. It wasn’t just his clothes that resembled Chris Pine’s pandemic look, but also that beard. That was not a good beard, and neither was his halo of frizzy black hair reaching his shoulders, or his lopsided smile. It wasn’t lopsided like in a sexy, cute romance-hero kind of way, more like… half his face was paralyzed. And he was drooling from the slacked half of his mouth.

This was the VIP? How in God’s name was she going to turn this slack-jawed man into an international movie star?

He put his hand up and waved. “Hi, Mahreen!” he mumbled through the mobile half of his mouth. He winced. “Chit. Dorry. I wad at de dentitht.”

That’s when Marley realized she knew the half of his face that still had muscle tone. Even under that unkept beard. This was her scrawny class-clown grade-twelve chem lab partner. Also, the second person she’d ever had sex with. The guy who fucking ghosted her and kiss and told. Nikhil Shamdasani.

“Marley, Meet Nik Sharma, the new Bronze Shadow,” Lydia said.

Marley shook her head. “No. Are you being serious right now?”

Nikhil Shamdasani was having the most surreal day of his life. It started when he woke up and saw a Google alert for his name from a tweet from New Zealand. That was good. Free publicity.

Then he read the tweet. It said that Nikhil Shamdasani, the co-star of the short-lived comedy show Commuters (which was still in syndication and strangely popular in Polynesia), was dead. Maybe that wasn’t good. Nikhil was definitely exhausted and, to most people, a nobody, but he was 100 percent alive. In fact, he was about to become one of the most hated men in Hollywood. Alive and despised.

He let his talent agency know about his untimely Kiwi death, since they presumably had a necromancer process to resurrect celebrities wrongly mourned on social media. That’s when he heard from Lydia, his handler, who informed him that they were going to another dentist that afternoon.

Nikhil hated dentists, but the studio insisted on having his front tooth fixed that had been missing its left corner for over a decade now—since Oren Glassman punched him as he was walking out of grade-eleven cooking class. Nikhil had never considered fixing that tooth. As far as he was concerned, the chip was a part of his identity. But apparently, superheroes needed to be flawless. But two different dentists took half a look at his mouth before recommending a full set of veneers, which Nikhil did not want. He liked his real teeth, thank you very much. But finally, today’s dentist agreed to repair only the chipped tooth. Seeing himself with an intact tooth after the procedure was the second surreal thing of the day. He looked like himself and a complete stranger at the same time.

But the third surreal thing that happened topped the two before it. While Lydia was paying for the dental work, he thumbed through a three-year-old magazine and saw the breathtakingly beautiful face of the very goddess who caused the chipped tooth in the first place. Nikhil remembered the day well. He had been walking out of cooking class and asked his crush, who happened to be Oren’s girlfriend at the time, how she’d liked his coq au vin. Oren assumed another meaning of the phrase and promptly socked Nikhil in the mouth.

Mahreen Kamal.

Nikhil lifted the magazine closer to study the picture. Yeah, that was her. His cooking class buddy, chemistry lab partner, and prom date. He’d fucked things up so monumentally with Mahreen that he still felt nauseous whenever he thought of her. His fist clenched as he read the article. It was about Toronto’s top luxury sales associates, and the little profile about her didn’t say anything about her personal life, only that she was a consultant and stylist at Reid’s, this fancy store in Yorkville. Mahreen was standing behind a counter looking into the camera with the same nonsmile smile she’d perfected back in high school. She was even more stunning than she used to be.

It made sense. Nikhil had gone to an arts-focused high school for their drama program, and Mahreen had been in the fashion program there. He examined her eyes: rich brown with pale green striations. Warm and cool at the same time. And they often had the same detached expression on the surface. Nikhil used to study her eyes more than the periodic table in chemistry, trying to decipher the minuscule changes that gave away her true emotions. He spent most of grade-twelve chemistry trying to get those icy-warm eyes to flash with pleasure… pleasure because of him. He’d once made it a personal goal to make her smile at least once a day—and he could tell which of her smiles was real. But he couldn’t read her eyes in this picture. Since he couldn’t resist—when Lydia was done with the receptionist, Nikhil told her that he wanted Mahreen as his next stylist.

Which was how he’d ended up here now. In a moment that outsurreal-ed all the surrealism of the day: Nikhil was standing in front of Mahreen Kamal with his face still partially frozen from the dentist, and Mahreen was giving him the same unimpressed glare she’d given him a decade ago when he’d suggested he wear his dad’s wedding kurta to prom. By this point, he should have been used to stylists being disappointed in him.

“Mahreen, let me explain,” Nikhil said. Or rather, mumbled. He probably should have waited for the numbness to wear off before this reunion.

She looked… amazing. It had been ten years since he’d seen her. He was in show business now—living in LA, where he was regularly surrounded by women who looked like they’d just stepped out of Vogue or a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. But those women weren’t like Mahreen. She wasn’t just pretty… she was, like, otherworldly breathtaking.

She was wearing shiny black pants that perfectly skimmed her long legs. Her hair was in a sleek, high ponytail that cascaded in waves down her back. Her white blouse accentuated her narrow waist. And her breasts… full, round, and generous. Nikhil had fantasized about her body for months before getting a chance to see it in the flesh on prom night. Spectacular. Mahreen still being as beautiful as she’d been at eighteen was immaterial right now, but man… it was messing him up to see those eyes looking at him again.

“You’re drooling, Nikhil,” Mahreen said.

He wiped his mouth. This was officially the first time they’d spoken since prom night, and he was making a complete fool of himself.

Lydia gave him a scolding look. “He just came from having a chipped tooth fixed. Marley, do you know Nik?”

Mahreen raised a brow. “Nik?”

He nodded. Mostly because he was afraid if he said something wrong, she would run away. Or that spittle would fall from his mouth.

“Is it the tooth Oren broke?” Mahreen asked.

Nikhil nodded again. He tried for a disarming grin, but with only half his mouth working, he wasn’t sure he was disarming anyone.

Mahreen chuckled. At his expense, but that was fine. It gave him the same rush it did ten years ago.

She glanced at the two people standing near Lydia. One, a tall, fiftysomething white woman who looked like she’d stepped out of her summer home in the Hamptons, and the other was a burly man with light-brown skin and a goatee wearing a shiny blue three-piece suit. “May I speak to him alone?” Mahreen asked them. Bu. . .