• 1 •
When Zara Patel, hopeful girlfriend of an A-list movie star, entered Peter Patterson’s Extreme Paintball Adventure for her cousin’s bachelor-bachelorette party, there was a spring in her step, a song on her lips, a cake in her hands, and a celebrity autograph on her arm. Nothing could spoil her good mood, not even the high-pitched shriek of Parvati Chopra, her roommate and long-suffering best friend.
“What happened to your dress? Stacy is going to kill you!”
On a scale of disasters, a stained dress was hardly cause for alarm even if Stacy Jones, the bride’s Maid of Horror, did tend to overreact. In the last six months alone, Zara had lost two jobs, three boyfriends, and four tires—stolen off her Caribbean Blue Chevy Spark when she’d been arguing a case in court. She’d also been rejected five times from the Hamilton app, which meant it would be at least another year before she could even try to get discount tickets to see her favorite Broadway musical of all time.
“Chad Wandsworth signed my arm!” Zara turned to the side to better display the bold strokes of the movie star’s name etched in black Sharpie on her biceps. “I’m never going to wash again.”
“I’m more interested in that stain.” An ER doctor at San Francisco General Hospital, Parvati liked to drill down to the facts as quickly as possible. “I didn’t think the dress could get any worse.” Her gaze fixed on the bodice of Zara’s hot pink ’80s-style explosion of a dress adorned with taffeta, tulle, bows, sequins, ruffles, and sleeves puffed so high they obscured Zara’s peripheral vision. “It’ll be awesome,” Stacy had said when she’d informed the bride’s friends that they would be wearing secondhand bridesmaid’s dresses for the paintball game. Zara wasn’t convinced that a cleavage-baring minidress was the best attire for playing paintball in the middle of a forest, but she adored her cousin Tarun and his bride-to-be, Maria Gonzales, so she’d said “yes” to the dress and handed over her five dollars for the thrift store special.
“I was in an ice cream shop. You know I have no self-control when it comes to anything ice cream.” She gave a resigned shrug. “I had a milkshake in one hand and the cake in the other when Chad—we’re on a first-name basis now—walked in. He’s in entertainment. I want to get into the business. I figured I should give him my card in case he ever finds himself in need of an attorney. I put the milkshake on the cake box, reached into my purse, and . . .”
“I can see what happened.” Parvati sighed so loudly she startled a couple walking past. “I should have known the temptation would be too much. You couldn’t just go in and buy the cake.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Zara retorted. “And for the fact my dress is standout hideous. Chad would have walked right past me. Instead, being a gentleman, he stopped to help me.” She shot an envious gaze at Parvati’s sky blue gown. With seven tiers of ruffles, puffed sleeves, and a hoop skirt, she was missing only a pair of glass slippers and cartoon birds fluttering around her sleek dark hair. It wasn’t fair. Parvati didn’t care for musicals. If anyone should have had the Enchanted-style princess dress, it was Zara. Instead, Stacy had punished her with the worst ’80s fashion had to offer simply because Zara had accidentally spilled a glass of wine on her at the engagement party when she thought she’d seen Lin-Manuel Miranda at the bar.
“We’d better get the cake to Stacy,” Parvati said. “She’s already upset that we have to have mixed teams. When she sees your dress she’s going to lose it.”
Zara followed Parvati through the log building that was the beating heart of the paintball experience. Men in full camo and tactical gear stalked past them, ammo belts strapped across chests, weapons slung over backs, faces masked or painted like they were about to go full commando in the bush. “I thought this was supposed to be a fun, family-friendly activity,” Zara muttered. “They look like they’re about to go to war.”
“Some people are very serious about paintball,” Parvati said. “They buy their own custom gear and get an annual park pass so they can come here every weekend. You don’t want to be on the field with those guys. They play to win. No mercy.”
Zara shuddered as a monster of a man lumbered past, combat boots thudding on the plank floor, his body so heavy with gear he could barely walk. “I’m really rethinking the dress idea. I have a feeling we’re going to wind up with a lot of bruises. Maybe even dead.”
Parvati looked over her shoulder as the dude walked away. “Or we might find a Prince Charming in need of rescuing. If you see a hot guy with a broken arm or leg, a branch through his eye, a perforated gut, or even just a twisted ankle, text me.”
“You’re such a romantic.” Zara couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her tone.
“Romance is overrated,” Parvati said. “I work eighty or ninety hours a week. I don’t have time for flirting and long dinners. I don’t want to waste valuable hours gnawing on an overcooked, overpriced steak in a dimly lit restaurant when all I really want is to get down and dirty.”
“Even if he’s injured? His performance might be impaired if he’s in pain.”
“I’ll save him, heal him, and then I’ll take him to bed.” Parvati opened the door to the party room. “The grateful ones are the best. So eager, compliant, and willing to please.”
“Cake is here.” Zara smiled at the twenty women seated around a long table covered with a white plastic Be My Bachelorette tablecloth.
“I thought you’d never get here.” Stacy gave a dramatic sigh and took the box from Zara. By some incredible twist of fate, Stacy had managed to “find” a brand-new perfectly sized pomegranate chiffon dress at the thrift store. With a waist-cinching bodice and elegant plunging neckline, the “secondhand” dress accentuated her slim figure and set off her beautiful auburn hair.
Zara gave Maria a quick hug before joining Stacy at the refreshments table where oblivion was waiting in the form of a five-gallon Box-o-Chardoneigh garishly decorated with pictures of galloping horses. She filled two glasses and gave one to Parvati before drinking hers in one gulp, shuddering at the bitter, acrid taste. Maybe the pictures of horses on the box were a hint that the liquid inside wasn’t actually wine.
“Oh. My. God. Your dress!” Stacy slapped a hand over her chest like the shock of a stained dress that was imminently going to be splattered with paint pellets might actually stop her heart. “You’re all wet.”
“I hear that a lot,” Zara said dryly. “And never as a complaint.”
Parvati choked on her Chardoneigh. Maria laughed out loud. Half-Portuguese and half-Spanish, Maria had gone from street kid to award-winning food-truck chef and was one of the most hardworking people Zara knew. After meeting Maria at her food truck one sunny afternoon, Zara had hooked her up with Tarun. Six months later they were engaged and Zara added another win to her matchmaking scorecard.
Not to be outdone, Stacy grimaced. “What’s on your arm?”
“I met Chad Wandsworth at the ice cream shop when I was picking up the cake . . .” She paused, waiting for the information to sink in. Timing was everything both onstage and in court. “He autographed me.”
“Well.” Stacy huffed. “It’s a good thing you’re not a bridesmaid. You’d have to wash it off.”
Zara mentally marked Stacy as her first target once she got the paintball gun in her hand. “This autograph is forever. I’ll be going strapless at the wedding reception so everyone can see it.”
“Say good-bye to your chance of meeting someone.” A woman in a formfitting strapless green dress with a delicate chiffon skirt and nary a frill or puffed sleeve in sight gave her a tight smile. With big blue eyes, her blond hair pulled up in a perfect bun, she looked like a fairy, all ready to flutter her way into somebody’s heart. “No guy will want to compete with Chad Wandsworth.”
“Maybe not, but our aunties will be there.” Parvati sipped her wine, smiling as if the vile liquid hadn’t just scorched its way down her throat. “Nothing can put them off pairing up all the young South Asian singles at a wedding. They have a competition every wedding season to see who can make the most matches. The only way to escape is to secure a quick hookup at the singles table or show up with a plus-one.”
“You make it sound like it’s easy to find someone.” Stacy expertly sliced the slightly melted cake into even pieces. “I mean, really . . .”
“When you’ve got five hundred or a thousand guests it’s easy to find someone—or even a dozen someones—you’ve never met before.” Zara finished her wine and followed it with a spring roll chaser. “Multiply that by at least five or six weddings during the summer season plus the same number of prewedding parties. Add the lovey-dovey atmosphere of single people all dressed up and eager to get out there and have some hot sex, and the hookup possibilities are endless.”
Zara instantly regretted her outburst, but Stacy had a way of getting under her skin. She reminded Zara of her mother.
“Well . . .” Stacy cleared her throat. “I would think most brides and grooms would be upset at the thought of people trolling their wedding for a hookup.”
“I’m not talking about me,” Zara protested. “I enjoy weddings for the opportunity to match people up. It’s just a hobby. I don’t get involved in the auntie competition.”
“Zara is an excellent matchmaker.” Maria beamed. “She set up Tarun and me.”
“If you’re so good, why are you still single?” Stacy shared a snide look with the woman in green.
Zara opened the spigot to pour herself another glass of wine. “I’m not interested in getting involved in a relationship.” Her parents’ devastating divorce had taken care of that. One minute she was part of a happy family; the next her world was ripped apart.
Stacy handed her a slice of cake. “That’s what people say when they can’t find a man.”
“I can find men,” Zara said. “I just don’t need one forever.”
• • •
Jay Dayal checked his paintball gun and slid it safely into the holster on his tactical vest. Although he’d left his career as a combat search-and-rescue pilot flying helicopters for the air force almost ten years ago, old habits died hard. A holstered weapon was a safe weapon. But once the game began, the blue team would be going down in flames. Whether he was in a boardroom pitching for funding to expand his security company, shooting hoops with his friends, or taking down enemy combatants in a bachelor-bachelorette paintball game, Jay played to win.
“I’ve split Maria’s friends between our two teams.” Tarun joined him at the weapons shed where Paintball Pete was explaining gun safety to three women in frilly dresses and heels. Along with Avi Kapoor and Rishi Dev, Tarun had been one of Jay’s closest high school friends, as dedicated to his goal of becoming a doctor as Jay had been to pulling himself out of poverty and making a success of his life. They had lost touch after high school when they went their separate ways, but a fellowship opportunity and a new fiancée had brought Tarun back to San Francisco, and they had reconnected, as tight now as they had been fifteen years ago.
“Why not just put them all on one team and we can be on the other?” Jay suggested. “They’re just going to slow us down in those clothes.” He gave a disdainful sniff when a woman in a barely-there green dress tiptoed across the field, struggling to keep her heels from sinking into the grass. A season pass holder, he visited the park at least twice a month with his business partner, Elias, and had little time for people who didn’t take the game seriously.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Tarun said. “We’d destroy the other team in five minutes.”
Jay suspected that first-time paintballer Tarun would have little part in crushing their opponents, but it was Tarun’s day so he just nodded in agreement.
“I know that look,” Tarun said with a grin. “Just for that I’m putting Avi and Rishi on my team. You can have a few extra newbs to even things out.”
“Tell them not to get in my way. I’m here to win.” Jay patted his holster. This season, he’d splurged for the Planet Eclipse CS2 Pro paintball marker, a Ninja compressed-air tank, a Spire III hopper, and a strapless harness pod pack. His mask had a reflecting DYEtanium lens that shielded him from UV rays and completely hid his face. He preferred anonymity on the field. Better the other team didn’t know who hit them.
“I’m here to make sure Maria has a good time,” Tarun said. “Go easy on her if you see her in the field. She’s here for the game, not your Mission: Impossible level of intensity. If you had a girl of your own you’d understand.”
“Not interested in getting tied down right now.” Jay tightened his harness. “Work takes up all my time, and then you, Rishi, and Avi all decided to get married this summer. You couldn’t have given a dude a break? Maybe spaced things out?”
“It should have been four weddings,” Tarun teased. “We always did things together.”
“Are you kidding?” Jay had always put work over relationships, and his eight years of service in the air force had been the perfect excuse to avoid getting involved. When he’d transitioned to civilian life and opened his security company with Elias, he’d put his drive and focus into making J-Tech Security a success. Achievement was his top priority. Everything else was a distraction.
Tarun grabbed a rental helmet. “Your perspective changes when you meet the one.”
Jay’s mother had thought she’d met her “one” at the age of sixteen and look how that had turned out. His dad—an exchange student—had returned to England a few months after Jay was born, and his mom’s strict Indian parents had disowned her, leaving her penniless and alone with a newborn baby. If he did marry—which was doubtful given the all-consuming nature of his work—it would be after he had taken his company to the top. His future wife—classy, sophisticated, and elegant—would be a reflection of that success.
A shout echoed across the field. Moments later, a woman in a ridiculous froth of pink ruffles came racing toward them, long tanned legs moving so fast her sneakers barely touched the ground. “I’m heeeeere!”
Jay grabbed Tarun and yanked him out of the way. Without even an acknowledgment of the near miss, she barreled past them and into the weapons shed, pulling up inches short of hitting Pete in a full-on body slam.
“That’s my cousin Zara Patel,” Tarun said, following his gaze. “She introduced me to Maria. Life is never dull when she’s around.”
“Indeed.” With her dark hair in a messy tangle down her back, breasts straining against the tight bodice of her stained dress, Tarun’s cousin was everything Jay avoided in a woman—loud, unruly, wild, and totally out of control.
He helped Tarun choose his gear and suit up for the game. They had just pulled on their helmets when the bachelorette party walked past them on their way to the field. Jay sucked in a sharp breath when he saw Zara’s weapon.
“Did Pete seriously give your cousin his Tiberius Arms T9.1 Elite?” With a weapon as close to an actual rifle as a paintball gun could get, even an unskilled player could be a formidable opponent. “He wouldn’t even let me handle it.”
“I’m the groom and he wouldn’t let me handle it, either,” Tarun grumbled.
Zara pointed her gun at the nearest hay bale and pulled the trigger, missing her target by a good two feet.
“What a waste of a good weapon,” Jay muttered under his breath. “Please tell me she’s on your team.”
“Sorry, dude.” Tarun clapped his hand on Jay’s shoulder. “She’s all yours.”
• 2 •
“I’ve got the feel of it now. I’m ready to kick some blue team ass.” Zara jogged back to her team, joining Parvati and a handful of women wearing various shades of bridesmaid pastel. The remaining members of her red team—all wearing army fatigues, their faces hidden in protective helmets—were practicing on the other side of the range.
“I had a good look at the dudes before they put on their face shields,” Parvati said. “Three of them have beards. Two are under five feet eight. One has long hair. That leaves four maybes and six solid contenders, one of whom has been keeping to the shadows under the tree.” She raised her hand. “I call the hipster with the hair.”
“I thought Stacy didn’t want us trolling for hookups.”
“She might as well ask me not to breathe.” Parvati gave a dismissive snort. “Look where we are. It’s alpha central. I’m not going home alone tonight.”
“Don’t you get enough at the hospital?” Zara protested. “Every day you text me about some intern you’ve dragged into the break room for a little ‘R and R.’ It’s very inconsiderate. Who do I have at work for an afternoon quickie? A partner who wears Yoda ski hats and carries a custom lightsaber? Another partner who wears bike shorts and Rollerblades around the office? A delusional investigator who pretends he was in the CIA? Or Mole Boy, who only ever leaves his cubicle in the dark of night?”
Parvati shrugged. “You chose to work there.”
“It wasn’t really a choice. I was desperate. No one else would hire me.” After dozens of rejections and an offer from her mother’s friend that she was loath to accept, she’d almost given up any hope of finding a firm where she truly belonged until she’d seen an opening for a personal injury lawyer at a small boutique firm. Tony Cruz and Lewis Lovitt didn’t care that she’d been let go from two big-city law firms. They were looking for associates who didn’t fit the traditional mold, people who could think outside the box and were willing to take risks. By the end of the interview, she knew she’d found her place.
“How about I just check the hipster out for you?” Parvati said. “That’s what good friends do.”
“I don’t want your sloppy seconds. The last time you checked out a guy for me, he couldn’t walk for days. Besides, I need to focus on the game.” She eyed her camo-clad teammates. “Some of these dudes look pretty serious. I have a feeling they aren’t planning to just run around and have a few laughs . . .” She trailed off when a dark shadow blocked out the sun.
“Time to change, ladies.”
The stranger’s deep, penetrating voice rumbled through Zara’s body. Rich and full, it was the kind of voice that made lawyers spill milkshakes and babble incoherently as they thrust sticky business cards into celebrity hands.
“Is there a problem?” Parvati made a show of inspecting her weapon while Zara tried to untie her tongue. Although she couldn’t see the dude’s face, he was tall—at least six-two—and powerfully built, the top of his coveralls unzipped and tied around his narrow waist. His black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and magnificent pecs as if it had been painted on his muscular body. One thick, deeply tanned forearm bunched and flexed as he unholstered his weapon in one smooth practiced motion.
He waved vaguely in their direction. “Not if you want to be covered in painful bruises.”
“I’ve been kicked by horses, bullies, and even by my piano teacher,” Zara said. “I’ve also been stung by a wasp, pecked by a goose, and swarmed by ants. I’ve broken an arm, a finger, and a toe, and I dislocated my shoulder on a trampoline. A little pain isn’t going to slow me down.”
Seemingly satisfied by Zara’s commitment to winning at all costs, the dude angled his head in Parvati’s direction, dipping it ever so slightly, as if inviting a similar assurance.
Parvati fixed him with a stare. “I don’t bruise easily.”
“Unlike me,” Zara interjected. “My ex gave me a small love bite one night, and I had to wear two scarves to work because it looked like someone had been chewing on my neck.”
Silence.
“We’re not together anymore,” she said quickly, assuming he was appalled by her ex’s behavior. “Although it had nothing to do with the hickey. Who doesn’t like a reminder of a great night?”
Clearly not Mystery Man, because he shook his head. “Not only will your dress leave you vulnerable to weapons’ fire, it will hamper your ability to run and hide, thereby lowering our chances of success.”
Well, that was one less potential hookup she had to worry about. He was probably one of those uptight alpha CEOs who had made his first billion by the time he was thirty and owned a jet, a fleet of sports cars, a fancy penthouse, and maybe even a red room of pain.
“Have you considered that my dress might be an asset? I could strip down in the forest and distract the opposing team.” She checked her paintball pod, opening and closing it with a loud click. “Just so we’re clear . . . the bride wants the dresses so we’re wearing the dresses.”
“Actually, the dresses were Stacy’s idea,” Parvati said.
Zara poured the paintballs into the hopper and turned away from the officious bastard with the bedroom voice. ...
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