Curveball: Sweet Spot, #2

By Vida Li Sik

Some things you can't duck.
Falling in love with each other could ruin their friendship.
When Sharda's childhood friend Arya asks for help to find him a wife in their hometown, New Delhi, she agrees, eager to test her match-making skills. But as they spend more time together, she realises she wants the position for herself.
Arya needs to fulfil the stipulation in his father's will–get married or lose the family fortune. He turns to his best friend for help. But what if the solution to his problems is right underneath his nose?
And, as their cherished careers crumble, will these two workaholics take a chance on love?
Curveball is a standalone novella in the Sweet Spot Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vida Li Sik
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201758431

Vida Li Sik

Vida Li Sik is a wife, mother, award-winning journalist and multi-genre author. She grew up in a small town, Nigel, in sunny South Africa. Together with her family, she is actively involved in a youth and family ministry in Johannesburg, the City of Gold. She has no pets and has yet to find a weird and wonderful hobby. In the meantime, she loves to write about people, real ones and imagined.  For updates, contact Vida through her website: https://www.vidalisik.com/ or on social media. She would love to hear from you. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/vidalswriter Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vidalisik Twitter: https://twitter.com/vidalisik

Book preview

(British spelling is used throughout the book)

Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Curveball

Definition: English, informal: something unexpected and difficult to deal with.

Dedication

In loving memory of Julie Cox, my writer friend from Phoenix, Arizona. You cheered me on when I wrote my first romance novel, and believed in my writing. How I miss our early morning chats.

I will never forget you.

Chapter One

Abright moon cast a silvery glow over the waters of the Arabian Sea. Sharda Govender stepped onto the private beach of the five-star hotel, took off her high heels and curled her toes into the loose sand with a satisfied sigh. With little concern over getting her flowing sapphire dress wet, she discarded her stilettos and ran to meet an incoming wave. Her breath caught in her throat as warm laps of water kissed her feet. Lifting her face, she welcomed the cool breeze that caressed her cheeks.

It was September, the last month of the monsoon season, but the rain stayed away for a few weeks and the felt air temperature hovered around 30º C—a beautiful tropical night.

She sighed again. The balmy night was perfect for romance–a private beach, bright moonlight, swaying palm trees, and distant music floating through the cool night air. All she needed was a tall, dark, and handsome suitor. Glancing over her shoulder, her lips twitched. She looked at the man who hesitated a few metres away. The lump in her throat was hard to swallow. He was all the above, but not a suitor. No, he was her best friend from childhood.

Come on, Arya, you can relax now.

He’d held her hand when they darted over the road from the swanky hotel that overlooked Mumbai’s Juhu Chowpatty beach. Did he also feel the same zing when their hands touched? He must have. He dropped hers like a hot potato by the time they reached the sand. She pretended not to notice and, instead, made a beeline for the water.

Dressed in smart evening wear, Arya Kumble remained rooted to the spot, juggling the award he’d received earlier that evening from one hand to the other. The breeze stirred his blue-black hair that was curly on top and cut short on the sides and back. His hazel eyes twinkled underneath his arched brows, and dimples appeared in his cheeks when he smiled.

When you said you wanted to walk off your dinner, I didn’t realise you meant straight into the ocean.

She looked down when he laughed. Who wouldn’t? The bottom of her dress clung to her shapely calves like seaweed.

Chuckling, Sharda grabbed the hem of her dress and shook it out before she trudged back and stopped in front of him. She felt most comfortable in a pair of jeans or trousers. They were practically standard wear for a seasoned cricket writer at a top media house. Like a chameleon, she adapted with ease to fit in at formal functions like the one they had left. She had caught her long shiny tresses into a messy bun held together with a fancy pin. Yet the unaccustomed heavier makeup and manicured nails irritated her, and she could not wait to release her hair.

You look about as uncomfortable as I felt earlier, she observed, and smiled while he grimaced and loosened his tie. Come, India’s top detective. Let’s take a walk so my tummy can digest all the scrumptious food we enjoyed.

Arya laughed, but fell into step next to her. His dress shoes left a zigzagged pattern on the damp sand as they made their way to the busier part of the beach.

Up ahead, vendors waved toys in their hands and created patterns of bright laser lights on the darker sand. They skirted around a marked-off area where a frenzied dance competition was in progress. Sweat streamed off the feverish bodies who writhed in sync with loud Bollywood music blaring through mounted speakers.

One young male dancer leaned forward and thrusted his bare, muscled torso towards her. Arya stepped between them; he put an arm around her waist and glared at the man. Sharda’s lips twitched in appreciation at his protective gesture.

The aroma of fragrant food hung in the air and made her stomach clench in protest.

"A gola for you, Madam?" A young boy held out a strawberry ice lolly to Sharda.

It was easy for her to decline the teen’s offer of what they called a chuski in northern India—an ice lolly was the last thing she needed. Plus, she hated them. They were cruel reminders of a traumatic time in her life.

Arya dropped his arm from her waist, and left her feeling bereft. A moment later he glanced her way, and her breath quickened at his soft smile.

Thanks for accompanying me tonight. You know how I detest these fancy events. If my chief didn’t insist I receive the reward in person, I wouldn’t be here.

"I know, dost, but never fear when your friend Sharda is near. I got quite a kick at how famous you are. Plus, you look quite handsome tonight." Her teasing tone belied the uncharacteristic lump in her throat she had to swallow. He did look very different tonight. His suit hung well on his lean, fit body and made him look very sophisticated.

Compliments made Arya fidget. His forte was to make criminals squirm under his penetrating gaze and incisive questioning. This was different—way outside his comfort zone. He flapped like a fish out of water at formal social events that demanded chitchat with people he didn’t know well. That’s why she agreed to accompany him. A familiar face by his side put him more at ease.

He slid a finger under the collar of his shirt, licked his lips, and stuttered. Y-you look fantastic, too.

Sharda was mesmerised by his tongue that flicked over his full lips. What’s wrong with you, girl? With Arya dressed formally, she was more aware of him. He was a very attractive man. She stilled her wayward thoughts. With a self-conscious smile, she fixed her gaze on a spot somewhere above his ear.

I was so proud to see you recognised as the best-of-the-best in the CBI. You deserve it. It’s a pity your family couldn’t be here. They would’ve loved it.

His parents had to attend the opening night of his younger sister’s school play. Arya clicked his tongue.

I doubt that. You know my father despises what I do for a living.

She thought of what won him tonight’s award. Arya spearheaded his team’s two-year investigative work and smashed open a nationwide cricket gambling syndicate.

Don’t sell yourself short. I had an up-close-and-personal view of how good you are. Memories of the dramatic climax to his investigation that ended in their hometown of New Delhi—nearly fourteen hundred kilometres away—still made her shudder.

She sidestepped a gap-toothed man who beckoned her for a closer look at his fortune-telling robot, but the quick movement made her stumble.

Arya grabbed her arm and steered her away from the eerily human-like device with its bright LED lights. He chided the seller when the man continued his insistent invitation for her to inspect the robot.

The lady said no.

Her heart swelled with appreciation. Thanks. Seems like walking this way was a mistake. Let’s turn back.

Too late. More vendors approached as they eyed their smart attire and fancied their chances of making a quick buck. A few rushed up, showing off watches and phones. A young urchin trailed behind her, pressing soft sari material against her hands, with loud entreaties in Hindi to visit his family’s stall.

She waved her hands in refusal and made an abrupt turn. Arya obliged by doing the same. He stuck close to her while they retraced their steps to the hotel. And when his arm brushed against hers, she once more felt a magnetic pull.

She forced her thoughts away from the man by her side and mulled over his words instead. How could his father hold such a dim view of Arya’s career? Over the last couple of hours, Sharda witnessed first-hand the high esteem in which his Bureau colleagues held him. They barely sat down before a steady stream of well-wishers stopped by their table and offered congratulations. She could not allow him to diminish his own accomplishments. Her voice was firm.

You’re a big cheese in the crime-fighting business, Mister. I’ve known you before you became famous, and disagree. Any parent would be proud, including yours.

She tightened her fingers around the straps of her shoes and gauged his response.

Arya’s lips tightened into a firm line. His tone was matter-of-fact.

Humph! My mum and sister, maybe. My father counts hospitality awards as achievements. His biggest disappointment in life is that his only son didn’t follow in his hotel tycoon footsteps.

Alarmed, Sharda wanted to probe further, but he changed the subject.

How’s Gina doing?

Alarm bells clanged in Sharda’s head. He didn’t want to talk about his father. Why?

She gave him a pass. For now. Instead, her smile broadened at the thought of her South African friend and fellow cricket writer.

She’s doing very well; she and Storm invited both of us to their wedding.

Arya came to a stop and raised his eyebrows.

She grinned and nodded. I’m not joking. They’re getting married three months from now.

He frowned. Well, I don’t know if I could get away. Work never stops. As you know.

Her lips tightened; now annoyed, she halted and touched his arm.

You’re not getting out of this one, buddy. They insisted, and if I have to drag you there, you’re going. Besides, you need a break. When was the last time–?

His mobile phone buzzed—the theme song of the latest 007 spy movie. Sharda burst out laughing. She stopped instantly at the sight of his tight face; it looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Arya’s lean fingers grazed through and fisted his hair. What happened? When? He listened intently and nodded though the caller couldn’t see him.

She tried to grab the award, but it fell onto the soft sand. Sharda bent to pick it up, and she dusted rough grains of sand from its smooth, golden surface. Tentacles of worry clawed through her insides, and dread filled her chest.

Arya briefly closed his eyes and stepped away from her.

Her heart thumped in her chest as she watched him. His back was rigid, his head bowed. He asked a few more questions, and said, Okay. I’m on my way. Meet me at the airport.

Arya expelled a shuddering breath. The moon disappeared behind a cloud and he stared out at the dark sea, his face twisted into a hard mask. He closed his eyes tight for a second, clenching and unclenching shaky fingers. There was pain in his voice when he finally spoke. I need to go.

Mute, Sharda searched his face and waited for an explanation. He looked distant, his thoughts already in a different place.

"That was my chacha. My father passed away. A heart attack, my uncle said, soon after they got home from the play. The burial’s tomorrow morning."

He grimaced, and raked his fingers through his hair once more. His eyes were wild. They darted around, uncertain over what his next move should be.

Oh, no! Sharda touched his sleeve to get his attention, and help him re-emerge from the dark hole he’d plunged into. She whispered, I’m going with you. Come on!

He didn’t move, so she tugged a little harder. Startled, he looked at her like a stranger, and her eyes were urgent, willing him back to the present. He shook his head, took a shaky breath, and finally, fell into