Taking the Heat

Maya is tired of being told by her traditional Indian parents that she must marry. Escaping their latest attempt at matchmaking—and the biting cold—she takes refuge in a hot Bikram yoga class…which happens to be run by the very man her parents tried to set her up with.

Maya can’t believe the sexy instructor is the same man—and when she and Vikram disrobe in the steamy studio, she soon has a different kind of exercise in mind… .

Taking the Heat

Lauren Hawkeye

Contents

Taking the Heat

Copyright

The cold was slowly driving me insane.

It had come early this year, the bite of frost and fall of pristine snow abruptly aborting the final, thick dredges of Indian summer to which I had been so desperately clinging. A sharp contrast to the viscous heat that I had worshipped only weeks earlier, the first taste of winter was bitter, with a nasty tone that lingered on my tongue even after I’d come in from outside, removed my thick down jacket and allowed the blessing that was modern heating to chase the chill from my bones.

I’d been struggling against the cold all day as I darted between the buildings on campus, pulling my thick wool scarf tight over my mouth and nose as I ran, both to make my next class and to escape from the elements. And though I’d worn several layers, had covered myself up so that nothing but my eyes was bared to Jack Frost, I’d caught a chill at ten that morning, one that had worked its clever, pointy fingers into the marrow of my bones and refused to let go.

At the end of the long day I wanted nothing more than a steaming bath, one hot enough to boil the flesh from my bones, and an equally hot cup of spiced chai tea.

The minute that I walked in the door, I knew that neither was to be.

My parents sat side by side on the plush purple couch that was clearly visible from the front door, and the reason behind their beaming smiles, I knew, could be nothing besides the young man sitting on the loveseat opposite them, the loveseat I would be expected to share as soon as I offloaded the many layers that I’d wrapped around my body.

I barely contained my groan. Not again.

“Maya.” My mother was on her feet, the rich red of what I recognized as her favorite sari fluttering slightly in the breeze that wafted from the heating vent at her feet. She extended a hand, trying to draw me into the cozy scene laid out before me. I stood still in the entryway, smiling politely if stiffly, frozen in place as if the cold from outside had finally gotten to me.

“Maya, this is Vikram Iyer.” She was so visibly thrilled to be making the introduction that I nearly choked on the reluctance that I felt coating my throat. “Vikram is the son of Geeta, your father’s new saleswoman.” My father very nearly wiggled at this, so delighted was he at the part that he had played in this potential match.

As old, familiar emotions rolled around in my belly, uncomfortable ones that made me itch, I repeated in my head what had become my mantra in situations like this.

They’re only trying to help.

They only want you to be happy.

I opened my mouth to speak; nothing came out but a strangled gurgle. My mother looked at me oddly, then turned again to the young man sitting stiffly on the overstuffed seat.

“Vikram, this is our daughter Maya. She was at the university all day. She is studying for her masters in business.” She gestured with her hands impatiently; the heavy gold bangles that lined her wrists clinked together gently. “Come in, Maya, come in and say hello to our guest.”

I forced my feet to take a stiff step forward, and then one more. “Hello.” My voice sounded strained, even to me, and I forced a pleasant smile to form on my lips. I didn’t want to be rude, no matter what I was feeling.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Maya.” He stood, wiping his palms on the neatly pressed legs of his chinos before offering a hand to me. The lack of an accent in his youthful voice bothered me; he was obviously second generation—born in Canada, just like me.

How, then, was he so comfortable with this, when all I wanted to do was run screaming off into the night?

I would have given anything to be normal, to join the expectant group with a (real) smile on my face. Since past experience had taught me that normality—at least as it pertained to these little meetings that my well-meaning parents were forever setting up—was simply not in my genetic makeup, I wanted the next best thing.

I wanted to leave.

Turning my smile up a notch, I gently extracted my hand from Vikram’s hot, dry one. “If you’ll excuse me for just a minute? I need to go freshen up.” The knife of guilt stabbed a little deeper as Vikram, who I’m sure was a perfectly wonderful young man, nodded easily in agreement. The brows of both of my parents creased slightly in irritation over my rudeness.

I knew that I’d pay for it later, enduring the sharp lash of my mother’s tongue and the hurt silence of my father, both heaped on top of the guilt that was already nudging at my soul. But as I crept down the back hallway of the house that tradition suggested I still share with my parents at the age of twenty-nine, I knew that I would sneak out anyway.