Kamila Knows Best Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Farah Heron

  Cover design by Daniela Medina. Cover lettering by Lauren Hom. Cover illustration by Zeina Shareef. Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  read-forever.com

  twitter.com/readforeverpub

  First Edition: March 2022

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Heron, Farah, author.

  Title: Kamila knows best / Farah Heron.

  Description: First Edition. | New York : Forever, 2022.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021041686 | ISBN 9781538735008 (trade paperback) | ISBN

  9781538734995 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.H4695 K36 2022 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041686

  ISBNs: 9781538735008 (trade paperback), 9781538734995 (ebook)

  E3-20220103-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Farah Heron

  Praise for Farah Heron

  To my family, who always let me unleash

  my inner extra-ness.

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certain silly things cease to be silly if done by sensible people in an imprudent way.

  —Jane Austen, Emma

  Chapter 1

  Kamila Hussain didn’t have a lot to complain about in her life. She realized self-loathing was all the rage among her millennial peers, but in her opinion, she didn’t have much to loathe. She was blessed with a steady income as an accountant at Emerald, her father’s accounting firm. She loved her job and had recently redesigned the office with soothing pastels and stress-relieving greenery, so it was a joy to be there. She had no shortage of friends, and if she wanted a little something more, she had no problem finding dates or hookups. She adored her living situation—a quaint brownstone in Toronto’s east side that had also been recently redone. And of course, she had Darcy, her adorable bichon frise. Darcy was arguably the cutest dog east of Yonge Street, with more Instagram followers than many reality stars, and who had gone full-on viral on TikTok five times.

  But in her own eyes, the most significant of Kamila’s blessings was her father. Dad was easily the sweetest, kindest, most supportive parent in existence. Being a daddy’s girl was such a cliché, but Kamila had no shame in telling anyone that she happily lived and worked with her father. He wouldn’t do well alone, and Dad deserved to be healthy and happy more than anyone in the world.

  In fact, it was for him that she was awake at eight on a Saturday morning, even after she was muddling fruit for virgin caipirinhas pretty late last night. Dad’s annual physical was in a few days, and she intended to do whatever she could to make sure his blood pressure and cholesterol were in line. She couldn’t leave the men to fend for themselves for breakfast this time. Nope. No eggs fried in ghee and boiled chai on her watch.

  She smoothed her robin’s-egg blue apron over her red floral full-skirted dress and admired her kitchen prep. The toast toppings she’d mashed, diced, and sliced were in colorful handmade Portuguese bowls that glowed against her white marble countertops. She snapped a pic and uploaded it. #dreamkitchen. #blessed. #homecooking.

  “Kamila is cooking,” Rohan said from the stairs. “Isn’t this the third sign of the apocalypse?”

  She glared at him. “Shush, you, or you don’t get any.”

  He was still in his pajamas—a matched buttoned-up set. Did he dress like this even alone at home? His hair needed to be combed, and his chin needed a shave, but somehow Rohan still managed to exude the air of the powerful corporate executive he was. Hearing his voice, Darcy’s ears perked up and she rushed to him. Because of course she did—the only human Darcy loved as much as Kamila and Dad was Rohan, despite Rohan’s usual indifference to her. Kamila really needed to have a girl-to-girl with her dog about when to ease off if your affections weren’t returned.

  Rohan chuckled at the dog while rubbing his fingers over the scruff on his own chin.

  Kamila put her hands on her hips. “No snark from you today, mister. Dad needs to eat better. Every weekend he fries eggs in ghee.”

  “I’m looking forward to trying something new,” Dad said from behind Rohan on the stairs. “Kamila takes such good care of me. Can I help you, beti?”

  Kamila looked carefully at her father’s eyes as he reached the bottom step. They looked a little tired, which was expected for early on a Saturday. But there was a hint of amusement and contentedness there. Good. Kamila spent a great deal of time studying her father’s eyes. It helped that they were so expressive. Some people wore their heart on their sleeve, but Kassim Hussain showed it in his eyes.

  “I got it, Dad. Go ahead and sit. I’ll pour your tea.”

  He smiled and planted himself at the dining table, then opened his iPad to read the news. “You always take such good care of everyone, Kamila. Rohan, did she tell you she’s in charge of the puppy prom for the animal shelter this year? That’s the last event at Dogapalooza, right, beti?”

  “That’s right, Dad.”

  The Dogapalooza was an annual fundraiser for the animal shelter where Kamila had volunteered for years. This year, she and her friend Tim were in charge of planning the festival’s final event—the Sunday-night puppy prom.

  Rohan looked sideways at Kamila. “Can’t say I’m surprised Kam would volunteer for a party. She’s a consummate host.”

  “Did you j
ust compliment me?” she asked playfully as Rohan joined her in the kitchen.

  “That’s up for interpretation.” He looked at the spread of dishes Kamila had already prepared. “You know, when I said yesterday that your Uber Eats account might see more action than your Tinder account, I wasn’t hinting for you to cook. Chai and toast are fine.” He swiped a cherry tomato from the colander and ate it. “Are those sweet potatoes? For breakfast?”

  “They’re high in potassium to lower Dad’s blood pressure. I got hibiscus tea, too. It’s good for both blood pressure and blood sugar. He’s going to nail his physical.”

  He leaned back against the marble counter. “Food to manage his blood pressure? Wow, Kam, I’m impressed.”

  “Why are you impressed? I can google.”

  “Clearly.” He looked again at the spread laid out on the counter, then at the new canvas print she’d hung on the kitchen wall. It was Darcy’s head photoshopped onto a French chef’s body, standing outside a Paris bistro. Rohan shook his head, laughing at the print. “At least you’re cooking and not Darcy. Actually, you have more cooking ability than I realized. Or at least”—he looked into the bowls again—“mashing-black-stuff ability. What is that sludge, anyway?”

  “Crushed black beans.”

  He raised a brow, skeptical, then looked at the clear glass teapot where vibrant red hibiscus flowers were steeping in hot water. “Can I have regular chai instead?”

  “You know where it is.”

  He filled a pot for his chai. Normally, Kamila would never expect a guest to make their own tea, but Rohan was hardly a stranger in this house. He spent most Friday nights in her spare room after her Bollywood-and-biryani party instead of driving back to his downtown condo, so he and Dad could talk business after breakfast. “I don’t get why you go through all this trouble, Kam. After last night’s spectacle—”

  “Last night’s party was not a spectacle. It was low-key. I didn’t even serve a signature mocktail.”

  “Then what were those Brazilian things you all were drinking?”

  “Virgin caipirinhas! Ernesto brought them. Wasn’t that sweet of him? He brought the makings for alcoholic ones, too.”

  Kamila did drink, but not very often. And she never drank at her own parties—she preferred to be alert and sober when hosting her friends. She went back to quartering bright cherry tomatoes for the pico de gallo. Kamila accepted that low-key by her standards was a pretty swank party to most, but since she hosted her friends for dinner and a movie every week, the party wasn’t that much exertion for her anymore. She may have sourced a special Kashmiri biryani last night to match the old Kashmiri movie Rohan had picked, but the charcuterie board didn’t have any single-origin dark chocolate on it this time. She hadn’t even put out her special party throw cushions and candles.

  “Besides,” she said, dropping the tomatoes in a bowl, “considering you’ve never missed one of my movie parties, I’m surprised you’re complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining. But I’d be here even if you served potato chips from a bag.”

  Probably true. Rohan loved old Hindi movies more than the average tax lawyer. “Maybe next week we can get you to join in the postmovie sing-along.”

  Rohan snorted. “Who taught you to play Bollywood hits on the ukulele anyway?”

  “I’m taking lessons over video conference.” She adjusted the tomatoes in the bowl a bit, then clapped her hands together. The tomatoes looked like glimmering rubies with the bright pot lights reflecting on them. “Look at all this color.” She snapped a picture with her phone.

  “Ah. Your true motivation. Your precious Instagram.”

  “We eat with our eyes first.” She took a short video clip of the spread of food.

  “You eat with your camera even before that.” He hopped out of the sight line of the camera. “Hey, leave me out of this. I don’t want to turn up on your tick-tack-toe thing.”

  “It’s TikTok. You don’t have to participate in social media, but unless you want to further solidify this boomer rep of yours, at least learn what the platforms are called.”

  “Eh. What’s the point if I don’t use them? And unlike everyone else in the world, I don’t need the clicks to know my worth.”

  Kamila laughed. “I don’t use social media to tell me my worth. I already know I’m fabulous. That’s why I have a duty to share all this with the world.” She swept her hands over her dress with flourish. “Now, go wait with Dad, old man,” she said, throwing in the nickname to annoy him. “You’re making me nervous. Nerves combined with newly sharpened knives are a disaster in the making.”

  Kamila knew Rohan’s snarky comments were just teasing, and she usually liked to volley right back. She’d known him literally her whole life, and they both knew exactly which buttons to press without going too far. Still, she wasn’t exactly an experienced cook, and she’d prefer to finish the job without a running commentary.

  He snorted. “Fine. If only to spare your flawless skin.” He smirked as he took the tray with his masala chai and Dad’s hibiscus tea to the dining room. Kamila picked up the next vegetable to cut.

  As if on cue, disaster chose that moment to strike. The honed steel knife slipped in her hand and sliced her finger instead of the organic sweet potato. No problem. Barely a scrape. As she rustled in the drawer looking for a bandage, several crimson drops of blood spilled onto a bag of rubber bands. She took a breath as she reflexively wrapped her hand in her apron, and cringed as a red stain grew on the pale-blue fabric.

  Her beautiful new apron. “Siri, what gets out blood stains?”

  “Oh dear, beti, what happened?” Dad rushed to her side while Siri was detailing the wonders of hydrogen peroxide and enzyme soap. He unwrapped the apron from her finger, his gentle touch and concerned expression grounding her. “Oh no. I’ll get the first-aid kit.” He smiled and lovingly patted Kamila’s arm. “Everything is okay, Kamila. Do your breathing. I’ll be right back.”

  Dad rewrapped the finger in her now probably ruined apron and disappeared up the stairs. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood as she leaned against the fridge, feeling light-headed. Even after all these years, she couldn’t cope with the sight of her own blood.

  She closed her eyes and heard her therapist’s voice in her ears. Breathe. The apron—maybe it could be saved? Count to ten. She had plenty of peroxide from a misguided attempt to go blond a few years back. Actually, this was a much better use for that peroxide. She opened her eyes and focused on a point on the wall. One, two…

  Rohan stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned.

  “Don’t say what?”

  “Any comment at all about my ineptitude in the kitchen.”

  Shockingly, his smirk was nowhere to be found. He took her apron-wrapped finger in his hand and applied firm pressure as he looked into her eyes. “You’re shaking, Kam.”

  Was she shaking? Three, four…“I don’t like blood.” She shivered, looking down. The room was spinning a bit. Not much, really. She was fine.

  “Kamila, breathe deeply. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing for the rest of the day.”

  Five, six…“I have a meeting with a prospective client, and then I’m taking Darcy to the dog park for a photo shoot.” Her voice was shaky.

  “A client meeting in that dress?”

  She tried to smile and even tease him back, but her voice was too brittle and her words weren’t working.

  “Look at me, Kam.”

  She did. His eyes were so familiar. Deep and dark. And here.

  Seven, eight, nine…Whenever disaster struck—and she reluctantly agreed it struck this family often—Rohan was here.

  Still holding her hand, Rohan spoke with a soothing voice. “Look at all this you’ve done here. It’s exquisite. You’ve even got the June Cleaver dress on. With matching shoes.”

  Ten. She let out a breath, grounding herself in his face. Focusing on it. Studying it, mostly so she wouldn’t
pass out. But also, she noticed something.

  “That’s more than a day’s worth of stubble on your face,” she said weakly.

  He chuckled, still holding her hand. “I’m considering growing a beard. What do you think?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It will suit you.”

  This Rohan, the one in pajamas in her house every Saturday morning, wasn’t the Rohan the rest of the world saw. He was usually in suits and ties so high-end and perfectly tailored that any facial-hair situation would complement them, so long as it was neat and tidy. He’d probably look even more dignified with a beard. She nodded, letting a smile sneak onto her face.

  The room had stopped spinning. She pulled her hand back from his and wrapped the apron tighter around it. She felt weird about Rohan seeing her freak out there, but it was fine. They were friends.

  The landline phone rang, and she heard Dad answering it upstairs.

  Kamila turned back to the food so she wouldn’t break down again. She lined up the uncut sweet potatoes on the board. “You’re ordering the biryani for next week’s movie night, right?”

  “Yep.” He plunked another cherry tomato into his mouth. “I scoped out a new place. We will be feasting on Burmese biryani.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Burmese? Trying to one-up me for the Kashmiri?”

  “It looked interesting. The biryani is served with a dried shrimp topping.”

  Kamila was skeptical. “At least it’s my turn to choose the movie. Enough of your epic oldies. I have the perfect film picked out for next week. Jab We Met. It’s about a buttoned-up businessman and the free-spirited woman who makes him want to live again.” Kamila wrinkled her nose. “Now that I think about it, that’s really sexist. Like, the only purpose for the quirky woman is to be an object that teaches the uptight man to enjoy life? But anyway, the scenery in it is supposed to be amazing. And I checked—the lead actress dances soaking wet in the rain. I know you’re not happy unless you see at least one dancing-in-the-rain scene in an Indian movie.”

  He blinked, blank faced.

  “You know it’s true, Rohan. I swear, if I ever find a man who looks at me the way you look at a woman in a wet sari, I’ll be set for life.”