Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
After sixteen years, the reign of Daddy’s little princess has finally come to an end.

That much is clear from the way Abbu is currently glaring over my shoulder, stocky arms crossed over one of the neatly pressed button-ups he insists on wearing every! Single! Day! Even though:

1. it’s July;
2. fryer grease makes the kitchen at least twenty degrees hotter than it is outside, leaving stains under his armpits and the faint stench of BO in the air (gag); and
3. wearing a Brooks Brothers dress shirt in a fast-food joint is practically a crime against fashion.

Do you see what I have to deal with?

“Don’t just throw the pieces into the box, Bibi”—his voice drops a decibel as his eyes skirt past the drive-through window—“and you’re giving him too many breasts.”

Several snarky retorts sit on the tip of my tongue, but I settle for rolling my eyes. It’s not like I don’t know each Royal Family Value Bucket is supposed to get “one breast, two thighs, two drumsticks, and a smile.” I’ve had the menu memorized since I was four. It’s just that I couldn’t care less.

Oblivious to my saintlike restraint, he thins his lips under a thick, bristly mustache. “Enough of the attitude, young lady. Working for me this summer is so much better than being grounded at home, and it’s time you start appreciating it. When I was your age, I…”

I tune him out the second he starts down memory lane.

If being stuck in the house was the frying pan, Royal Fried Chicken is the whole freaking fire.

He’s acting like our house is some hovel next to the highway and not a seven-bedroom mansion with a home theater. I am so sick of my battered and fried jail cell and its authoritarian warden that I’d even sacrifice my new Louboutin boots if it meant I could serve out the rest of my sentence in the comfort of my own home. In fact, a rom-com and popcorn in those overstuffed armchairs and ice-cold air-conditioning sounds heavenly right about now.

Instead here I am, in a two-sizes-too-large red polo with a crown stitched onto the breast pocket that I’m forced to tuck into baggy tan corduroys. Black orthopedic sneakers and an RFC baseball cap complete the look.

Barf!

To top it off, I can feel a layer of airborne grease totally clogging up my recently facialed pores. Do you have any idea how many showers it takes to wash that deep-fried stench out of your skin, clothes, and hair?

(Spoiler alert: infinity.)

When I don’t take the bait, my dad fixes a smile onto his face and busies himself with tidying a toppled pile of soft drink lids. He reeks of forced enthusiasm and french fries. “Besides, it will be fun to have my little princess here with me. Just like old times.”

I stifle a snort and finish packing the order into a white paper bag, tossing in several more RFC sauce packs than strictly necessary before handing it to the driver outside. Being Daddy’s little princess only means so much when your father’s a tyrant sitting in a castle made of chicken bones and a secret Bengali spice blend that has the entire country eating out of the palm of his hand.

To think, only a few weeks ago I was making plans with my friends to visit Cape May over summer vacation. I even picked out a supercute outfit—though, considering the reason for my punishment, the adorable Anthropologie sundress, strappy sandals, and floppy straw hat I hoped would catch a certain someone’s attention would have made Abbu pop a blood vessel. I was going to tell him it was a STEMinist summer program. No boys, only biology.

“Welcome to Royal Fried Chicken,” I mumble into my headset when another car rolls up, sparing me more guilt trips from my dad, “where our portions are king-size and your every wish is our command. What can I get you?”

“An order of Bibi, please, with a side of fries.”

My head snaps up. Normally a scathing “Ew, as if!” would fly off my tongue, but I’d know that voice anywhere. “E-Enzo,” I squeak, too startled to choke out anything else. His familiar red Benz pulls around on the video monitor, and soon I’m face-to-face with the boy himself. “What are you doing here?”

“I was craving some chicken,” he replies, revealing a row of perfectly even white teeth. Blinded by their gleam, I look down and realize he’s not wearing a shirt. Paterson, where my family lives, isn’t exactly his scene, so he must’ve come straight from the North Jersey country club pool. I immediately forget everything else: my dad, my summer-long punishment, RFC—heck, the fact that I’m dressed like a total loser….

When you’re in the presence of a boy like Lorenzo Romano, it’s physically—no, cosmically—impossible to think of anything else. Enzo has a halo of thick burnt-gold curls around his sculpted, sun-kissed face, an entire galaxy of light brown freckles gracing the high bridge of his nose and cheekbones. The kind of boy that can get you in trouble.

The kind that did get me in trouble.

He’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. The boy who will never see the sundress and floppy hat I picked out just for him.

“I haven’t seen you since prom,” I accuse, even as I wrap my arms around myself and wish I were dressed in anything other than a sweat-drenched Royal Fried Chicken uniform.

Enzo’s megawatt smile dims. “Uh, yeah. Y’know, senior year was pretty wild… but I texted you. Your parents took your phone, right? Yelli told me what happened.”

I nod, though there’s more to the story. Enzo is my best friend Nayelli’s older brother, and I’ve had my eye on him since we were in middle school. On the first day of seventh grade, I walked into a locker face-first because he was doing handstands in the hallway and his shirt had slipped to reveal a stomach already toned by five different sports.

By high school, he and Armani Abimbola were already the “it” couple of Hillam Academy… but when they broke up right before their senior prom and he asked me to be his date instead, it seemed like fate.

Except, I knew my parents would never let me go. As soon as the B word enters the equation, Abbu’s brain short-circuits. “No boyfriends, or even boy friends, until your sister is married!” he’d cry, effectively ending the conversation.

Technically we’re Muslim, and it’s true that you’re supposed to be very Victorian with guys who aren’t family. But neither of my parents have ever been that religious. These days it seems like Ammu and Abbu only bust out their piety when it’s convenient.

And if there’s one thing they’ve realized, it’s that I didn’t come installed with the same good daughter power-ups as my older, more beautiful, smarter, perfecter sister, Halima, who will most likely take centuries to find a guy. She refuses to so much as start looking till after she graduates from law school in another three years. By then I’ll be ancient.

So I went to my school’s nineties-themed prom anyway. It’s basically a rite of passage to lie to your parents, right?

I told them I was staying at Nayelli’s for a sleepover. My best friend agreed to remain glued to her phone in case my parents reached out.

Which they did. The elder Hossains are nothing if not predictable.

But it wasn’t actually Nayelli they called. I didn’t anticipate Mrs. Romano gushing about what an adorable couple Enzo and I made and how she’d add Ammu and Abbu to her shared digital album so they could see the kajillion photos she’d taken of us.

One minute, I was spinning in Enzo’s arms to NSYNC’s “(God Must Have Spent) A Little More Time on You,” moonily pondering the precise shade of green of his eyes while his face lowered close to mine. I was so sure this would be the moment. My long-awaited first kiss.

The next—“Bibi Hossain, come up to the stage immediately,” the principal was muttering into a megaphone, my incandescent parents standing beside him while the entire twelfth grade giggled at and recorded my public shaming.

Sure, I hid my face behind my MacBook for the remainder of the term, but I was still around. Enzo certainly could have tracked me down if he’d wanted to.

But he didn’t.

“I heard you and Armani got back together,” I reply with an overly bubbly smile, which makes him tense up. “Congrats, I guess!”

“Yeah….” He rubs his neck a bit awkwardly. “But I’m leaving for the Cape soon, and it didn’t feel right not to check in first. You know, to say sorry and all that.”

“What do you mean? I’m, like, totally fine.” I continue to beam at him until it feels like my face might get stuck that way. “Seriously, Enzo, it’s not like I was in love with you or anything. Ego much? Let’s be so for real.”

Enzo blinks those beautiful Bottega greens, then bursts into laughter. “You really are a heartbreaker, Bibi Hossain. Those other Hillam boys better watch out.”

“Oh, I know,” I respond airily. Suddenly unsure what to do with my hands, I settle them on my hips in a way I hope looks casual, willing him not to notice the cracked and yellowed French tips on my manicure.

Before we can end our sort-of breakup on a mature, amicable note, the bane of my existence manifests next to me, glaring daggers at Enzo. “Can I help you with something, young man? You’re holding up the line.”

There is no line for the drive-through. We all know it.

Enzo’s eyes lock with mine for the briefest instant, brimming with pity, before he shakes his head. “No, uh, sorry, sir. I just realized I shouldn’t be breaking my diet. Coach would have my head.”

He speeds off, but not before Abbu shouts “Good! No shirt, no service!” loudly enough for half of Paterson to hear.

Heat scorches up my neck until it feels like steam might billow out of my ears. “Oh my God!” I shriek, stamping my foot. “He’ll never talk to me again! Are you happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” answers my father, not missing a beat. “American boys are nothing but trouble. Does he think this is his thatha’s restaurant, walking around all but naked?”

I cut him off with a screeched, “Arrrgh, you’re ruining my life! I hate you!”

“You’ll thank me one day,” Abbu calls after me, but he wisely refrains from following me when I stomp toward the kitchen.

My luck runs out on the way home. Since the dictator thinks I’m not responsible enough to get my learner’s permit, I’m stuck in Abbu’s (admittedly spacious) Escalade for the fifteen-minute drive. As difficult as it is to tune out his endless attempts to strike up a conversation, it’s much harder to ignore his gaudily crowned, twenty-feet-tall, smug face on the billboard we pass on the way to our neighborhood in the fancier part of Paterson.

As much as Abbu loves to flex his success, he could never bear to leave Paterson, where he opened the first of the now more than one thousand Royal Fried Chicken locations in the United States—probably because the local Bangladeshi population rolls out the red carpet wherever he goes. He employs a good third of them at his restaurants and is always there when the mosque needs a new roof or the community picnic needs more prizes donated. The emperor loves to be adored.

There’s a car parked in our driveway when we arrive.

The entire time I pick my way through our front lawn to the porch, I eye it suspiciously. Ammu must have been on the lookout for our arrival through the Ring cam, because she throws the door open before Abbu finishes fishing out the right key.

My mother’s face glows with delight. “Bibi, look who it is!”

Whichever auntie or uncle is inside, I certainly don’t want them to see me in my sweaty, smelly, chicken-coop-core glory.

But the voice that pipes up from the couch in the foyer behind her is an unexpected one. “What’s with the long face? Don’t tell me you and Abbu haven’t made up.”

I gasp and do a one-eighty at the familiar teasing. My older sister rises to her feet, smiling down at me. Before she can utter another word, I close the distance between us and demand, “Halima Afu, what are you doing here?”

She huffs a nervous laugh, and then I realize there’s someone else coming to stand next to her, still gripping one of the magazines from the coffee table that has an article about Abbu and RFC in it. A male someone. He’s tall, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of an athlete—that Captain America Dorito-chip kinda bod—a dark Viking’s mane and beard framing his handsome face.

Sunny, my brain supplies.

A “friend” from Princeton who made it a point to introduce himself to us at her commencement ceremony in May. I sensed the vibe between them then, since he couldn’t stop smiling dopily at her, but even though my romance radar is rarely wrong, even though Halima made a hasty excuse to stick around Princeton instead of coming back home to Paterson right away, I cast the thought aside because my sister isn’t the type to be tempted by a gym bro.

As my gaze flicks between them both now, my eyes grow round. No freaking way….

“Abbu,” Halima starts, pivoting toward my father as he slowly joins us in the foyer, “I wanted to bring Sunny here to meet you because the two of us are in love. We’d like to ask your permission… to get married.”

My jaw is literally (okay, figuratively) on the hardwood floor.

Abbu’s lands right beside it. He flaps his lips like a gasping fish as his eyes dart to take in every inch of Sunny. I can’t blame him—never in a million years did I think Halima would be the one to pull the Surprise Boyfriend™ card.

Beneath Abbu’s wary gaze, Halima’s secret halal (or not-so-halal?) beefcake falters, Adam’s apple bobbing. She gives him an encouraging look that I suspect is the singular reason his sturdy knees don’t knock together.

After a long moment our father says, “You— At graduation you said you were—”

“Yes, sir,” Sunny answers at once, shoulders straightening as if he’s a soldier saluting his general. “My father is Anwarul Rahman. The Rahmans of Sreemangal.”

“They run the tea estate near our bari, Abbu,” Halima adds. “His family lives just minutes from where you grew up. Isn’t that funny?”

Abbu shuffles past them to slump heavily onto the sofa. “Hilarious.”

Sunny gulps again while my sister chews on her lip, waiting for Abbu’s verdict. Ammu glances among us all, then drops to Abbu’s side, prodding him along with an encouraging “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

“The biggest,” I contribute, which only earns me a Don’t you start look.

“With your permission, sir,” Sunny finally musters, “I’d like to take Halima home to be married in Bangladesh this summer.”

This summer? Oh, this is about to get interesting.

“But what about law school, Halima?” my father asks.

Halima continues to nibble on her bottom lip, fingers locked nervously in front of her. “Well, we talked it over, and… plans have changed. We want to live in Bangladesh, at least while we settle into married life. So, for the time being, I think I’ll defer my acceptance to Princeton Law.”

“The form isn’t due till a couple weeks before the next term starts,” Sunny reminds her. “There’s no rush, babe.”

Abbu squints straight ahead like he’s trying to decide whether to boil Sunny alive or string him up by his toes. I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows at my father. Is he about to give her the “no boys” lecture too?

“And you say you love each other?”

Sunny nods solemnly. “Very much, sir. I will spend the rest of my life making your daughter happy.”

At this, Abbu lurches to his feet, and Sunny braces like he might get punched. All of us deflate in relief, however, when my father only gathers the younger man up in a bear hug and thumps him energetically on the back. “Welcome to the family!”

Halima laughs, eyes shiny with tears, and barrels into Abbu’s expectant arms next. Sunny looks on with a grin while Ammu fawns over him. Although I plan to do a thorough investigation and interrogation later, I grin back when my supposed future brother-in-law’s glittering eyes meet mine. After all of Halima’s hard work, she deserves a smoking-hot Viking of a man. Especially since this is the best news of the year—nay, century—for moi. I’m all too eager to remind my father of a certain rule he loves to hold over my head.

The second that Halima and Sunny turn their attention to Ammu, who is conducting them into the dining room for dinner, I spin to face my father. “I seem to remember you saying I could date when Halima got married, Abbu. Well, she’s about to tie the knot.”

His bushy eyebrows furrow before he lets out a loud snort. “Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched, my Bibi zaan. They’re not married yet.”

Key word: “yet.”