The Grand Samara: A Tale Of Love & Discovering Where You Truly Belong

Home has always been a temporary arrangement for Samara Mansingh, a wayfaring wedding photographer and the daughter of a diplomat. When her father is uprooted once again, Samara needs a place to stay in Delhi. Next stop: the Khanna family. The Grand Samara is the story of Samara Manshingh, a wayfaring wedding photographer and the daughter of a diplomat.  It's a bighearted romantic comedy about family and a homage to Georgette Heyer's The Grand Sophy.

An Excerpt From The Grand Samara 

Outside the door, Sharav scowled and looked around. He was definitely in the right house. On the other side of this door, underneath that godforsaken heap of paraphernalia, was the usually immaculate room he’d occupied for the last twenty-nine years. What on earth was a woman doing in there?

Anger overtaking his embarrassment, he knocked forcefully on the door. Upon hearing a singsong ‘Come in,’ he threw the door open once more and marched inside. The woman was still standing next to his bed, looking, for all intents and purposes, like she owned the place. Her eyes widened with recognition as she took him in. ‘Oh my God. You’re HDD!’

‘You’re naked!’ he sputtered, gesturing at the scrap of towel that barely covered her breasts and bottom.

Her breasts and bottom . . .

He shook his head hard enough to give himself whiplash. Focusing on her heart-shaped face, he said, ‘This is my room.’ She turned towards him fully and tilted her head, her surprised expression turning full lips into a wry smile. ‘You don’t recognise me.’

Too frazzled to try to figure out what she meant, he repeated ‘This is my room!’ and pointed to the floor, as if that would somehow underscore his point.

The woman’s smile turned into a smirk. ‘Okay. I guess I got the wrong room, then. Nice rain shower,’ she added, pointing a thumb back towards the bathroom.

Sharav frowned. ‘Who are you?’ He knew her face, but he couldn’t place it. That smile. Those iridescent, impish eyes . . . he’d seen them before. They’d gazed up at him . . .

Covered in flowers.

He sucked in a breath. ‘You’re the photographer! The one that almost drowned in that ridiculous flower ditch.’

‘That’s me, Death by Dahlias.’ She moved closer, and he took a step back, almost as though he was expecting an attack, despite the fact that the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. Or maybe not. It was difficult to tell with that towel-turban thing on top. As she drew near, he smelled his shampoo and shower gel on her, saw water droplets dripping down from her smooth shoulders into her cleavage, and felt a sharp tug of desire. He quickly tamped it down as she looked up and stretched out her hand. ‘Samara,’ she said. ‘Dilip Mansingh’s daughter. You must be Sharav.’

Ignoring her hand, he clutched his forehead. ‘I am.’

Samara withdrew it and chuckled, her eyes dancing with humour. ‘Shucks, I wish I’d known then. Oh well.’ She tried to catch his eye, but he kept looking beyond her. So she stepped into his line of vision and waved a hand over her head to draw his eyes down. ‘Hi! Nice to see you again. Thanks for inviting me to stay.’

Sharav had done no such thing—but he couldn’t tell her that, obviously. Instead, he focused on the towel directly above her head and snapped, ‘Could you put some clothes on, please?’

‘I was planning to when you barged in.’ ‘This is my room!’

Samara laughed, and all the blood rushed out of Sharav’s head and straight into his trousers, which suddenly began to feel way too tight.

He ground his teeth together. ‘The guest room is on the opposite side of the corridor.’

‘Got it. I’m sorry for the mix-up. Would you like me to go there now?’ She spoke as if he were a child in the middle of a tantrum, only fuelling his anger.

‘Yes!’

‘Okay,’ she murmured as she walked back towards the bed and picked up a pile of clothes. ‘Do you want your towels back too?’

His gaze flew to meet hers. ‘What?’

She laughed again. ‘Finally got you to look at me. Relax, I’m going.’ Reaching up, Samara unwound the towel from her head, and damp locks of long, blue-tipped hair fell around her shoulders. She walked past him and dropped the towel into his hands. ‘Can I give you the other one later?’ Without waiting for an answer, she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Sharav stared down at the wet, wrinkled towel in his hand. Then he looked up. His room appeared tossed, like a tornado had swept through.

Which was, from what he’d seen of her so far, exactly what Samara Mansingh promised to be.

He threw the towel on the floor in frustration.

Excerpted from The Grand Samara, written by Trisha Das; published by Bloomsbury