Meet Max Cavil-Rose, Postmate!

I'm in my YJNTM-Era!

Mahalo,

I’m writing this edition of The Writer Gal Letter listening to Love Story by Maria Isabel. It’s from this super cute, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful series on Netflix called Survival of The Thickest. It also stars my girl Michelle Beauteau. I. Adore. Her!

She said something in her comedy special - Don’t be picky, bitch. And you’ll fall in love. It kind of always stuck with me because in the world we live in with our million options and swipe-right choices, picking is HARD. Isn’t it?

And that’s the thing about Niva Pandit - the heroine of You’re Just Not My Type. She is…definitely not into the hero - Max Cavil-Rose the first time she meets him.

Would you like to meet him, Postmate? If your answer is yes, then scroll on past this absolute HOTTIE of a cover and the cute blurb for You’re Just Not My Type!

The Hot Guy Version - You’re Just Not My Type

Yes. I am staying true to form and had Merril whip up a Hot Guy cover, just to cover my bases! :D

I might put this awkward deliciousness on the ebook cover and use the cute animated version for the paperback version or switch it back in because of the absolutely AMAZING love you all have given that cover :D

Here are four reasons I, Niva, know Max is not for me no matter what my sweet delusional family thinks!
1. He pairs brown sweater vests with glasses like a nerdy engineer.
2. He likes boring dal rice. I'm obsessed with spicy tandoori chicken.
3. He is now (kind of) my boss at the gaming company where I work. And his first order of business? Fire the staff.
4. I actually maybe like this other guy I'm chatting with on the game boards 'for research' even though we've not met yet IRL.
Then I'm forced to work with Max to launch our new game. I begin to see the hot, sweet introvert under the joyless, uptight clothes. In a moment of weakness, I ask him to be my fake date at my frenemy's wedding.
And he agrees!
Between the launch, fake dating, and the tension simmering between us, I uncover his heartbreaking secrets.
But, this doesn't mean I'm falling for my nemesis. Okay?
Because, sorry Max, you're just not my type.

You're Just Not My Type is a feel-good standalone romantic comedy with delicious desi food, gamertalk, a well-meaning interfering family, and angsty MCs who are total opposites with a guaranteed happy ever after.

Meet Max Cavil-Rose - Niva’s nemesis

I debated between this scene and the next scene (which is an unexpectedly hot encounter!), Postmate.

I sketched Max’s face in my head while I washed the mask off my face.

He was tall-ish, maybe clearing six feet. He had facial growth, which I normally approved of. But maybe his stubble hid a weak chin and jaw under the lean cheeks. And he wore glasses. The Dumbledore ones – round, half-moons. Like an old-timey professor.

And what was up with that brown sweater with the white shirt collar tucked over the v-neck? Did this guy not watch Youtube fashion videos at all? Although his watch looked like an original Audemars Piguet, I couldn’t be sure. I’d not taken more than a quick peek at him.

 My mom, bless her well-meaning heart, did not know what I wanted at all. Not from my life and certainly not with a guy.

“Who cares, Neevs?” I muttered, using my foam face wash to remove the last of the mud. “Just get the dinner over with. We have bigger problems to figure out.”

Fifteen minutes later…

Max gave the spread at the dining table an appreciative-apprehensive glance. Adjusted his glasses farther up his nose. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me, aunty. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do justice to it all.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” My mom preened under his praise. “You’ve come home for the first time. I had to make it memorable, no? Besides.” Mom squeezed my elbow. “Niva helped. A lot.”

I had chopped the veggies for the raita and boiled the rice and cried over the freaking onions for the pakodas. But I was damned if this man thought I slaved over for a hot stove for him. Better to nip this idea in the bud right away.

I smiled sweetly. “Mom’s giving me way too much credit. I barely did anything. It’s self-care Sunday so I was…” I trailed off when Max turned his pitch-black gaze on me. “Self-caring.”

I will not blush even though that sounds dirty. I will not blush.

I looked down at the lacy crochet tablecloth Aajji, my grandma, had sent over a few years ago before arthritis had gnarled her hands. The swan pattern was gorgeous. And it swam in front of my eyes.

Dad laughed nervously, breaking the awkward pause. “My daughter is very modest. Did you know she won the regional debate championship back in high school?”

I could feel red creeping up my neck and over my cheeks. Why was my father encouraging my mom’s matchmaking crazy? Next thing I know, Mom would jump in and ask me to wear the fucking ghungroos and dance for Max-I-Don’t-Smile-Hyphenated Last Name. And I would be forced to commit double fratricide-suicide.

Max gave him a smile that was just short of polite. “That’s awesome. Good to know.”

I almost snickered in sympathy. My folks were a lot to handle on a good day. Considering they had decided to have Max for a son-in-law (our opinions be damned) they were laying it on pretty thick.

He looked like a hunted deer with the glasses. So, I took pity on his hunched shoulders and folded arms.

“Hey, Max.” I plonked on the seat next to him at the dining table. Smiled conspiratorially. “Why don’t you try the tandoori chicken? Mom’s marinade is to die for.”

I wasn’t lying about that. Whatever else her flaws were, my mom’s cooking was legendary. Especially when it came to yummy Mughlai.

Max blinked and then shook his head in slow motion. “Actually.” He took the palaver of Maharashtria style lentil soup – the varan and poured it on his empty plate.

Yuck.

“I’d love some of the varan rice, if you don’t mind.” He smiled blankly, rebuffing my olive, tandoor, branch.

Mom smiled fondly at him. “Niva thinks only boring people eat varan rice. Thank you for proving her wrong, Max.”

I straightened my chin and bit into the juicy chicken marinaded with the right amount of yogurt and spice. Resisted gnashing my teeth like a troll.

Nice job, Mom. Talking me down in front of the new guy.

Max poured more lentil soup on his generous serving of rice. “Nothing beats excellent, homecooked simple fare, you know.” He even sounded enthusiastic and life-like now.

“Sure. Yeah. You’re right,” I agreed mechanically.

Mom laughed. The woman laughed, delighted at my misery. “I never thought I’d see the day. Niva agreeing that bland daal rice is yummy.”

The whole table erupted with laughter at my expense. Even Max Cavil-Rose gave a toothsome smile as he wolfed down the food. But he kept his teeth by wisely keeping his mouth shut and focusing on his bland food.

The burn in my tummy, I attributed to the spicy chicken.

Writer Gal’s Writer Pals Present

I have a special treat for you today, Postmate. A dear Indian author mate of mine has an absolute TREAT of a new release out. It’s called Scandalous Games and it has all the best, forbidden tropey-tropes! Ex’s stepbrother, took her v-card, voyeur kink, is mean to her for *reasons* and still marries her for convenience tropes!

Check out Scandalous Games by Simran and enjoy all the hot deliciousness that is Dash and Biance, mmkay?