Ravi wasn’t the kind of guy your family would ever approve of.
He wasn’t polished, or pedigreed, or bred for polite society the way the rest of us were. He was all rough edges — dark hair in a perpetual state of messy rebellion, faded leather jackets that smelled like motor oil and cheap cologne, and a smirk that said he knew exactly how out of place he was, and didn’t care.

He wasn’t the kind of boy you fake-dated to impress the heirs and heiresses of England’s oldest families.