Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

5. Raees

5

Raees

W aking up to a text from your ex-fiancée isn’t exactly the best start to the day.

Unknown: Hey, it’s Saira. Saw your wedding pics on Facebook. Congrats. She’s gorgeous.

I don’t recall blocking her number or on Facebook, though I guess that would’ve been immature, I suppose. Even after she cheated on me just before our wedding and then drunk-dialed me during her bachelorette party, confessing her regrets.

Unless she’s gotten herself a new number.

“Doesn’t matter.” I groggily rub my eyes and swipe away from my text messages, turning my attention to my email and daily schedule. A midday lecture awaits, followed by a flurry of office hours appointments. Then, there’s the pressing task of grading my students’ essays on the influence of digital media on politics.

The essays have been disappointing thus far—a good dozen or more caught by the university’s plagiarism detection software, and another five with suspiciously similar sentences that warranted immediate action and a lengthy disciplinary email. The remaining submissions, while generally knowledgeable, often lack a compelling thesis.

I can already sense the frustration of those who are likely to fail, furiously typing negative reviews about me on that dreaded RateMyProfessor website.

I power down my phone and plug it in, getting ready for the day ahead.

Zinneerah is downstairs, fixing herself a mug of Earl Grey. I always make sure to announce my presence a bit louder on the steps, just in case she startles at the sound of me entering the kitchen.

Her eyes linger on me for a moment as she lifts the mug to her lips, painted a soft, dark brown.

“Going somewhere?” I inquire, noticing the coffee pot is ready. She brewed coffee for me? Oh, my god. A victorious smile tugs at my facial muscles as I turn to catch her response.

“Grocery store,” she mouths, signing the word ‘food shopping.’

“Grocery store?” I repeat. She nods, and I pour myself a mug, reaching for the sugar container. “Alone?”

Zinneerah’s black eyes are glued to the tablespoons of sugar I put in. I have a sweet tooth and a knack for caffeine—it’s best to mix the two ingredients together.

I close the container and stir the mug, opening the fridge for the—“The creamer’s finished?”

Food shopping , Zinneerah signs again. I go.

“We can go later in the evening when I’m back. Maybe grab some takeout if you’d like?”

She shakes her head, firm with her decision.

As much as I’d like to argue, I rest my case and take out a brownie from the dish. She scrutinizes that, too. “Is something the matter? You keep monitoring what I’m eating.”

Zinneerah’s scrutiny dissolves into anxiety in an instant. She flails her hands in front of her, head shaking. She even takes a few steps back.

I tilt my head at her. “I apologize, Zinneerah. I didn’t mean it in a way to make you feel bad. I was genuinely curious.” God, I need to work on my tone. I sounded like a jerk when she was only peering at my sugary intake. She studies me like I’m an impossible equation every time we’re in the same vicinity, but that’s just her way of understanding someone without tiring out her hands. My wife is quite observant and I should really stop calling her out on it.

Together , she signs, her eyes trained on the floor.

If I had a tail, it would be wagging violently. “Really?”

Yes.

I lick the excitement off my lips and warm them with the coffee my wife boiled for me.

I’m sorry, she signs.

“For wh—”

She takes her tea and hurries off to her bedroom where she usually likes to sit on the balcony and think about whatever is on her mind.

Someday, I wish, she might even share her thoughts with me.

Professor and Associate Dean of English Language and Literature, Mrs. Nicola Holmes, enters my lecture hall after it’s been wiped out by my students.

Yes, introducing her with that title is necessary.

I stand up in a flurry of nerves. She’s here for a serious topic of discussion if she’s in a white pantsuit, gray hair slicked back in a bun, and frown lines carved near her lips.

Oh, she’s here to slaughter me.

“Professor Holmes. I didn’t know you’d returned from your sabbatical so soon.”

Her smile is far from sweet. “How could I not cut it short when I heard that you, my dear Professor Raees, are a married man.”

The thing with Holmes is that she’s taken multiple opportunities to set me up with one of her three, literature genius daughters. I’ve refused each time because having higher-power doesn’t mean I should accept every proposition she offers. Especially one as intimidating and critical as a marriage. Hell, she even tried to poke me for questions when I was engaged, but I didn’t disclose any details—especially after it ended.

Rolling her eyes, she yanks my left hand, studying the silver band around my ring finger.

I seek her approval, even now. She was my mentor back when I was slogging through my Master’s program—later on, she advised me through the harrowing process of my dissertation. There was even that time she bought me a sandwich from the vending machine when I pulled an all-nighter grading papers. The bread had mold on it, but still, it meant something.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Holmes asks, perching herself on the edge of my desk.

I hand over my phone, letting her swipe through the wedding album that’s entirely dedicated to my wife. “Her name is Zinneerah,” I explain with a smile. “Zinneerah Arain. Dua Arain’s older sister.” I pause, regretting the impending reaction. “Who, incidentally, is one of my . . . students?”

Her icy blue stare cuts to me. “You’re married to your student’s sister?”

I assumed this would sound unethical despite that there isn’t anything that’s unethical about our relationship. “Professor, this is that Zinneerah. The singer? Studio 365?”

Holmes’s eyes narrow as she returns her focus to the screen. Her breath catches as she swipes through the pictures faster, zooming in on Zinneerah’s face. “How?”

“Fa—”

“Do not say ‘fate,’ Shaan.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rubbing the nape of my neck, I begin recounting how everything with Zinneerah unfolded naturally, from Dua’s introduction to the moments that felt less orchestrated and more like life aligning on its own terms. As I speak, I watch Holmes carefully, her face softening. Her initial disappointment fades, and something friendlier takes its place. By the time I finish, she’s already stepping forward, inviting me into a hug that somehow lasts an eternity.

“Now, listen closely.” She fixes me with a pointed look, her index finger raised in warning. “Do not, under any circumstances, let this marriage lead to any favoritism in your classroom. Are we clear?”

Amusement lifts one end of my lips up. She’s already rolling her eyes. “Wasn’t I your favorite, Professor?”

“You were the least annoying, yes.”

I suppress a chuckle, not wanting to break her serious facade entirely. “Well, Dua is a remarkable student. She’s been proactive, taking the initiative to seek an internship in sports journalism. I can’t deny I’ve been helping her find a position—it’s deserved.”

Holmes raises a brow. “Who did you reach out to?” She already knows, of course, which is why she’s masking her disappointment. I should’ve gone to her first. With all her traveling, she’s built this web of connections with journalists everywhere. It’s her forte. “Raees?”

“Yes?”

“Who?”

I clench my jaw. “Anne Williams.”

At the mention of the name, Holmes groans.

The rivalry between her and Anne Williams dates back decades, to the late seventies when they were locked in a fierce academic competition. Not that Holmes didn’t have her share of rivals, but Anne, in particular, was the pebble in her shoe that never quite went away. Now, Anne stands as a veritable titan in sports journalism, a legend in her own right.

“Anne Williams,” she repeats, dragging out the name as if tasting something bitter. She leans back, crossing her arms, and I can feel her recalibrating. “If Mrs. Williams doesn’t reply within the next three days, send me your email outlining Miss Arian’s achievements and her interest in sports journalism. I’ve got a few contacts in that particular field. I’m sure we can find something suitable for her. Sounds good?”

“Absolutely. I know I’m overdue in expressing my gratitude, but thank you once again for everything you’ve done for me, Professor.” I extend both hands to shake hers. “I’d also love for you to meet Zinneerah now that you’re back. She’s a fantastic listener.”

“I’m sure she would.” With a decisive shake, Professor Holmes turns to leave but suddenly stops, spinning back around. “Bring her as your plus-one to Professor Wei’s retirement party next month. I’ll send you the details.”

“I’ll check with her first.”

Holmes gives me a once-over. “No playing favorites, Professor Shaan.”

I flash a smile. “Ditto, Professor Holmes.”

Pushing a quarter into the shopping cart, I free it from its latch and wheel it toward Zinneerah, who stands by the sliding doors of the supermarket.

She’s wearing loose black trousers paired with a snug long-sleeved black top that highlights her collarbones. A thin scarf hides the faded marks on her neck, which I’m certain are the reason for her silence. As always, her gorgeous hair is braided into a crown on her head, and her bowed-lips are painted a warm coffee-brown.

She’s so stunning.

“Do you have a list?” I ask, pushing the cart through the store entrance. Zinneerah unfolds a handwritten list, and my heart tenderizes. She took the time to write it out instead of just typing it on her Notes app. Yes, I’ll always make a big deal out of every little thing my wife does. She truly is one of a kind.

We head to the vegetable and fruit section first, and I watch as she struggles to open the translucent bags. She glances at me with that adorable look, offering it. I peel it open with ease and assist her each time she needs to bag something.

I suppress a sigh when she points at the tomatoes, silently asking for my permission to buy them. First, it was the cilantro, then the mint, the peppers, and now the garlic—every time she hesitates. All I want to do is cradle her face in my hands and whisper, “My love, you can buy this entire grocery store without my permission, and I wouldn’t think twice about it.” Instead, I settle for: “Zinneerah, you don’t need to ask me. If you want the tomatoes, just put them in the bag and toss them in the cart. You’re the captain here, okay?”

She purses her lips for a moment, thinking it over, then nods.

In the international aisle, Zinneerah carefully arranges the boxes and packets of spices. Unlike me, who would just toss them in without a second thought.

Serenity settles on her face when she’s in the baking section. There’s even a little skip in her steps to get there as fast she can as if it’s a Black Friday sale.

Holding up a box of custard powder and a cake batter mix, she gives them both a little shake. Seeing her so excited and vibrating with energy bakes my heart at a thousand degrees. I mean, look at her.

“Both,” I say.

Blinks. Lots of adorable blinks.

I inch the cart forward, and she carefully places the boxes inside, glancing at me with raised lashes as if she’s waiting for me to reject the idea at the last second. When I simply smile back, she turns around, her cheeks flushed pink, and starts searching for the specific baking tools she needs.

In the dairy aisle, I take a moment to grab a yogurt I love as a snack for work, checking the expiration date. “Next week? Damn—”

“Jesus Christ, lady!”

Suddenly, my attention is yanked away by the sound of something crashing to the floor.

I turn to see Zinneerah huddled down, rubbing her palms together as if she’s washing them or trying to warm them, then closing them into fists. Meanwhile, a bulky man is picking himself up off the floor, covered in broken eggshells and yolk.

I rush over to Zinneerah and position myself protectively in front of her. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me, buddy,” he snaps, gesturing to his shirt now smeared with egg yolk and bits of shell. “I saw your lady struggling to grab a carton, so I stepped in to help, and she shoved me back.”

My eyes narrow. “You approached her from behind?”

“She had the damn door open!” he spits back, crossing his arms like he’s somehow the victim here.

“The door being open doesn’t mean you sneak up on her. You could’ve easily walked around, maybe said ‘excuse me’ or offered to help without startling her. It’s common sense.” I glance down at Zinneerah, my voice softening as I take in her bright teary eyes, and the way her lashes are still fluttering with the shock of it. I reach out, brushing her hand. “I’ll handle this. If you’d like, you can wait by the cart or stay close to me. The choice is yours.”

Just then, I feel a tap on my shoulder, followed by the man’s irritating voice. “You gonna reimburse me, buddy? She ruined my favorite t-shirt.”

At that moment, a worker approaches, surveying the spilled eggs on the floor and the stains on the man’s shirt and shoes. “Oh, no. I apologize for the inconvenience, Sir.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, jabbing a chubby finger at my wife. “She should be the one apologizing. Hey, do you hear me, lady? I’ll take that apo—”

“She’s not apologizing for something that isn’t her fault,” I cut in, taking a careful step toward him and feeling the cracked eggs crunch beneath my shoes. He clears his throat, glaring up at me as I dig into my wallet, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill and sticking it to his t-shirt. “Are we good?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “We’re good.”

“Great.” I turn to the employee, flashing a smile. “I’m really sorry for the commotion, Miss. Would you like me to help clean up the aisle?”

She flushes red, shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about paying for the damage either.”

“Thank you for understanding.” I shoot a glare in the man’s direction, then turn to my wife. “Let’s go, Zinneerah.”

She pinches my sweater to stop me, then turns around to face the man ogling the fifty-dollar bill in his hands. With a clap to get his attention, she signs, I’m sorry.

I take a sharp breath, nearly reaching out to hold her hands.

“Oh, shit,” the man mutters, suddenly looking guilty. “I didn’t realize she was deaf. I’m sorry, lady.”

“She’s not—”

Zinneerah shakes her head, cutting me off. She takes my arm, holding it for a moment as she steadies her breathing, then signs, Home.