Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

14. Zinneerah

14

Zinneerah

M y husband cannot stop moaning.

I can’t even look at him. I’m staring down at my own cookie, trying to nibble politely, but his sounds are making it impossible to concentrate. Heat rises up my neck, spreading over my cheeks as if I’m being baked at 300 deg-Raees.

He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing to me.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my whole entire life,” he says, eyes half-lidded, reaching for yet another cookie. His fifth. He’s barely finished swallowing before he groans again, and then he mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath.

Oh, that word. That word in that voice.

I press my lips together, trying to stifle a laugh—or maybe just a gasp—and clutch my mug a little tighter. It shouldn’t affect me like this. They’re just cookies. But the sound of him enjoying them is doing all kinds of ridiculous things to me. My mind is in the gutter, my stomach’s flipping like a gymnast, and all I can think about is how much I suddenly want to kiss the crumbs off his lips.

Honestly, I didn’t even know he knew how to curse. He’s always so put-together, like he’s stepped straight out of one of those Regency dramas Dua binge-watches every other weekend. The kind of man who’d tip his hat and bow if he wore one.

Raees’ hand hovers over the plate, reaching for what would be his sixth cookie.

I slide it closer to me, just out of his reach, and he looks at me, scandalized.

“I wasn’t finished, Zinneerah,” he complains, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

I shake my head, feigning disapproval. Very sweet.

He stares at me, deadpan, then slumps against the counter, sulking as he nurses his coffee. The theatrics don’t stop—casting little sideways glances at me, practically begging for sympathy, his shoulders rising and falling with the longest sighs.

I take a sip of my chamomile tea, letting the warm liquid cover my grin.

He’s so stubborn about his sweets. Just yesterday, he tried to sneak an extra brownie into his lunch after I’d packed it, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Caught him red-handed with the container lid half-open and a guilty look on his face.

“No one in my family has diabetes,” he grumbles, swirling the coffee in his mug. “Just so you’re aware.”

Oh, great. Now I feel guilty. I’m so used to his bright smiles and endless chatter that seeing him wear a long face, with those sad-puppy eyes, and that tragic little frown, tugs at my heartstrings.

I reach for a cookie, break it in half, and wordlessly offer him the bigger piece.

Raees’ face lights up like a thousand Christmas trees. He snatches it eagerly, and as he takes it from me, our fingers brush. I don’t think he even notices—he’s too busy frolicking in the sugar high, melting against the counter as he chews, eyes closed, over the moon.

“I want you to bake for me for the rest of our lives,” he murmurs.

That look of pure contentment makes my heart spin and whizz.

This kitchen is finally mine. A place where I can sink into a recipe, cover my hands in flour, lose myself in measuring and stirring and creating.

Baking is like, I don’t know, meditation with a purpose. I get to calm down, focus, and then at the end of it, there’s this little offering I can give to someone else. A piece of myself that they can actually enjoy, even if it’s just a few bites. And when it makes someone happy—especially him—it’s like a little rush of joy that’s all mine.

Maybe that’s silly. But he’s always been my favorite taste-tester, and the way he looks at me after he eats something I made? It’s hard not to feel a little flustered.

I unlock my phone and pull up a Pinterest board I made for Alex’s concert next weekend—specifically, for what I might wear. I’d been curating ideas for weeks now, adding in a few looks that caught my eye.

Ever since that conversation with Dua, though, I’d thrown in a few more masculine styles. Not that I was picking out clothes for anyone, exactly, but now I’ve gone ahead and extended the invitation to Raees. He always looks so formal—cashmere sweaters, dress pants, everything neatly pressed. Handsome, really, but this concert is more about obscure, alternative, edginess. In his case, jeans.

I pat the stool next to me, awakening him from his chocolate ecstasy.

Raees dusts off his hands and joins me, bringing that woodsy scent of sandalwood with him. I have to resist the urge to lean closer.

Opening my notes app, I type: Do you have clothes like this? Then I switch back to Pinterest and hand him my phone, letting him scroll through the outfits I’d saved.

Raees quietly studies each pin with that analytical concentration of his, pausing every so often to adjust his glasses or take a sip of his coffee.

My heart is pounding a little too hard, and I’m not entirely sure why. It’s just clothes. Bunch of organized ideas. But something about this moment feels intimate.

Finally, he looks up, locking eyes with me.

I feel my face heat up, and before I can stop myself, I look up at the ceiling, pretending I’m just checking for dust, or I don’t even know what.

“I do have casual clothes,” he says, sounding uncertain, as if the concept of ‘casual’ is foreign territory. “But putting together a proper outfit . . . that might be a struggle. Unless, of course, you’d like to help me?”

He smiles, and I lose my train of thought entirely. His golden-brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s this tiny smudge of chocolate on his upper lip.

Without thinking, I tap my own lips.

Raees’ eyes land on my mouth, and his eyes go wide. Both eyebrows shoot up high. His lips part in this little “oh” of surprise, and he stares at me like I just grew a second head.

I tap my mouth again, trying to signal chocolate, because honestly, it’s driving me crazy.

“Are you . . . are you sure?” he whispers, voice a little shaky.

I tilt my head, wondering what on earth he’s talking about. Yes, I sign.

I tap my lips again, resisting the urge to just reach over and wipe it off myself.

He lets out a breath, rubbing his palms on his sweatpants like he’s bracing himself for something monumental. “Wow. Okay. I didn’t think this would happen so soon.”

What is he muttering about?

Raees glances around the kitchen, eyes darting over the counters like he’s looking for a clue. Then, as if making some grand decision, he clears his throat and meets my eyes. “How should I do it?”

We’re out of tissue paper, and I used up the last of the kitchen towel.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

I give up on subtlety and point from his mouth to my own, then stick my tongue out and gesture like I’m licking something off my lips.

To my relief, he gets the hint—kind of. He licks his lips, and the smudge of chocolate vanishes. I give him a thumbs-up and a smile.

Raees chuckles, then, without warning, raises both hands, framing my face in his palms.

What is he doing?

“I’ll be gentle.” He leans closer, lips hovering a breath away from mine.

I push back, alarmed, and press my hands to his lips before he can get any closer.

Raees stops, blinking in surprise. “Hmm?” he mumbles against my fingers.

I quickly sign: Chocolate. Your lips.

The realization slowly settles within him. His mouth forms a small ‘o’ that he breathes out through.

Oh.

Oh, he was going to kiss me.

He was going to kiss me ?

Why would he—wait. Oh, God. I’m an idiot. Of course he was going to kiss me. And instead of just wiping the stupid chocolate from his lips, I had to make a whole production out of it.

Raees drops his face into his hands, and all I want to do is disappear. Bury myself under the floorboards. Become one with the furniture. I’d be less mortified as a coffee table.

I want to die.

I want to die.

I want to die.

Should I kiss him to make him feel better? Maybe a quick one on the cheek. Or his forehead, even. But I don’t know if I have the nerve to actually do it. Still, the guilt is gnawing at me. I’ll be up all night replaying this if I don’t do something.

He looks up, and there’s this shy, lopsided smile on his face, his cheeks flushed. I press my lips together, fighting back a grin of my own, trying to keep some semblance of composure.

Then he lets out this soft snort that tumbles into laughter, like fresh strawberry jam spreading over warm toast. It ripples through the room, slipping under my skin, making my heart trip over itself.

I go along with it, trying to forget the sensation of how his big, warm hands had cradled my face. We’re close enough that our foreheads almost touch as we dissolve into laughter, letting the absurdity of it all spill out.

“Let’s just pretend that never happened,” he says, grinning through his chuckles.

Easier said than done on my end, but I nod anyway.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, his gaze pointedly averted. “Should we, uh, do the outfit thing now?”

Tomorrow?

“Of course.” He takes my empty tea mug and stacks it on top of his own. With a tiny smile, he slips off the stool. “Goodnight.”

Wait. That was abrupt. And where’s my “Goodnight, Zinneerah”?

My fingers curl into fists, knuckles pressing white. This is on me. I must’ve totally embarrassed him. I mean, maybe I wasn’t technically leaning in for a kiss, but to the untrained eye, it probably looked like I was giving him some kind of green light.

Smooth. Really smooth.

I bite my lip, sliding off the stool with half-formed apologies simmering on my tongue— Don’t ever apologize to me, Zinneerah.

Damn it, Raees.

Instead, I reach for a cookie from the plate, my steps cautious as I cross the room and tap his arm.

He turns, eyebrows raised. “Yes—?”

Without giving myself time to second-guess, I press the cookie to his lips.

His mouth opens instinctively, teeth sinking into the soft dough, eyes widening in surprise.

Before I can think, I break off the end still dangling and pop it into my own mouth.

That’s . . . kind of a kiss.

Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I look away, chewing quickly before he can see just how red I’ve turned.

And because fleeing is clearly my go-to strategy now, I turn on my heel and hightail it out of the kitchen.

In the morning, I’m up early, moving around the kitchen as I put together Raees’ lunch.

I slip an extra cookie into the bag, a small peace offering for last night’s fiasco. Cookies don’t solve awkward almost-kisses, but it’s worth a shot.

I make his coffee, finishing my own tea while scrambling eggs and toasting bread. His toast gets butter and a thick layer of strawberry jam, just the way he likes it. Mine stays plain, as usual. I set his plate down at just the right angle, switch on his favorite news channel, and smooth out the newspaper that was delivered today, laying it perfectly beside his coffee mug.

Usually, I’d just start eating on my own, before he stumbles in, half-asleep, somewhere in the middle of my breakfast.

But today, I hover by the counter with my mug, waiting. I woke up wanting to share this morning with him—maybe out of guilt from last night, I don’t know.

Tossing and turning in bed, I kept rewinding the tape, my fingers pressing over his soft mouth, stopping him just inches from a sweet kiss. I was the one who panicked, but now I can’t seem to shake the feel of his hand on my cheek, the way my heart galloped when he leaned in, almost . . . almost.

The almost-kiss. It sticks to my thoughts like honey. Honey. Raees’ eyes are the color of honey.

I take a sip of tea, only to find it’s gone tepid. Maybe I should switch to iced-tea.

“Good morning!” Raees’ bright baritone bounces off the walls, jolting me out of my thoughts. I look up to find him grinning at the counter where I’ve set out his breakfast, coffee just the way he likes it, and the news quietly playing on the TV. “You know, I say this every time, but thank you. I’ll keep saying it until you’re sick of hearing it.”

I give him a little shrug, but I can’t quite hide my smile.

He pushes his stool back, choosing to stand and eat across from me at the island, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the coffee.

I bite my lip, eyeing the TV behind him. If he sat where I am, he could watch it easily. I don’t really mind switching, but how do I say that without sounding ridiculous?

I tap the counter. Stand here, please.

He blinks at me, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “You want to switch?”

I nod sheepishly.

“Why?” He looks genuinely curious, his eyebrows knitting together in that adorable way that always trips me up.

I glance at the TV, then back to him, tilting my head toward his eyes, hoping he’ll connect the dots. It’s like a charades game, but I think he’s finally catching on.

He studies me, the corner of his mouth curling up in that lopsided grin that always makes my heart stumble a little. “You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” he murmurs to himself.

Yeah, I don’t think he meant to say that out loud.

And suddenly, I’m feeling a little too hot, a little too happy, and trying very hard not to let it show.

Raees doesn’t so much as blink after calling me a ‘sweetheart’. Instead, he just opens the newspaper like he hasn’t just melted half the bones in my body with one casual little ‘sweetheart.’ Just sitting there glowing like some kind of domestic god.

I stand there with my plate in my hand. The only reason I was stationed across the island in the first place was because I figured he’d prefer it that way. Less chance of annoying him, right? Less chance of him getting irritated if I breathed wrong. Or chewed too loud. You know, just the usual anxieties I still carry around like a purse.

It’s silly. I know that. But old habits are hard to kill.

I finally slide onto the stool next to him, trying to keep my movements unobtrusive. I reach for my toast, but then hesitate, my stomach twisting a little.

I glance at Raees out of the corner of my eye. His toast is all soft and mushy, soaked with butter and jam, so it doesn’t make a sound when he bites into it. But mine? It’s perfectly crisp, just how I like it. It’s going to make a crunch. A loud crunch. And suddenly that feels like an insurmountable problem.

The line between his brows deepens a little as he focuses, totally absorbed by an article. He doesn’t look annoyed, or like he’s bracing himself for the horrors of the impending crunching noises. But still, I hesitate, holding my toast like it’s some kind of ticking bomb.

Get a grip, Zinnie . It’s just toast. Normal people don’t panic over toast.

I take the tiniest nibble possible, barely cracking through the crust. My shoulders tense, bracing for . . . what, exactly? I don’t even know.

Raees’ gaze flicks to me mid-bite. I freeze, cheeks flaming, but he just gives me that delightful smile. “Good?”

I nod, trying to look like I haven’t just been caught red-handed doing my best squirrel impression. But I can feel a little smile drawing at my lips. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that over something as simple as toast.

I take another bite, a real one this time, and let the crunch ring out, fighting the urge to flinch. Raees doesn’t react, or shift away or give me a disgusted, withering look I used to get every time I dared to exist too loudly. He just keeps reading, dipping his toast into his coffee like an old uncle, occasionally murmuring to himself about an article.

Raees just makes everything I was told I do wrong, right.

And the funny thing is, the longer I sit here, the easier it gets. I even pick up my tea, slurping it a little as I sip. Every little sound, every tiny act of defiance against those old rules, feels like untying a knot in my chest.

I sneak another glance at him, half-expecting him to scoff or roll his eyes. But he just keeps eating, relaxed and smiling, close enough that I could lean my head on his shoulder if I were brave enough.

It’s such a small thing, probably nothing to him, but to me, it feels like someone quietly handing me back a part of myself.

“So, will you be joining me on campus today?” Raees asks.

I shake my head, and sign, Monday.

He folds the newspaper before he even finishes reading it, setting it aside. His full attention shifts to me, which immediately sends my pulse into some embarrassing overdrive. I frown, pointing at the paper. “I’d rather hear about your day than worry about the world’s.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my smile in check as I turn my attention back to my plate.

Scooping up the last of my eggs, I dump them onto one piece of toast and press the other slice on top, making myself a quick little breakfast sandwich. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll save me from having to take tiny, bite-sized forkfuls like I’m auditioning for a dinner etiquette video.

“That’s smart,” Raees whispers, and before I know it, he’s following my lead, smashing his eggs onto his strawberry jam toast and folding it together. My grimace must betray me as he adds, “Don’t judge me.” He raises his masterpiece proudly. “It’s called innovation.”

I try so hard not to laugh, but a little snort escapes anyway. Innovation, my ass. His taste buds don’t know the meaning of boundaries.

Still, I pick up my sandwich and play along.

“Cheers,” he says, tapping his sandwich against mine with an impish smile before taking a massive bite.

I watch him as he chews, picking at the crumbs that inevitably land on his sweater. He looks more than satisfied by committing the crime of pairing scrambled eggs with strawberry jam.

I take a bite, a much bigger one this time to challenge him.

One of his hazel eyes narrow at me. His lips twitch, his jaw sets, and I know exactly what’s coming.

He takes another bite, even bigger than mine, and it’s so comically exaggerated that I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me. I put a hand over my mouth, my shoulders shaking with it, because he looks like a chipmunk who ate all his rations before hibernation.

Raees chokes.

Like, actually chokes.

He punches his chest with his fist, coughing violently.

The sandwich hits the plate with a thud as I scramble to grab a glass of water, my chair scraping against the floor in my haste.

His shoulders are jerking as his face turns a shade too close to red for my comfort.

My heart spikes, adrenaline flooding in as I rush to his side, shoving the glass into his hands. He takes it gratefully, chugging it down in big gulps while I rub circles on his back, murmuring silent prayers that I don’t have to explain to someone how my husband managed to choke himself on scrambled eggs.

When he finally gets a proper breath in, I grab a tissue and hold it out to him. Are you okay?

Raees presses his fist to his mouth, his voice hoarse as he finally croaks, “I thought I was going to die.” He lets out a weak chuckle, like this whole situation is just a minor inconvenience instead of a near-death experience.

He thought he was going to die? Well, I thought I was going to have to learn how to resuscitate a grown man using YouTube and panic alone.

I swat his arm—not hard, just enough to get my point across—and drag one of the stools over for him to sit on.

My hands are already flying before I can stop myself. You work today. I don’t want you to throw-up or call sick because of a stomach ache.

Raees, still coughing a little, nods like a chastised schoolboy. “I know,” he rasps. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more mindful next time.”

And that’s when it hits me.

I freeze, blinking at him, my hands hanging awkwardly mid-air.

He . . . understood that? All of it?

My brain stumbles over itself, trying to replay the last thirty seconds. I’d been signing like my life depended on it—fast, frantic, forming words that were definitely outside the realm of the basic ASL.

I look at my hands, then at him, then back at my hands again, because clearly one of us has some explaining to do.

Somewhere in the background, my phone chimes with a text notification.

I leave side for a second to check. It’s almost like I can sense when my little sister’s about to cancel on me.

Doo-Doo: sorry, zinnie. i’m gonna have to cancel our concert date. coach wants to take the boys on a retreat and i’m being forced to join as their manager. ilysm and i’m so sorry. (but totes not sorry abt this being ur first date with raees bhai hehehe)

I let out a long sigh through my nose, and tap out a quick reply: a thumbs-up emoji and a heart. That’s all she’s getting from me right now.

Sliding my phone back onto the counter, I turn just as Raees finishes the last sip of his coffee and subtle coughing.

“I’m going to head out now,” he says, clearing his throat. He picks up the mug and carries it to the sink, rinsing it out. When he walks back past me, he lets his hand trail over my back—a quick rub, like it’s something he’s always done.

And oh, I don’t hate it. I don’t think I can hate it. Ever.

“Once I’m back,” he adds, grabbing his lunch from the counter, “we can pick out our outfits for the concert tomorrow. Sounds good?”

I look up at him and smile, feeling all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t feel about someone who just called me a sweetheart over eggs, then proceeded to choke on said eggs and still somehow make himself look even more attractive.

Have a great day , I sign.

“You, too, Zinneerah,” he replies, his baritone back to its normal buttery smoothness.

And then, just like that, he’s gone—newspaper tucked under his arm, lunch in hand, leaving behind the faintest trace of expensive cologne and something . . . him.

I glance down at my hands, rubbing my palms together like they’re suddenly interesting, eyebrows arching sky-high. “Is he secretly fluent in ASL?”