Chapter Thirteen
Chapter
Thirteen
“If I wanted to avoid doing things with people I hate, I would literally never leave my house.”
—Dina Fox, Superstore
Veer let out a whoosh of breath. Here he was, at the venue of his first-ever Bollywood party. Or rich-person party, for that matter. He scratched his collar—boy, his suit was starchy—and got out of the Uber. He looked up at the fancy building before him: Taj Lands End, one of Mumbai’s biggest and best five-star hotels situated by the sea. Against the dark night sky, the hotel was lit up in a multitude of golden hues, and sweet, romantic Bollywood music already boomed from one of the lower floors. That was probably where the party was being hosted.
After the quick security check, he followed Harsha to one of the smaller, more intimate ballrooms in the hotel. He now recognized the Bollywood song playing as a classic romantic song from a ’90s Aamir Khan movie.
“There are so many people here, I can’t seem to spot my family,” Harsha said, turning her neck left and right in her search.
Meanwhile, Veer took in the wood-paneled room. Bright white pillars jutted out around the corners, sparkling from the light of the yellow chandeliers. Regal artwork, possibly from renowned painters, decked the walls, matching the carpeted floor perfectly. Metallic gold balloons and silver streamers hung from the ceiling, swaying with the breeze of the air-conditioning. A stage was set up at the front with a large framed photograph that looked to be from Uncle Madhu and Aunt Pinky’s wedding day, twenty-five years ago. Flowers and gifts were stacked on the table in front of the photo frame.
Was Veer supposed to bring a gift? He sighed internally.
There were perhaps seventy to eighty guests here already, some flocking about the buffet, others in small groups, all of them with a drink in their hands. Waiters holding trays moved in and out of the crowd swiftly, refilling those drinks before they were even done.
Then his eyes landed on some of the guests, and he did a double take. Was that the King of Bollywood, Shah Rukh Khan, taking a selfie with his wife? And a few other Bollywood actors who Veer could only have dreamed of being in a room with? Holy fuck.
He tugged on his collar, then pulled his tie back up. He had to look the part of a successful boyfriend and future movie star. He had to impress Uncle Madhu and bring up his acting skills in conversation again, so he wouldn’t ever need to wonder what could have been.
“You okay?” Harsha touched his side gently with her purse.
“Yeah,” he lied, nodding. “Just overwhelmed by all the people here, I guess.”
“Really?” Harsha raised her eyebrow. “And here I thought you were unfazed by my family being so, um…”
“I get it.” He laughed, then spotted Uncle Madhu and Aunt Pinky at the bar chatting with a Hollywood actor. “Want to grab a drink?”
She nodded.
They greeted her uncle and aunt, wishing them a happy anniversary, and Harsha called the bartender over to order their drinks. “Vodka soda for me,” she said, “and what beer would you recommend for my boyf—”
“Actually,” Veer said, shooting a furtive glance at the drink in Uncle Madhu’s hand, “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks with a twist?”
Harsha’s brows furrowed, but Uncle Madhu must have overheard, because he raised his own glass of scotch at Veer. “The boy has good taste.”
“Thanks.” Veer cracked a grin.
Aunt Pinky smiled in return, rubbing her palm along Uncle Madhu’s arm. “Enjoy the party. We’ll be a little busy, but thank you for being here. For us and for Harshu.” Then they turned away, back to their conversation with the actor.
Harsha handed him the glass of scotch, and he took a sip, nearly pulling a face. He hated scotch, especially whatever overpriced brand they’d served him. Beer was the only right choice of poison, in his opinion.
“Did you only order scotch to impress my uncle?” Harsha laughed into her vodka soda.
“How did you guess?” he asked dryly, swirling the glass around.
She gave him a teasing look. “As your girlfriend, I’d know when something’s bothering you, wouldn’t I?”
Veer blinked. “Are you quoting me? I’m flattered.” How could anyone be this adorable? And sexy. And smart.
Harsha smirked as she sipped her drink. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I’ll try not to.” He set his drink aside and pulled her closer, pressing his cold fingers into her bare waist below that sleeveless blouse, eliciting a gasp from her. Harsha blinked, confusion on her face, then looked around at the crowd. A few people were looking their way, probably surprised by the PDA.
“Veer—”
“Shush.” Chuckling, he grabbed a tissue from the bar and dabbed at the spot next to her lower lip, ignoring the way her throat bobbed. “You had some smudged lipstick. There. All done.”
“Thanks. Now…” She put her drink next to Veer’s and took his other, warmer hand. “Let’s dance.”
They walked to the center of the ballroom where people were already slow dancing to another retro Bollywood song. “Put your hands back on me,” Harsha whispered as her arms wound around his shoulders. “And look at me like you can’t believe you get to dance with me.”
I already am, he thought. He wrapped his fingers around her waist again, pulling her even closer in, flush against him. The small noise she made in the back of her throat at the proximity sent blood rushing down to his groin. This isn’t the time or place, Veer, he told himself. Keep it PG-13.
Veer had never found one good thing about being a five-foot-eight actor. The industry had changed since the ’90s and the early 2000s, when talent trumped nepotism and looks. Now, a male actor needed a tall frame and muscles for days whether he was filming an action thriller or a sappy rom-com. But Harsha was nearly his height with her stiletto heels, and as they danced, their bodies pressed together more than they’d ever been, her lips were hardly a couple of inches away from his. Okay, that cinched it: five foot eight was the perfect height for Veer.
“You’re doing a great job,” Veer murmured, dropping his mouth to her ear. “Nobody’s going to doubt that we’re in love.” He spun her around in time with the music and pulled her back in again.
She looked away, biting that red lip. “Yeah,” she said after a pause. “Nobody.”
He wished he could get a pulse check on what she was thinking. He dipped her low, and when she came back up, she said, “I never thought the cute barista from Sunstag would be such a good dancer.”
Cute barista? Veer tried not to blush. “Dancing lessons were part of the curriculum at acting school,” he said as he swayed with her to the slow beat. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Please,” she laughed as he twirled her around and pulled her closer again, “I can barely focus. I’m trying so hard not to fall flat on my face in this saree and heels.”
He lowered his chin, so their lips were less than a hair’s distance away. “There’s no way that’ll happen, because I won’t let go of you until you ask me to.”
She exhaled; he felt it on his face, hot and slow. He took one hand off her waist and cupped her cheek. God, those lips, so close and yet so far away…Veer knew the contract had said “no kissing,” but this dance they were doing, between the lines of real and fake—it was impossibly hard not to break that rule then and there. He had to try. “Harsha,” he started, “can I—”
“Veer!” A voice interrupted the tense air between them. Harsha pulled away, clearing her throat, while Veer looked behind him at the grinning man who’d called out his name.
His eyebrows shot up. “Ibrahim?”
“Man, how have you been?” Ibrahim gave him a hug, thumping him heavily on the back. “I haven’t seen you since you left Mumbai!”
Veer returned the hug, dazed. “I’ve been well,” he said, then gestured to Harsha. “Uh, this is Harsha, my…girlfriend. Harsha, Ibrahim is a friend from acting school.”
Harsha smiled politely at Ibrahim. “Nice to meet you. Didn’t you play a minor role in Kunal Jowar’s latest movie? I remember seeing you on-screen.”
Ibrahim nodded, looking pleased that he’d been recognized. “Yeah. One of my co-stars invited me to this party as their plus-one, so here I am. How about you, Veer?”
Veer took Harsha’s hand. “Harsha is Madhusudan Godbole’s niece.”
“Wow.” Ibrahim let out a whistle. “Are you still acting?”
“Just here and there, when I get the chance,” Veer said, then added, “If you know of any opportunities in Bangalore…”
“Of course, man! I’ll hit you up. It was great seeing you.” Ibrahim gave them a smile and headed to the bar.
Veer held his hand out, and Harsha took it again, although he made note of the distance she kept between them this time. They swayed to the music, not talking, not even meeting each other’s eyes, until Neha and her fiancé, Rohan, appeared beside them, half-dancing and half-giggling. Neha might have been mean, but they were a cute couple.
“Hey,” Neha said as Rohan spun her around. “Enjoying the party?”
“Mm-hmm.” Harsha scooted closer to Veer, and he squeezed her waist in reassurance. “Uncle Madhu sure knows how to throw them.”
“As we both know,” Neha agreed. After a moment of silence, save for the music, she added, “My friends and I are going wedding shopping at Renuka Mishra’s boutique next weekend for their outfits. That’s where I got mine too.”
“How nice,” Harsha replied tightly.
“Have you been there?” Neha asked, smiling against Rohan’s chest. “Nobody makes designer lehengas like her.”
Veer felt Harsha go rigid against his body. “I don’t think so,” she said, and as the song ended, she mumbled a “see you soon” to Neha and pulled Veer away from the dance floor. “Let’s have dinner and get out of here,” she said, her voice lowered. “My parents are still mingling, and maybe it’s for the best if we leave before they come up to us. I don’t really want to see them after the way they treated us at lunch.”
“Okay.” Veer led her by the hand to the buffet, sighing to himself. He wanted to dance with her more; he wanted to hold her in his arms for longer. The moment they’d had—if he could call it that—had passed, and who knew if there would be another one?
Why could Harsha still feel the warmth of Veer’s breath tickling her lips? As they took the elevator to their hotel room, she was keenly aware of the hot, stifling air between them that urged her to step closer to him and finish what he’d initiated in the ballroom.
Thankfully, Harsha was a woman with self-control. At least, she hoped she was.
Veer used the key card and the door opened with a beep. Should she bring up the moment in the ballroom, just to see what would happen? Just to gauge his reaction, prove her theory that he hadn’t been acting in that moment? Before Harsha could so much as open her mouth, Veer said, his voice stiff, “I’m gonna take a shower. Be right back.” He rummaged in his suitcase for a fresh pair of pajamas and disappeared into the bathroom.
She tilted her head back and groaned. So much for that. She changed into a silk night suit and lay back against the fluffy white pillows of her bed, pulling the comforter over herself and checking her phone. Her parents hadn’t texted her at all, but they’d uploaded a selfie to Instagram. Uncle Madhu (or perhaps his assistant) had already posted videos of all his celebrity friends dancing to Bollywood music. Neha’s story showed her flanked by Uncle Madhu and Aunt Pinky, their lips pressed to her cheeks. The caption read: I am nothing without them
Harsha’s stomach squirmed. The mutton biryani and veg kebabs she and Veer had eaten at the party threatened to make themselves known. She took a sip of water, staving off the nausea, and decided to post something too, if only to stop feeling left out and unwanted. Earlier today at the beach, she’d clicked a video of Veer working on that mess of a sandcastle, his hands muddy, while she laughed out loud in the background. She posted it to her Instagram stories.
She knew her parents and Neha wouldn’t care for it, but Aunt Pinky DMed her within minutes. Beta u both seem so happy! Sorry we couldn’t talk much at the party
It’s okay, Auntie, Harsha texted back despite the hollow sadness in her gut. I hope you enjoyed your big day! And I wish I could have stayed longer at lunch. It was just hard
Aunt Pinky:
Love u beta
Harsha put her phone away and wiped the side of her nose. She curled her knees up into her chest, wishing she could be independent enough to stop caring what her family thought of her. Maybe that was the curse and blessing of being brought up Indian. After all, she’d been raised to believe that family was the only solid foundation a child could rely on, that their parents knew what was best for them and would give their kids the life they deserved, as long as they complied.
It had taken her a lot of growing up to realize that her parents wanted what was best for her only as long as it made them look good—and she didn’t want any part in that.
Her phone buzzed: a video call notification from Sasha. Harsha got up eagerly, adjusted the straps of her silk camisole top, and answered the call. “Hi! Oh my god, S, today was such a disaster.”
Sasha was standing at her kitchen counter beside her coffee machine, her face bare of any makeup, but her eyes widened. “Fuck. Tell me everything.”
The water in the shower turned off, so Harsha put on her AirPods and went outside the room. She leaned against a pillar in the hallway and summarized everything to her best friend.
“Your dad sounds like the worst.” Sasha set her coffee down and slapped a hand to her forehead. “But forget about him—how’s it going with Veer?”
“Good,” Harsha said, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Pretty good. He’s, um,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat, “he’s quite convincing.”
Sasha shot her a funny look. “Convincing to your family, or convincing to you?”
Damn Sasha for being such a mind reader. Harsha didn’t know how to answer that. She fumbled for words, but her best friend got it. “Are you falling for him?” she asked.
Harsha looked to the closed door, then said softly, “What? No way.” She scoffed unconvincingly. “I’m just so attracted to him. And it doesn’t hurt that our banter is fantastic. Why couldn’t he have been one of those good-looking men with nothing in their brains?”
Sasha chuckled. “If he wasn’t smart, you wouldn’t have picked him.”
“What do I do, S?” Harsha said. She heard the sound of footsteps inside the room and lowered her voice another octave. “I almost leaned in for a kiss when we were dancing—”
“For starters, don’t you dare do that again,” Sasha said sternly. She rubbed her temples. “This situation is too precarious to give in to your attraction. I hope you’ve got separate beds?”
Harsha nodded. “If I had to share a bed with him, I wouldn’t make it through the night. Have you seen his smile? No, forget his smile, S—have you seen his forearms?”
Sasha’s mouth twitched. “I will never understand your forearm kink. Maybe next time, you could buy him shirts with sleeves he can’t roll up?”
“Screw you,” Harsha fired back, then sighed. “I should go back inside. I’ll call you when I’m home?”
“Be careful, H,” Sasha said. “Love you.”
Harsha nodded and hung up. Then she shook out her shoulders and returned to the room. Veer stood by the bed, dressed in a cartoon T-shirt and gray sweatpants. He smelled like the hotel’s lemony shampoo. “Cute video,” he said as he held his phone up. “I wish we had footage of that kid calling the sandcastle ugly, though. That had ‘viral’ written all over it.”
She forced herself to laugh, trying not to think about how bad they had both been at sandcastle-making, yet how fun it had been spending time with Veer. Not just at the beach, but at the party, too, with the dancing and the banter and the sizzle of their almost-kiss—
Nope. Don’t think about that. She exhaled and crawled under the covers, as he did the same on his bed.
“Good night, fake girlfriend,” Veer said, switching off the lights.
“Good night, fake boyfriend,” Harsha said, then hesitated as something Veer once said popped into her mind: I don’t do relationships longer than three months . Why, though? He had the looks and the charm needed to get a woman’s phone number, and the kindness to be a good partner. He’d already been a fantastic fake boyfriend to her in the span of a few weeks. So…what did he have against a serious relationship?
She had to know. With a tentative voice, she asked, “Veer, you still awake?”
“Yeah,” he rumbled out. “What’s up?”
Harsha shifted on the bed, facing him, but he was still looking up at the ceiling, one muscular arm under his head. “You told me once you don’t do relationships longer than three months. Can I…ask why?”
He didn’t speak for what felt like the longest second of Harsha’s life. Finally, he said, “It’s not like I enforce a rule, but it’s just never happened. I’m not…that kind of guy.”
She peered at him in the dark. “What kind of guy are you, then?”
“The kind for whom love doesn’t make any sense.” He sighed. “I’ve never been in love. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve never said those words to someone.”
Harsha frowned. “Why not?”
He sighed again, loudly. “You know,” he said, “some of my high school classmates’ parents were divorced too. But those kids still had both their parents coming to PTA meetings and school events. I didn’t even get a card in the mail from my dad on my birthday.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“After that, I didn’t want to let people in. Or rather…I couldn’t. The only people I’ve trusted in a long time are my mom and brother, Deepika and Raunak, and now—” Veer cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. We should sleep.”
Was he about to say her name? Harsha didn’t have the courage to ask. So all she said was “Thank you for telling me that. I know it’s not easy to talk about this stuff with new people.”
Veer let out a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You’re not ‘new people’ anymore.”
She couldn’t stop the wide grin from splitting across her lips. “Sleep tight,” she said, rolling onto her back.
Veer’s light snoring filled the room within minutes, while Harsha stayed awake, watching the spinning ceiling fan and replaying the past week over and over in her mind. It had been the longest couple of days, full of chaotic upheavals, from the leak situation last night to the snide comments of her family during lunch.
And Veer had been the balm to Harsha’s pain through it all. When was the last time someone had made her feel this safe? No way could he be pretending to care about her. And she cared about him, too. More than she wanted to let on.
Go to sleep, she commanded herself. Feeding these thoughts was dangerous. The longer they consumed her, the harder she would fall—and falling for her fake boyfriend was the one thing she couldn’t afford to do.