Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
RAASHI
“You look beautiful.” Veda wrapped her arms around Raashi from behind, resting her chin on Raashi’s shoulder.
“I look like an overripe mango.” Raashi peered at her reflection in the store’s mirror. The orange saree was thick, heavy and made her feel like she was wrapped in a carpet.
“You look like a perfectly ripe mango.” Veda laughed, stepping back as their mother approached, a salesperson walking behind her tottering along with a humongous pile of clothes in her arms. Raashi’s family had had this exclusive boutique shut down so they could shop for the wedding in peace.
The manager bustled around offering them coffee, tea, wine and anything else they might want. Raashi honestly thought he would rustle up some cocaine if they asked for it.
Dhanvantri Gadde, Raashi’s mother, glided to a stop beside her. She looked like Raashi’s sister, she thought dispassionately. Her younger sister at that! Her mother had the kind of timeless, effortless beauty that people spent millions trying to achieve. Veda had gotten some of it while Raashi had gotten…Well, Raashi made do with personality.
“Take that off,” Dhanvantri murmured now. “It looks terrible.”
Raashi threw her sister a triumphant look before pulling the orange carpet off her and handing it back to a salesperson. The door opened at the end of the floor and a slew of safari suited men stormed in. Raashi rolled her eyes. That could only mean one thing…her brother-in-law was in the vicinity. Could the man not live without his wife for the space of one morning?
Agastya strolled in a minute later, talking to someone on the phone while simultaneously signing a folder another someone held out to him. Honestly, the man made her want to hold him hostage in a spa for a month. He probably didn’t know how to spell the word ‘relax.’
He stepped towards Veda, his face softening at the sight of her, and Raashi got a glimpse of who was walking behind him. Now, she was the one who didn’t know how to relax. Harsh hadn’t seen her yet. He was busy signing autographs for some of the store’s employees, smiling easily, his affable charm on full display.
Then he looked up and saw her standing on the little raised podium they’d given her in front of the mirror and his smile disappeared, a blank mask sliding into place.
“Harsh needed some clothes too,” Agastya told Veda. “And since you guys already had this place locked down, it made sense to come get it here.”
“ You are shopping?” Veda asked at the same time as Raashi said, “Since when does he need more clothes?”
Harsh shrugged, walking over to touch her mother’s feet before straightening and saying, “Agastya insists I can’t get married in ripped jeans and a white shirt.”
A small smile tugged at Raashi’s lips. “Maybe he’ll allow it if you promise to button it right till the top.”
Veda laughed. “Good one, Raashi.”
She wanted him to smile, to smirk, to look at her and say something snarky back. She wanted him to be the Harsh she knew. But instead, Harsh turned away from her, pointedly looking at Veda.
“Zip your mouth,” Harsh told her in mock horror. “The first rule of being Harsh Kodela is that he doesn’t button up.”
“Apparently the second rule is that he refers to himself in the third person.” Raashi tried to join the conversation, again hoping for a response. This time, she got a semblance of one.
“I’ll button up if you wear that hideous orange thing,” he dared her, pointing to the mango saree.
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Neither of you is wearing anything scandalous,” her grandmother of an older sister said repressively. “Harsh, the men’s section is on the second floor. Go with Agastya and pick out a kurta.”
“No,” he said, plonking himself on a couch in the corner, crossing one leg over the knee of the other. “They can bring it to me.”
Raashi rolled her eyes at him, and he just stared at her, not rising to the bait.
The manager rushed over to him. “Yes Sir. Of course, Sir. What kind of kurta would you like?”
Harsh held Raashi’s gaze, his voice dropping an octave. “Something with buttons, please.”
A familiar hot flush swept over her as he watched her still standing like a statue on the little podium.
Agastya groaned in the background. “I don’t have all day for this,” he muttered. “Veda, could you just?”
Apparently, her sister could just…because she bustled over to Harsh and the manager and started rattling off instructions. Which left Raashi to her mother’s ministrations.
“How about this one?” her mother asked, draping a cream, lace concoction on her.
“I look like a vanilla cake with buttercream frosting,” Raashi replied.
“She can’t wear white, Amma,” Veda called out from the other end of the room, clearly able to follow two conversations at one time. Agastya was sitting beside Harsh on another call, his hand tapping impatiently on the armrest.
And Harsh…
Harsh was watching her, that hooded, guarded look on his face. A deep sense of unease slithered through her. What had happened? She’d thought they’d gone from enemies to friends but somewhere along that journey, with a small detour for a mind-blowing orgasm, they’d ended up in a strange land…one in which she couldn’t find her footing.
“It’s cream, not white,” Amma shouted back, startling Raashi out of her thoughts.
“My in-laws won’t like it,” Veda replied absently, as she looked at the suit jackets that had miraculously appeared in front of her.
Rebellion sparked inside Raashi at the comment. She opened her mouth to say something, but her sister looked up and speared her with a firm look. “No,” she said. One word aloud but a million unspoken. Raashi shut her mouth.
“Wear it.” This time Harsh was looking at her the way he had over the last few days. He was looking right at her, not through her. “If that’s what you want.”
The words were quiet, but they resounded in the large hall. Agastya looked up from the file he was riffling through, his gaze going from Harsh to Raashi to Veda, a silent, frozen triumvirate.
“What’s going on?” he asked carefully.
“Athama and Mammagaru will go nuts if she wears a white saree to any of the wedding functions. Amma why would you suggest this?” The last question was aimed at their mother who shrugged, not bothering to look up from the sarees she was examining.
Harsh stood up and walked over to where she stood. With her little stage, she was at eye level with him. He stopped in front of her, that same intense yet private look on his face.
“Do you want to wear this saree, Rash?”
Raashi, call me Raashi, she wanted to plead but the words wouldn’t come. She looked away from him, a strange, utterly foreign emotion swarming through her.
“Rash? Viper?” His voice was soft as he pinched her chin and turned her to face him. “Do you want to wear this saree?”
Did she? Not really. She didn’t care about what she wore. She did care about making a point though. She cared about not letting other people tell her what she could and couldn’t do.
“Tell me what you want, Rash.”
You. The word sprang to her mind. Horrified, she stared at him, this man she’d thought she despised but clearly, hate wasn’t the word for what she felt for him. So, what did she feel? She didn’t know but it was confusing, painful, and horrifyingly strong.
“Raashi?” This time he said her name, his brow furrowing at whatever he saw in her eyes.
“What do you want? Say the word and I’ll make it happen for you.”
Her lips parted on a soundless exhale. “I-“ The words clogged her throat and she swallowed hard.
It wasn’t worth going to war over, not with his parents, not when she knew how deeply he craved their approval and never got it. She didn’t want to be another arrow in their arsenal against him. She wanted to be the shield he wielded instead. She wanted to stand between him and everything that could hurt him. She wanted…oh God, she wanted him. She wanted Harsh, all of him.
She wanted to tell him all of that but the only thing that came out was…“I really don’t care.”
Harsh dropped his hand and looked away from her, as if the sight of her pained him beyond bearing.
“Of course you don’t,” he said, his voice soft yet chillingly hard. “Why would you? Choose something else then darling. It’s not worth fighting for if you don’t care enough about it.”
And with one brief, sardonic smile, he walked away from her and back to where her sister stood, a wall of jackets at her back.