CHAPTER 32
ABHIMAAN
The moment she sees the key card in my hand, her face scrunches like she’s smelled something unpleasant.
I blink, confused for a second, until she snatches the card and reads the room number.
“There’s only one room?” she whispers, voice sharp but quiet enough not to catch the attention of the staff.
Her eyes widen, her brows knit together, and then come the hands.
Waving in the air like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra of exasperation.
I almost roll my eyes at myself. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Because instead of explaining myself or pretending like it was an oversight, I’m just standing here trying not to smile.
Which is strange. Smiling isn’t my thing.
Not naturally. Not anymore. But watching her go off in her muted fury, trying so hard to keep it professional in public, makes my lips twitch like they have a mind of their own.
“We’re going to be working late,” I say casually, picking up the pace so the bellboy leading us to the room doesn’t stop. “We won’t be sleeping much anyway.”
She huffs. “You could’ve booked two rooms. Or you know—said—something?”
I shrug. “You sleep on the bed; I’ll take the couch.”
She looks scandalized. “And if you are still uncomfortable,” I add, “I’ll get out. I don’t sleep much anyways.”
Her eyes narrow, and she mutters under her breath, “I’ll force you to sleep if it kills me.”
That… shouldn’t sound as endearing as it does.
We follow the staff down the plush corridor lined with intricate gold-leafed mirrors and pale marble floors that reflect the soft glow of chandeliers.
The room opens with a soft click—large, elegant, warm lighting and tastefully done in creams and muted golds.
There’s a king-size bed with a headboard that looks carved by hand, a small velvet couch near the French windows, and a low coffee table with two chairs beside it.
It smells faintly of jasmine and wood polish.
The staff places our bags inside, nods, and leaves.
Before I can say anything, she drops her laptop bag on the coffee table like it’s the anchor holding her down.
She ties her hair up in a messy bun—loose strands falling around her face—and opens the screen.
I can already hear the click of keys. She’s in work mode.
No questions about dinner, no whining about long meetings, no hint of the tantrum from downstairs.
That was five minutes ago. Now, she’s pure focus. I hate that it’s hot.
I sit on the couch, my laptop open too. But I don’t give her everything—only bits and pieces of what tomorrow’s meeting is going to entail. Because where’s the fun in that? Watching her try to fill in the gaps, her nose crinkling in concentration, is its own kind of entertainment.
She glances up, confused. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘we’ll have to double-check the client’s brief?”
“You’ll see.” I hide my smirk behind the screen.
She glares. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m working,” I say innocently.
Her fingers fly over the keyboard again, and I try.
I really do. But I can’t focus. Not when she’s sitting two feet away, her hair slipping out of that bun, brushing against her cheek.
She tucks it behind her ear. She chews on her bottom lip like she always does when she’s deep into something.
And for the life of me, I cannot remember what file I was just opening.
Her stomach growls loud enough to break the silence.
I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t.
Obviously. If she were someone else, some other employee, I would have been impressed with the amount of dedication she is showing.
I mean, I am impressed with her too, but I don’t like it when she ignores herself for work.
I have voiced my opinion, but I was shut down by ‘Learnt from the best.’ I couldn’t even argue.
“Okay, let’s take a break,” I announce, closing my laptop as I get up.
She smirks, “What?” She turns towards me. “Already tired?”
I sigh, “Hungry.” Before she can throw some smartass responses, I ask further, “What do you want to eat?”
“Umm,” She exhales, and then her entire face breaks into a bright smile. “Ice cream?”
I chuckle, “You want ice cream for dinner?”
She grins, unapologetic, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Not just any ice cream. The best choco-chip ice cream in the world.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused despite myself. “In the world?”
She nods earnestly. How does one not like her? I don’t think it’s humanly possible.
I stare at her for a second. “Should I call room service?”
“No!” she says quickly, almost horrified. “No. Room service ice creams are... sterile. Too perfect. It doesn’t have a soul.” She’s already shutting her laptop, grabbing her phone like she’s been waiting for this all day.
“You have to believe me. There’s this small shop nearby. It’s not fancy, but it’s legendary.”
I stare at her for a second longer. “You’ve had this ice cream before?”
She fumbles with her phone and doesn’t meet my eyes. “No, I mean yes.”
Her voice goes up at the end. I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been to Jaipur before?”
She freezes, eyes widening slightly before she recovers. “Yeah. I mean…my relatives live here.” She gives a nervous laugh, waving her hand like she’s shooing away my curiosity. “Stop looking at me like that.”
I hum, low and suspicious. Liar.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my wallet and slipping on my jacket, “let’s go then. I want to see what kind of ‘soul’ your ice cream has.”
We leave the resort, the air outside warm and thick with the scent of frangipani and something sweet from the nearby street vendors.
She walks ahead, not waiting to check if I’m keeping up, her steps light, almost like she’s skipping.
I follow, hands in pockets, not saying much, mostly because I’m trying not to ruin this. Whatever this is. She’s cute. Too cute.
The shop is tucked in a quiet corner of a narrow lane, glowing under a single yellow bulb.
It's nothing like the polished elegance of the resort—we’re standing in front of a small, slightly faded counter with hand-painted signs and mismatched plastic stools nearby.
But she looks at it like it’s the Taj Mahal.
“I told you,” she says, practically vibrating with joy. “This is it.”
She orders without hesitation. Then look at me. “What do you want?”
“Vanilla.”
She makes a face. “Basic.”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s boring.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What would you suggest then?”
She grins. “Hazelnut brownie chunk.”
“That sounds like three desserts crammed into one.”
“Exactly. Try it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already ordered it. I stare at her as she takes the cup from the server and hands it to me like she’s won something.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.
“And you’re welcome,” she says with a wink.
“So I always wanted to ask,” She says as she licks her spoon clean, “Why do you wear this broken ring around your neck?”
I look down at the ring attached to the gold chain. “It’s all I have of my mother,” I reply. Her eyes soften as a small smile forms on her lips.
I shake my head slowly, letting out a breath. “You’re observant.”
She shrugs, licking the side of her cone. “You’re not exactly a mystery, you know.”
That’s where she’s wrong.
She doesn’t know that I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since last night.
That when she left the office, I kept checking the time, wondering if she got home safely, if she had dinner, and if she was warm enough.
She doesn’t know that having her in the same room as me isn’t just a convenience—it’s a need.
A quiet, gnawing, persistent one that’s making it impossible to keep my head straight.
And it’s not only because I want to keep her safe from Anil; it’s more personal.
It’s because I like having her closer to me; it makes breathing easier.
I look at her now, sitting across from me, her hair slightly windswept, her face glowing under the streetlight, and I wonder—when did this start?
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, cheeks pink from the heat or maybe the attention.
I take another slow spoonful of my ice cream. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’ve got something on your face.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Just your entire personality,” I say, deadpan.
She gasps, then smacks my arm. “You’re such a jerk.”
I grin. Can’t help it.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too, and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel like I’m forcing something that isn’t there.
“Come on,” I say, finishing my ice cream and tossing the cup. “Let’s get back before you get too cold.”
“Aw,” she mocks, “worried about me?”
Always.
But I don’t say it. Just shake my head and start walking. She falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush every few steps, and for now, that’s enough.