Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Y ou’re not Shani Chacha,” Rizwan says, a slow smile spreading across his face. That accent . God, I love the English.
“Is that so?” I reply, raising an amused brow. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, if you are, you’re much more beautiful than I remember,” he says, eyes gleaming. He pushes a hand through his wet hair, and my stomach does a little somersault. It’s really him! “Can I come in please? I’m afraid I’ve brought the rain with me from London, and it is getting terribly cold out here.”
“I don’t think it would be wise of me to let a strange man into the house,” I say. Dimples indent into his cheeks, which sit between the highest cheekbones and sharpest jaw I have seen on this side of the ocean (rivaling only Fawad’s – wait a second, where the hell did that come from??? I don’t have time for intrusive thoughts right now!).
His dark brown skin is smooth and beardless, drawing more attention to his mouth and his perfect teeth when he smiles.
“I’m Rizwan,” he says, shocked I do not know who he is. (Of course I know who he is! I’m only pretending. Hehe.) “Surely the man who owns this house has mentioned me before?”
“Zeeshan Uncle mentions plenty of boys,” I say cavalierly, “though I do not recall anything memorable about you.”
“If you let me in, I assure you I will spend the rest of my time here being memorable.” Oh, that accent is like butter melting in the pan of my heart. I try not to grin and shiver instead.
“See!” he says, noticing. “Even you seem to be catching a cold. Let me in now and save us both.”
I step aside, granting him entrance, and he drips on the carpet in front of me, dropping down a wet leather duffel bag. His brown hair is darkened from the rain, but his hazel-green eyes are alert and lively as he takes in the quiet house, the darkened rooms.
“Zeeshan Uncle and Phuppo are asleep,” I inform him, closing the door.
“Phuppo!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers. “You must be Humaira. Shani Chacha has told me about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I say sweetly.
“But of course.” He slips off his shoes. “From what I have heard, there are no bad things to tell.”
“All girls have some secrets,” I respond, being coy, even though I don’t have any interesting secrets at all. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I begin walking toward the stairs, and he follows.
“Now I am intrigued,” he replies, as I climb the first steps. “You must tell me, for I love a good secret.”
“You’ll have to earn it,” I reply, turning around. We are eye level now. He devours the sight of me, then laughs, shaking his head.
“You are somehow even more charming than Shani Chacha described,” he says.
“You do not know the half of it.” I continue to climb the stairs, biting back a smile, and he follows. When we have reached the second floor, I lead him to one of the guest rooms and open the door.
“I’ve already taken the best guest room for myself,” I inform him unrepentantly, “so you’ll have to settle for second best.”
“I never settle,” he replies, “but in this case, I will graciously bow out, only for your sake.” He enters the room and sets down his duffel bag, then turns around, hand on the doorframe. He leans forward, and my heart rate skyrockets. “I’m going to clean up, but I’m positively famished. Would there be any food left from your silly holiday?”
“Yes, there is, in the kitchen downstairs.”
He does not hesitate. “Excellent. Can I expect your company?”
My heart hammers. It is definitely not proper to have a middle-of-the-night meal with this gorgeous, wet man, but who am I to refuse such lucrative opportunities when they arrive? A girl would not want to appear as being ungrateful.
“It would be quite sad to eat alone after a seven-hour flight and numerous delays,” he says, sensing my hesitation. He adds in a pout for good measure. Ya Allah.
“Sure,” I say. He grins.
“Perfect. See you soon.” He disappears into his room, and I walk back to my own, which is shockingly close to his. Quietly, I close the door and rest against it, my heart beating fast, much too fast.
Pressing cold fingers against my cheeks, I try to steady my breathing.
Once I have regained some semblance of cool, I check the mirror. My face is flushed, turning my cheeks rosy, and the pajamas are cute enough. I put on some tinted Chapstick and curl my eyelashes for good measure. I exchange the scarf for another one that falls more nicely, then head downstairs.
In the kitchen, I find my abandoned, half-full teacup and reheat it. Soon after, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I very purposefully do not turn; rather I sit and sip my tea.
“Hello again,” he says, rounding the counter until he faces me. I wonder if that accent will ever get old. Certainly not tonight.
His hair is still wet, though this time from a shower, and he wears a t-shirt that shows off well-formed biceps and what Naadia and I like to refer to as a Dorito: broad shoulders, slim waist. (He certainly looks as delicious as the snack.)
“Hello,” I say. Setting my teacup down, I get up and open the fridge, taking out the boxes of leftovers and spreading them on the counter. “Would you like American or desi?”
“Hm, so many decisions,” he says, coming to stand beside me to inspect the food. He smells clean and fresh and very masculine.
I catch my breath when he leans in close to look over my shoulder. As he does, a bead of water drops from his head onto my collarbone through my scarf. I involuntarily shiver.
If I turned, we would surely be in an embrace. The thought alone makes my stomach twist with excitement.
Lord. I am being tested.
Instead of turning, I step to the side, away from him. I can feel his gaze on me as I walk over to retrieve a plate from the cabinet. His eyes remain on me even after I hand it to him and sit back down at the countertop, slipping a hand around my teacup once more.
“The microwave is just over there,” I inform him.
“Ah, thank you.” He makes himself a plate of food and sets it to reheat before putting the boxes back in the fridge. The microwave beeps, and he comes to sit beside me, then digs in. “Mm, this is good.”
“To be fashionably late is one thing,” I say, turning slightly to face him. “But this is another thing entirely.”
He laughs, and his eyes crinkle when he does. Cute. “There were terrible delays,” he explains. “Then, when I finally arrived, I found my phone was dead, and I’d forgotten my charger entirely. It was a good thing I knew the address to tell the cabdriver.”
“What a story,” I say, sipping my tea, which has sadly reached its end. I stand, going to put it in the sink. “As entertaining as this all was, I am rather sleepy. Goodnight.”
His face falls as he watches me make to exit the kitchen. “You can’t leave,” he says, frowning quite adorably. “I haven’t even finished eating!”
“My company is not so easily won,” I say, without turning around. I wave a hand over my shoulder. “Goodnight.”
“I will win you over, yet,” he says. I smile to myself, still not turning, despite how much I want to, then head up the stairs towards bed. He does not follow.
When I close the guest room door, I let out a little squeal of excitement.
Oh, he is everything I had imagined he would be! Handsome, clever, funny … and what a spectacular first meeting!
This is the very best part: the initial excitement, the flirting, the wondering. In my experience, the mystery is the most fun. (After you get to know them, men can be quite uninteresting.)
With a dramatic sigh, I fall backwards on my bed, stretching like a contented cat. Perhaps true love is not so far away.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of knocking on the door. I moan in response as the door opens and Phuppo enters.
“Jaagooooo, hua saveraaa,” she sings in Urdu. “Good morning, jaani.”
She opens the blinds as I blink away the last vestiges of sleep, recalling where I am, what day it is, and most importantly, what happened before I fell asleep.
“You must wake up,” Phuppo says, voice excited. “Guess who is here.”
My grogginess immediately vanishes the moment I remember last night’s ... adventure. An apt word if anything.
My heart quickens just at the memories. I shiver involuntarily at the phantom touch of a bead of water on my collar.
I bite back a laugh and cover my mouth with my blanket. “I already know!” I squeal. Phuppo gasps and promptly shuts the door. She rushes to the bed.
“Tell me everything .”
I make room for her, and she climbs in with me, not caring about wrinkling her new shalwar kameez. I giggle as I detail last night’s events, highlighting my most clever lines, and Phuppo reacts appropriately, releasing little shrieks and squeezing my arm.
“While as your phuppo and elder, I must say I do not condone the inherent inappropriate nature of a late-night rendezvous,” Phuppo says, tone serious for a moment, “as your dearest friend and self-labeled cool aunt, I absolutely love this for you!” She grins.
With an exhale I fall back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling with the stupidest grin on my face. Having a crush is so fun! I am overwhelmed with exhilaration.
“Now, come, we must go to breakfast,” Phuppo says, pinching my cheek. She gets out of bed and heads for the door.
“I’ll be down soon,” I assure her, getting up as well. She leaves as I wash up and get ready in my clothes from yesterday sans some of the jewelry. When I arrive downstairs, Zeeshan Uncle, Phuppo, and Rizwan are sitting at the smaller dining table adjoining the kitchen.
“Assalaamualaikum,” I say, entering.
“Walaikumassalaam,” Zeeshan Uncle replies merrily. “Humaira, this is my nephew, Rizwan. He’s here on business from England.”
Finally, I turn to look at Rizwan’s face, and my breath hitches. He is just as beautiful as I remember, if not more so. A string of exclamation points run through my head.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, smiling benignly, though there is mischief glittering in his eyes. So we are pretending last night did not occur – good plan of action.
Zeeshan Uncle would freak out at the thought of his nephew in a late-night assignation with me because Papa would surely kill (or hire someone to kill) him for allowing such a thing to occur beneath his roof.
“Salaam.” I say, going to sit next to Phuppo, in the seat across from Rizwan. “I’m glad to see you’re at least punctual for this meal.”
He smiles a golden smile that I am sure has gotten him out of scoldings from teachers and law enforcement alike. “Yes, my flight was delayed, so I unfortunately missed dinner.” He turns the smile to Phuppo. “Faiza Chachi, I do hope you can forgive me for missing your delicious food.”
One thing is for certain: the accent has most definitely not gotten old. I kick Phuppo lightly under the table, and she quickly kicks back.
“No worries at all,” Phuppo replies, turning to Rizwan. “I’m just glad you could make it for the weekend.” As she butters her toast, she glances at me, then back at him, biting back a smile. I try not to laugh, stirring sugar into my chai.
We busy ourselves with breakfast, while Rizwan delves into further details about his horrific flight, and Phuppo and I tell stories about the babies from yesterday, highlighting my progress in teaching Aizah how to crawl and Haniya’s inquiries about various family members’ sleeping positions.
Zeeshan Uncle finishes the last of his juice, then puts his napkin on the table.
“When you’re done, meet me in the office,” he says, standing. “I’d like to get started right away.”
“Yes, of course,” Rizwan replies. Then he glances at me with widened eyes, “Work, work, work!” I smile, amused.
When Zeeshan Uncle leaves, Phuppo picks up his plate and her own, taking them to the kitchen, but not before wiggling her eyebrows at me in a most indiscreet manner.
Despite being the “cool aunt”, she can be tactless at times.
It’s just Rizwan and I after she’s gone, and of course it isn’t inappropriate because she’s just in the next room, but even so, I feel my heart quickening nervously. His gaze is on me, and I muster up the courage to look back.
He smiles, hazel eyes warm. While I personally have no gripes with my dark brown eyes, I must admit his eyes are beautiful, all mixed in with gold and green. Pakistani men are usually blessed with nice eyelashes as well, and he’s no exception.
I smile back, feeling as though I must think of something clever to say at once. But just as Rizwan opens his mouth to break the silence, Phuppo is back.
“Mahmud Bhai is here to pick you up,” she says, giving me a sorry expression before leaving again to get the door.
Drat. Great timing, Papa!
I stand, and Rizwan does too, the sound of chairs scraping back filling the silence.
“You’re leaving?” he asks, voice disappointed. “So soon?”
“Yes, my father is here,” I reply, voice just as dispirited.
“But I have not yet been given an opportunity to make myself memorable.” He pouts, then recovers to say, “I’m here until Sunday. I hope we’ll see each other again?”
“Perhaps,” I reply casually, as if I couldn’t be bothered either way. I flash him a final demure smile before heading towards Phuppo at the front door.
“Allah hafiz,” Phuppo says, hugging me tight. We share a giggle, and then I’m out into the cold toward Papa waiting for me in the car.