fifteen Warming Up #3
‘I owe you an apology,’ Neil said after a few moments of silence.
I turned to him. ‘For what?’
‘For how this all started. I saw how much this job means to you and instead of respecting that … I used it to my advantage.’ He glanced at the waves and then slowly back at me. ‘It was really shitty of me.’
A knot loosened somewhere deep in my core, leaving me feeling unsteady. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ I whispered.
‘And for what it’s worth, you’re way smarter than any NYU grad I know.’
‘See, now you’re just buttering me up.’ I bit my lip to hide my grin as a gust of wind whipped my skirt up around my knees. I tried tucking it under my legs so I wouldn’t accidentally flash Neil, but when I looked down, I groaned.
‘Sorry about your outfit,’ he said, pointing at the dark patches of mud that were splattered all over my off-white skirt. ‘The rocks are always wetter than they look.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, brushing at a stain I knew wouldn’t come off. ‘It’s not like it was couture.’
Neil frowned. ‘Why do you always do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Sell yourself short.’
I blinked at him. ‘What makes you say that? Because I said my skirt isn’t couture?’
He shook his head, still watching me. ‘No. Because you said it like it says something about you.’
I opened my mouth, then shut it. ‘I mean, you’re always dressed like you belong in a fashion magazine … and I’m sure I look like a cheap, hot mess in comparison.’
‘No, you don’t. You look great, always.’ I could barely hear him over the sound of the waves, but his voice was firm, honest. ‘You have great style.’
A slow smile crept onto my face. ‘Wait … the guy who roasts—okay sorry—offers “critical fashion commentary” on designer outfits is complimenting my style? Little old me?’
He let out a small laugh. ‘Sure I am. You’ve got that boho thing going for you … you’re very pahadi chic.’
I snorted, a wave of self-consciousness washing over me. ‘Pahadi chic? That’s not a thing.’
‘It should be,’ he said, his eyes tracing the print of my skirt like he was memorizing it.
‘The long skirts, the printed dresses …’ His gaze crawled up my body, resting briefly around my ears.
‘The silver jewellery …’ He reached out and flicked my jhumka gently, before his fingers brushed upward to gather a few windblown strands of my hair.
‘The thick, dark hair … always so wild and free.’
My heart was beating inside my throat. I went perfectly still as he leaned in, peering into my eyes like it held the world’s most profound secrets.
His long eyelashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones and, for one impossibly long second, I forgot how to breathe.
‘And these,’ he whispered, like the thought slipped out before he could catch it.
‘These rosy cheeks. Always a little flushed. Like the mountain air followed you here.’
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Not teasing. Not smirking. He was just looking at me …
like it was physically impossible for him to look anywhere else.
My gaze flicked to his lips for a microsecond.
I couldn’t tell if he leaned in, or I did, or if the tectonic plates shifted to bring us together …
but before I knew it, we were only centimetres apart, so close that I could feel his breath tickling my cheeks.
I tipped my head up, letting his lips find their way down to mine.
His mouth was soft and tentative at first, like he was giving me all the time in the world to pull away.
And when I didn’t—when my fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his sleeve instead—he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.
It stole the breath straight out of my lungs.
My lips parted ever so slightly, guiding his tongue inside my world.
One of his hands slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer and anchoring me against the wind.
The other found my waist, his fingers pulling at the thin fabric of my spaghetti top where it was tucked into my skirt.
A jolt of electricity ran up my spine as he found an opening and dipped his hand inside.
He kissed me like he’d run out of reasons to hold back, his thumb tracing a slow, electrifying line along my side.
Heat pooled deep in my stomach as his hand skimmed higher, hungry and impatient, like he couldn’t decide what to touch first.
And then suddenly, without warning, he broke the kiss with a low, shaky exhale, resting his forehead against mine. The absence of his lips where they had been pressed against mine was so sharp, I felt like a cold wave had crashed over me. I blinked up at him, my breath unsteady.
‘God,’ he whispered, his voice rough in a way I’d never heard before. ‘I’ve wanted to do that for so long.’
‘Then why’d you stop?’
He ran his thumb along my bottom lip. ‘Because if we keep going, we’ll become one of those Bandstand couples … and I’m not emotionally prepared to be such a desperate cliché.’
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to calm my racing heart as we stood up. Had that really just happened? Or was there something in that fruit cream that had me hallucinating?
‘Do you want me to drop you home?’
‘No.’ The word came out before I could put any thought into it.
A lazy, deliberate smile played on his lips. ‘Can I take you home, then?’
I slipped my hand into his and nodded, surprising even myself.