10. THE RIDE HOME
DIYA
I regret getting on this motorcycle almost immediately. Not because Veeraj drives badly. Unfortunately, the man drives annoyingly well. Confident. Steady. Controlled. Exactly the way he does everything else.
No, my problem is entirely different.
My problem is that I have absolutely no idea where I'm supposed to put my hands.
I stare at his back through the visor of the helmet. The motorcycle rumbles beneath us. The city lights blur around us. And I find myself facing a dilemma no woman should ever have to face.
Do I hold onto the seat and risk falling off? Or do I hold onto him and risk becoming aware of him? The second option is objectively worse. Naturally, that's the one I'm forced to choose.
A particularly sharp turn makes me lose my balance. A muttered curse escapes me before I grab his waist. Immediately regretting every decision that led me here.
Oh.
Oh, that's unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
The man is built like he spends his free time lifting buildings. Through the fabric of his white shirt I can feel the hard planes of his stomach beneath my fingers.
My face instantly heats. No. Absolutely not. We're not doing this.
I tighten my grip slightly as the motorcycle accelerates. Then immediately loosen it because now I'm overthinking the grip. This is ridiculous.
He's just a man. An infuriating, very frustrating man. A man who believes emotions should probably be regulated by the government. Nothing more. Yet every time the motorcycle slows, I become painfully aware of the warmth radiating from him.
Every time the road curves, I'm reminded of how broad his shoulders are. Every time the wind shifts, his scent reaches me. Clean. Woodsy. Dangerously pleasant.
I hate it.
I especially hate that a small part of me doesn't want the ride to end. Which is clearly evidence that I've suffered some sort of temporary brain injury.
The city passes around us in comfortable silence. Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the engine and the occasional rush of wind.
Oddly enough, it doesn't feel awkward. It should. But it doesn't.
For the first time since meeting him, neither of us is arguing. No sarcastic comments. No debates. No attempts to strangle each other.
Just quiet.
And somehow that's far more dangerous. Because silence leaves room for noticing things.
Like the fact that Veeraj slowed down every time the road became uneven.
Or the fact that he positioned the motorcycle between me and any passing vehicle.
Or the fact that despite pretending to be emotionally unavailable, he'd gone out of his way to make sure I got home safely.
My stomach does something weird. I choose to ignore it.
A few minutes later we pull into the driveway outside my house. Relief floods me immediately.
Thank God.
Normalcy.
Distance.
Sanity.
The motorcycle comes to a stop. I climb off before my brain can invent any more problems. The moment my feet hit the ground, I smooth down my clothes.
Mostly because I need something to do. Also because I suddenly feel very aware of the fact that I've spent the last fifteen minutes wrapped around a very attractive man.
Not that I'd ever admit that out loud.
"Thanks for the ride," I say, brushing invisible dust from my kurti. "I'll send you the money for petrol so we're even."
Veeraj removes his gloves slowly. His expression remains completely blank. But there's the faintest tilt to his mouth as if he's mocking me. "You can't afford my chauffeur rates."
I gasp and pull a face, "The audacity." He merely lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for a royal escort," I continue. "You practically forced me onto this thing."
"I saved you from walking alone at midnight."
"I was fine."
"Uh-huh." For the first time I swear I see the tiniest twitch near his mouth. Not a smile. The possibility of a smile. Which somehow annoys me even more.
I turn away dramatically. Because clearly I'm winning this argument.
As I try to pull the helmet, I realize something horrifying: It won't come off. I tug at it and pull harder. Nothing happens. Ugh. Not in front of him. I refuse. I continue struggling. Silently. Dignified. Elegant. Like a swan. A swan trapped in a washing machine.
After another few seconds, Veeraj speaks. "You're stuck."
I roll my eyes, "I am not stuck."
His expression remains deadpan. "You've been fighting with that helmet for a full minute."
"I am merely negotiating with the strap."
"Seems like you're losing."
I glare. He stares back.
"I can do this myself."
"Mhm."
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're witnessing a tragedy."
His eyes travel briefly over my hands on the helmet. Then back to me. "It is a tragedy."
I yank at the strap again. Nothing happens. A sigh escapes him. The kind usually reserved for difficult children. He takes off his black leather gloves and steps off the motorcycle.
And suddenly he is close. Far too close. Every instinct I possess immediately sounds an alarm.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
Not because he would hurt me. Because he wouldn't. That's the problem. I trust that he wouldn't. He reaches toward me. "Hold still."
"I am perfectly capable—"
"Diya."
My mouth snaps shut. Not because of what he says. Because of how he says it.
Low.
Calm.
Patient.
The kind of tone people use when they're trying not to laugh. I hate him. I really do. His fingers close around the front of the helmet and he pulls me forward. A small gasp escapes me. His hand steadies me instantly.
And suddenly—oh.
Oh no.
We are very close.
His face is inches from mine. His eyes meet mine through the open visor. Dark. Steady. Entirely too focused. For a moment neither of us moves. The world narrows. The wind disappears. Everything disappears. Until all I can see is him. My pulse begins misbehaving immediately.
Veeraj's gaze drops briefly. To my mouth. Then returns to my eyes.
My breath catches. His probably doesn't. The man would remain calm during the apocalypse.
He tilts his head slightly. Examining the situation. Or maybe examining me. I don't know. And I definitely don't want to know. Because both possibilities are equally dangerous.
His fingers work at the clasp beneath my chin. The touch is brief. Practical. Yet somehow it feels like the opposite. The strap finally loosens. I should step back. Instead I stay frozen. Like an idiot. Then his eyes drift upward. Toward my hair.
A long silence follows. His expression remains unreadable. Which means he's about to say something irritating.
I know it.
I feel it.
Sure enough—he grips the helmet gently and pulls me half a step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to ruin my entire evening. His nose almost brushes mine. My heart launches itself directly into my throat.
And then he whispers, "Terrifying."
I blink. "What?"
His gaze remains locked on mine. "The local wildlife is going to think a lion escaped."
For a full second I simply stare at him. Then the meaning registers. My hand flies toward my hair. "Oh my God."
He releases the helmet. Completely unrepentant.
"My hair is regal, you giant oaf!" The words explode out of me.
Veeraj actually looks mildly pleased with himself. Mildly pleased. Like tormenting me was on today's checklist.
I immediately shove the helmet into his chest. Hard. He catches it effortlessly. Unfortunately.
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
"You are arrogant."
"Mhm."
"You are rude."
"Frequently."
"You are—" I stop. Because he looks entirely too entertained. Not smiling. But definitely entertained. Which is somehow worse.
I point an accusing finger at him. "You know what? I don't even have the energy to deal with you."
"Clearly."
I gasp again. One day I'm going to commit a crime. A very specific crime. Against a very specific prince.
Veeraj places the helmet on his bike. Then finally looks back at me as he leans against the bike. The amusement fades. Something softer replaces it. Only for a second. Barely long enough for me to notice.
"Go inside."
The words are quiet. Simple. Yet somehow they settle somewhere strange inside my chest. I cross my arms. Still annoyed. Still flustered. Still far too aware of him.
"You're very bossy."
"And you're very stubborn."
"Goodnight, Your Highness."
His gaze lingers for half a second. Then he nods once. "Goodnight, Diya."
My stomach immediately betrays me. Because for some reason the way he says my name sounds different tonight.
Warmer.
Softer.
More personal.
I hate that I notice. I hate that I care. I hate that it affects me. And I especially hate that I walk into my house thinking about him.
Because Veeraj Singh Shekhawat is a problem.
A very large problem.
And judging by the way my heart is currently behaving, that problem is only getting worse.