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She’d laughed first at his lengthy texts, remembering how relentlessly Meera teased him about his perfect grammar. But she loved receiving them. Loved knowing that he was sending them so that she could look at them over and over again. Loved that he’d remembered that she’d told him she hated confrontations. Loved that he was building a bridge between them slowly. Even though he’d admitted that Rani’s silences had tormented him.
Loved that she knew her so well. That he loved her so well even though he was so gun-shy he’d probably never admit it.
Her heart had crawled into her throat as Anya waited for more. Mouth half-open, fingers clutched tightly around the phone, she’d finally fallen asleep.
Her phone had pinged around midnight.
I miss you. I miss how you cuddle into me in your sleep. I miss how you tuck your ice-cold feet between my calves and steal all my heat. I miss the sounds you make when I’m deep inside you. Seychelles was damn cold without you. Who am I kidding? Even blazing hot, Udaipur is cold without you to warm me up. I hope you’re looking after yourself. I know I messed up but I’m not giving up on us.
In the dark, the words had blurred in front of her sleep-mussed eyes, before she’d realized that she was crying. She’d wanted to reply like her breath depended on it. But she’d held back. Not because she was angry with him or because she wanted to force some kind of announcement from him. She wanted so desperately to tell him her news. And she just couldn’t, not over a text. She knew if she messaged him back, she’d end up blurting it out. She wanted to wait until she could see him face-to-face calmly, rationally, with her plan for her and the baby’s future laid out so he didn’t have to worry about them.
The next text popped up the next morning as Anya had just finished a session of meditation with an online class.
Meera got her first period. She’s made it clear that she wishes you were here to help her instead of her bumbling Dad. God, Angel, I need you here. And not just to soothe Meera.
The next morning one more:
I stole a piece of chocolate from the delivery you sent for Meera. So I’m the only one you’re still ignoring? You know the only reason I’m not there with you right now is because I can’t leave Meera alone, right?
The next day, two more texts arrived:
Even Virat won’t tell me where you are. I think I prefer his no-nonsense approach to Vikram’s arrogance. Who died and made him king of the world?
You know what’s freaking me out though? How weirdly silent Vikram is right now.
Two more texts the next day:
Meera asked me what I’d done to mess this up with you. I told her that her dad was an old coward.
She glared at me and then told me to fix it.
Three more the next day, like clockwork. Simon’s texts had become the highlight of her day.
I think I’ve given you enough space now, Angel.
Zara’s offered to look after Meera.
I want to see you. If you think I won’t use Meera to find out where you are...you underestimate me.
Finally, Anya circled back to the unread texts she’d received a few minutes ago.
Are you free, Angel? Because I’m close. Actually, I don’t care if you are free or not. I’m done trying to tiptoe around this.
Her heart crawled into her throat as Anya heard the front bell ring. As she heard their once oldest servant and now a family member, Ramu Kaaka, open the door. She could hear Simon’s voice filtering up from the main lounge, up the stairs and finally his steps outside her bedroom. The fact that Ramu Kaaka had simply invited him in meant her brother—probably Vikram—had given up her location.
Anya had barely a second to brace herself when the door opened and Simon walked in. Into her childhood bedroom where he dwarfed everything all over again. Where she’d once dreamed of a man just like him—tall and kind and so...achingly handsome.
A dark blue sweatshirt spanned the breadth of his chest and Anya had to force herself to keep breathing at the sight of him. From his hard, powerful thighs to the gray at his temples, he was like a fist to her heart. Dark stubble decorated his sculptured cheekbones and his square jaw, giving him a bit of a roguish look.
He said nothing, as if he’d used up everything he had to say in those texts.
His hands went to her messy sketching table and all the free paper she’d left floating around. Head bent, he studied some of the sketches until his fingers touched on one she’d done of him.
She wasn’t a portrait artist by any means—not a good one. But it was all she’d been doodling for the past two weeks. The man had a thoroughly masculine face that had drawn her interest from the first moment she’d seen him. Even before he’d asked her if he could help.
He held up another sketch of him, frowned and then he put it down.
Only then—after what felt like the longest three minutes in the history of time—his gaze moved to her. As if he’d needed time to brace himself.
