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Sarfaraz presses the card against the lock. When it flashes green, he twists the doorknob. “Thirty-four.”
Damn—that’s six years older than me. He certainly doesn’t look like it, though. Maybe it’s the short stubble, which ironically should make him look older, but it frames his square jaw in just the right way. Maybe it’s his hair, swept back and longer in the front but shorter in the back, with a few strands that curl over his brow. Or maybe it’s the way his broad shoulders fill out his tight-fitting shirt. Not that I’ve been looking.
He switches on the light but lets me in first, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize there are in fact two beds. There’s also a TV set up on a stand in front of the beds, and a small table with two chairs. Two lamps hang off the wall in between the beds, and underneath them is a long side table. I go over and turn both lights on.
I want to sit down on the bed closest to the window, but I’m too afraid to get it wet. I look down at my clothes, and my ears redden as I make a crucial realization.
“Something wrong?” Sarfaraz asks. He heads over to the closet and slides the door open. I watch him pull his suitcase out. He lifts it and places it on the bed closer to the door.
I curl a clumped section of hair over my ear. “I have no clothes.”
He pauses, his fingers on the zipper of his suitcase. “What?”
“Somehow, the airline didn’t get my luggage onto the flight.” Biting back an annoyed groan, I hold up the bag that contains my new—and puke-stained—clothes. “The new clothes I bought today were in this bag, but you used it to catch my vomit.”
Guilt contorts Sarfaraz’s face. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to warn you, but I was interrupted by the bile coming out of my mouth.” I lower the bag. “So, I have nothing to wear.”
He snorts, and when I glare at him, he waves an apologetic hand. “Sorry, it’s just... It’s really not your night, huh?”
Yeah, except “it’s not your night” is also “it’s not your day” and it repeats in a vicious cycle. “I guess I’ll...sleep in the tub?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. There’s no point in sleeping in a dry bed if I’m going to make the sheets wet and smell like vomit.”
He flips his suitcase open, rummages around for a second, then pulls out a huge Beatles T-shirt. He holds it out to me. “Here.”
My pulse spikes. “What?”
He waves the shirt in my direction. “You need something to wear.”
Cautiously, I take it from him. “But what about pants?”
Sarfaraz’s eyes linger on my legs, and the urge to cover myself up races through me. “I sincerely doubt my pants are going to fit you,” he says. He pulls out a pair of pajamas for himself. “Wear the shirt. It’ll be long enough on you.”
I choke out a noise of disbelief. “I can’t have my legs bare around you.”
“I promise I won’t be looking at your legs, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I bite my tongue and look down at my legs. The rain made the material stick to them so you can see their shape. I guess it’s good that he’s promising not to stare at my bare skin. “Okay,” I relent.
He gestures toward the bathroom. “You can shower first if you’d like. I think you need it more than I do.”
Despite the fact that I should feel grateful he’s helping me, a rush of annoyance floods my chest. “Thanks,” I drawl, but I head over to the bathroom anyway. I leave the clothes bag beside the door, but thankfully, the underwear I bought is enclosed in a plastic package, so I take that out of the bag before stepping into the bathroom. Once I’m inside, I place the pharmacy bag and underwear on the counter and face the mirror. My bangs cling to my forehead in clumps, soaked from rainwater, and my hair looks scraggly. There’s a stickiness to it, probably from the vomit. Yellow tints the area around my mouth, and I resist the urge to gag at the memory of throwing up all over Sarfaraz and myself. Red rims my irises, and bile sours my tongue. I can’t believe I was around Sarfaraz in this state.
I shrug before moving toward the shower. It’s not like it matters.
I peel my clothes off, wincing at the stiffness of the material. I step into the shower and twist the faucet. The hot water against my aching muscles feels so good I have to swallow back a moan of relief. I use the shampoo and body wash bottles the hotel provides and wash the events of the day down the drain. When I’m done, I towel myself off. I put the underwear on and pull the T-shirt over my head. Concern courses through my body when I realize it stops around my knees. It’s fine, but it still feels like too much skin exposed in a room with a man who is not my fiancé. Even Imtiaz has never seen this much of me before.
I reach into the pharmacy bag for the medicine, but I pause when my fingers wrap around something distinctly not bottle-shaped. I pull out a brand-new toothbrush still in its packaging. I don’t remember grabbing one; Sarfaraz must’ve slipped it in there when I wasn’t looking.
My grip tightens around it slightly, before I set it on the counter and reach for the medicine instead. Thankfully, the bottle comes with a cup to measure the dose, so I pour some of the syrup in and chug it down. The bitterness puckers my lips, but it doesn’t last for long. After a moment’s hesitation, I open the toothbrush and brush my teeth. Minty freshness replaces the unpleasant taste in my mouth.
When I’m done, I gather my clothes from the floor and fold them before tiptoeing over to the door. I poke my head through, keeping my body hidden. Sarfaraz is still in his clothes—he must have been waiting for me to finish in the bathroom. I clear my throat, and he looks up at me. “Could you close your eyes?” I ask.
Thankfully, he does it without question. I step out of the bathroom and move to drop my clothes next to the shopping bag, but I pause when I realize it’s not there. “What happened to my clothes?”
