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Her scent? Was she smelly? Sweaty? Panic stinky?
“You smell fine,” Harsh murmured, clearly adding mind reading to his many talents.
“Fine?” Fine meant she smelt a shade better than a basket of fish. “Fine??”
“You smell like a garden in bloom,” he said with an exaggerated flourish to his words.
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered, oddly flattered even though she knew it couldn’t be true.
“With a delicate undertone of the manure used to fertilise it,” he added, laughter layering his voice.
“Harsh!”
Still laughing, he evaded her swatting hand. “Stop spitting toothpaste at me. It isn’t romantic.”
“I’ll show you romantic. I’ll shove the toilet brush up your arse,” she muttered, shoving her toothbrush into her mouth instead and scrubbing her teeth with a vengeance.
“Aww honey, you’re the sweetest. That sharp as a knife tongue of yours is what I love the most about you.”
Raashi froze, her eyes meeting Harsh’s wide ones in the mirror. He seemed to have turned to stone behind her.
“W-w-what?” she stuttered, spraying toothpaste in every direction.
The infernal pounding on their door began in earnest again.
“That’s it,” Harsh muttered. “We’re moving out.”
And then he left the room before she could corner him and demand answers. Instead, she was left to brush her teeth and then shower, so she could get the Eau De Manure off of her, with her mind whirling.
What had he meant by that? It was just a casual statement, wasn’t it? He didn’t actually mean love as in love did he?
DID HE?
Forty-Seven
HARSH
Harsh wandered into the second bathroom in their wing and quickly freshened up. He changed into a cotton kurta and pyjama, channelling his inner Agastya for the bound to be awkward breakfast meeting today. He tamed his hair the best he could and arrived back in the bedroom at the same time as Raashi in her pale blue chikankari salwar kameez.
A snort of laughter escaped him as he watched her pull her hair into a short, stubby ponytail.
“What?” Raashi asked defensively.
Harsh walked over to stand behind her, turning her to face the mirror. It framed the two of them perfectly, her head coming to just below his chin. The blue of her suit setting off the white of his kurta perfectly.
“Look at how wonderfully conventional we look this morning,” he said finally, his gaze on her perfect, little, pixie face. He saw her lush, bow lips curve into a rueful smile and tore his gaze from it. If he went down that road, they weren’t leaving the room anytime soon.
A tortured groan escaped him as he wrapped his hands around her waist, his head dropping to her shoulder. Her hand came up to gently caress his hair. He kissed her neck, tiny, open-mouthed kisses that had her shivering.
“Harsh,” she breathed.
“I know,” he murmured.
“We can’t,” she gasped as his teeth nipped her ear lobe.
“I know,” he ground out. “I know!”
With a last, shuddering breath he stepped away from her, his hands clenching at his side, his hot, fevered gaze roving over her body.
