Page 70 of The Fake Dating War

“Yes!” She runs her hand along the duvet. “You’re completely right. These linens. So sexy. That’s what I was dream-lusting over.” She lets out a fake little moan, except tell my body it’s not real, for I can’t seem to tell the difference.

“Fuck! Don’t moan right now.” My eyes close. “The sound kills me.”

“Kill you?”

“Always.” The confession is dragged out of me.

“Ah. Your weapon is back. But I don’t see any mannequins in the room.”

Yes, the pillow has dropped. I attempt to cover the situation with my hand. “You know, when you call it a weapon, it does wonders for my ego.”

“It shouldn’t.” She rolls off the bed and stands up. “I mean that it’s for show. Big bang, little reward.Morethan it’s worth.”

Now those are fighting words. Is she kidding with the challenge in her tone? I stalk up to her, tilting my head down so our noses almost brush. “Don’t be afraid, Patel. I’d show you how it works. Gently at first, of course.”

“Is thatso?” she mocks.

My voice drops as I taunt, “We’ll ease you in, so you don’t get overwhelmed.”

I inch forward, almost stepping on her feet. She’s forced to move back, more and more until her back hits a wall. My palm shoots out and cages her in from one side.

She’s going on her toes, trying to intimidate me by sticking her chin up at me. My hand loosely grabs the front fabric of her top. The tension between us glitters dangerously.

“Are you brave enough?” I wonder.

“As if you could take me,” she challenges.

I’m fisting my hand in her shirt, raising her up. Her eyes lower to my mouth.

Fuck, are we really?—

A brisk knock sounds on the door. A voice calls out her name.

We snap apart as if hit by an electric prod.

Patel puts her hands on her hips. “It’s Manu,” she gasps.

Ignore her!is the demand fighting to come out of me.

The knocking doesn’t stop. Patel straightens and points in the general direction of my pants. “Get rid of that, please.”

While I adjust myself, she runs to the door. Patel cracks it open and steps outside, instead of letting her cousin in. Her voice carries. There’s embarrassed laughing. They both say something about falling asleep. The time is mentioned, which makes Patel squeak.

I look at the clock. We overslept. The Jago starts in twenty minutes.

Patel is back, alone, huffing, and frantic. A garment bag is thrown on the bed. “That’s for you.” She swipes her lengha off the hook and drapes it over her arm. “You get ready out here. I’m getting ready in the bathroom.”

Before I can say anything, she barricades herself in there.

Alone, I scrub a hand over my face. I need to pull myself fucking together. This is just another memory I’ll have to incinerate in my brain. Swallowing hard, I tell myself it’s still possible. That I can return to work after this week and we can function like we used to. That I won’t spend every day staring, tortured by these moments.

Inside the bag is a long-sleeved tunic, trousers, and a scarf meant to be draped over across the chest. It’s akurta pajama,I recall from my research. The tunic and trousers are solid navy, but the loose cloth is made of paisley patterned silk. It reminds me of battle, for the way it’s hung across the shoulder is like a breast-plate, but the fabric feels like royalty.

Undressing quickly, I try it on.

The top is a bit snug across the chest, so my wide shoulders stretch the fabric taut. Other than that, the length and arms hit exactly where they should.

When Patel first messaged me, agreeing to bring me as her date, there wasn’t enough time to get traditional Indian clothes for the wedding. I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb without them, and I hated the thought of not being prepared.

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