Page 69 of Not In Love

The text from her mother flashed across Kash’s screen like a blade, cutting through the lazy hum of the salon, slicing straight into her spine.

For a second, everything inside her went blank. Like nothing but a pure void existed inside her. Then the world slammed back into focus.

The roar of the hair dryers. The cloying scent of hair spray and vanilla shampoo. The stylist’s hands sectioning her hair with casual chatter.

Her own reflection in the mirror—damp strands clinging to her temples, one side of her hair half-blown smooth, the other pinned awkwardly up with a bright pink clip.

Kash’s stomach turned over so violently she thought she might throw up.

Her body moved before her brain could catch up, ripping the cape off, grabbing her purse, heart hammering painfully against her ribs.

She fumbled her wallet open, slammed two hundred-dollar bills down onto the counter. "Emergency," she choked out, backing away toward the door. "I’m sorry?—"

The salon door banged open under her shoulder. The late afternoon sunlight hit her like a slap, too bright, too hot, making reality that much harder to bear.

No, he couldn’t be hurt.

Please God. Not in a bad way. Not Diego.

If anything happened to him, she would...

Her thoughts spun out dangerously, all the trauma from hearing about Kat and Simon’s car accident rushing at her.

No. Life couldn’t be that cruel to her. Not twice.

Kash sprinted to her car, keys in her fist, flyaway strands of hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks. Her mouth was dry, chest heaving. The world blurred at the edges as she jammed the key into the ignition, her hands slipping once, twice.

Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take a deep breath. It wouldn’t help anyone if she drove in such a panicked state.

Call Mona or Chaaru.

The thought skittered through her mind, but her fingers wouldn’t move toward her phone. Because if she called, if she heard the wrong tone in their voices, she couldn’t even drive properly.

It’s okay, she whispered to herself as she threw the car into gear.

He’s okay. He’s strong. He’s stubborn. He survived an injury that shattered his ankle. He will survive this too.

And whatever happens, I’ll help him through it. Be by his side, no matter what.

The tires screeched slightly as she tore out of the parking lot. Traffic lights blurred. She drove on pure instinct—heart in her throat, fingers white-knuckled around the wheel, sweat rolling down her spine.

The sky seemed too blue, too wide, the trees flashing past like ghosts as she arrived at her house. She parked down the street and ran, not caring to check if her spot had been left alone on the driveway.

Slippers and sandals and shoes and a few unopened boxes made a dangerous maze for her to rush through. She shoved through the front door, the heavy wood banging open against the wall.

Voices blurred and spun around her, sharp, frantic, overlapping. Someone reached for her elbow. She shook them off, her heart thundering so hard she couldn’t hear her own breath.

And then, she found him.

Sitting on the living room couch, dusty and pale, his left leg awkwardly stretched out on a stack of pillows. But his face, his beautiful, infuriatingly gorgeous face, was unbloodied. Unbruised. A sheen of sweat coated his skin and his pallor was white.

His dark eyes tracked her with a kind of stunned stillness before he said, “Kash?”

Relief slammed into her with the force of a crashing wave. Her knees buckled.

He was fine. He was alive. He was...here.

She dropped to the floor, breath whooshing out of her chest, a raw, uncontrollable sob breaking free.

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