Page 57 of Writing Mr. Right

Even though he usually has no problem telling me what he’s thinking, whenever it comes to his own private thoughts, he’s not so eager to open up. His breathing stutters as he inhales deeply. “That was even better than I thought it would be,” he confesses.

I splutter a laugh. “So, you’ve thought about kissing me before?”

“Oh, dozens of times,” he confirms. “But I never thought it’d actually be something I coulddo. I meant it when I said I wasn’t sure what love or romance was supposed to feel like. I can give you ideas and suggestions because it’s what I do, and on a subconscious level it’s something you know, too, but I never thought I could feel something like this.” One of his hands suddenly goes to his chest. “My heart is beating fast. Is that normal? Is that supposed to happen? Am I going to die?”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Don’t worry, you’re fine,” I assure him. “And as for it being normal… I’d say yes, but it’s not based on experience. I meant it when I said I’ve never loved someone before, so I don’t know what you’re supposed to feel, either. But I’m pretty sure no one’s heart has ever fallen out of them, so you should be good.”

“Even if it does, it’s fine.” He brushes my nose with his. “I’m willing to lose my heart for you, Ziya Khan.”

My pulse spikes right back up. “How are you so smooth?”

“Iamyour muse,” he reminds me. “And at your core…” Aashiq lightly touches the pads of his fingers to my cheek “…you’re a romantic.”

Even though my heart races so fast it’s like it’s trying to win a sprint, I grin. “You bring it out in me, Aashiq,” I tell him, and at his goofy grin, I kiss him again. His arms go back to my waist while mine reach up to rest around his neck.

Maybe this is impossible. Maybe this is a terrible idea. But ifAashiq has taught me anything, it’s thatmaybeisn’t a bad word. It’s not a word that induces anxiety, that draws out the fear of the unknown, like water slipping between fingers. It’s a word filled with endless possibilities. It shines with courage to face unfamiliar territory. It shimmers with hope for a future worth taking a risk on. It’s not a death sentence, but liberation. That’s the beauty of language. The duality of it. The ability for one word to create a million different meanings depending on how you use it.

Maybe this is impossible—but maybe it’s not. Maybe this is a terrible idea—but maybe it’s a wonderful one. Maybe all of this will blow up in my face—or blossom into something beautiful. And maybe this will break my heart—or bring it back to life. All I know is that the warmth and the joy and the optimism that radiates off the man wrapped around me is enough to make me realize this is a story I do not want to give up on. This is one I want to see through all the way to the end, and I intend to, if it’s the last thing I ever write.

27

Aashiq spends the night lying next to me. Usually when it’s time for me to go to sleep, he disappears, but after our kiss, he stretches out on my bed, and I crawl in next to him. It’s a tight fit, so we cuddle close. We face each other, our fingers intertwined. Every now and then, he presses his lips to the back of my hand, and a thrill races through my stomach. I use my finger to lazily trace his cheekbone. We don’t speak; we just savor the quiet.

He falls asleep first, which is surprising because I didn’t even think he needed sleep. His top lashes gently kiss the spot under his eyes. His nose twitches every now and then, but he’s mostly relaxed. He doesn’t even move much as he rests.

Lying here, staring at him, I realize I could write about Aashiq forever. About the single dimple in his cheek, which dips when he smiles. The slit in his eyebrow that I fight the urge to press my fingertip into. His belly laughs, a mix of wheezing and snorting. How his lean figure looks best in black turtlenecks and long brown coats. His curly russet hair, untamed but adorable. How his blue-green eyes shimmer like the open sea, vast and endless and filled with adventure.

Eventually, though, I do fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s not to an alarm, but to the aroma of sizzling chicken strips slipping under the space under my closed door. It’s Saturday, so I don’t have to go into work. I push the blankets off, and cold instantly seeps into my skin. I grab my plushy blue bathrobe and slip it on before stepping out into the hallway.

I head to the kitchen, where Aashiq is preparing breakfast. His back is to me, and he’s wearing Emily’s apron again. He expertly dices tomatoes, which he adds to a bowl of spinach, mushrooms, and beaten eggs. His appearance suddenly flickers, as if the outline of his form is glitching. It’s so brief, and it’s gone in the next blink, but I swear it happened.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. It was probably a trick of the light, which streaks in through the window and bathes Aashiq in a golden glow. I refocus on him as he continues about the kitchen. My heart swells, and my lips tingle at the memory of his kiss. With quiet steps, I walk over and rest my cheek against his spine, sliding my arms around his abdomen. Aashiq stiffens for a moment at the sudden contact, but he relaxes when he realizes it’s me. He glances over his shoulder, and his face is softer than the midmorning sunlight. “What are you doing?”

“It’s warm,” I answer simply, burrowing into the hollow spot between his shoulder blades. I close my eyes and inhale his sweet scent of leather and lavender. “It’s nice to have something warm to snuggle with when it’s cold.”

I hear the humor in his voice as he responds, “Don’t you mean someone?”

“I’m snuggling with your back,” I reply. “Your back is a thing.”

“You know there’s a person attached to this back. I’m not just someone who cooks you breakfast in the morning.”

I push onto my tiptoes and kiss the spot behind his ear. A shiver wracks his body, and red fills his neck. My grin growsas I set my jaw on top of his shoulder. “I very much appreciate the person you are in and out of the kitchen,” I assure him.

Aashiq switches the stove off and turns around, but he moves in a way so I don’t have to drop my arms. He loops his own arms around my waist. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Better than I have in months,” I hum dreamily. “Especiallybecause I didn’t have to get up at five a.m. for a run.”

“Well, I thought I’d cut you a little slack for once,” Aashiq says. “You’ve been working very hard lately. You deserved a break.”

“Did I, now?” I shift my arms from his back to around his neck, hooking my hands together. “And how exactly are we going to take advantage of this break?”

Aashiq taps my nose. “Nice try,” he teases. “I gave you a break for just last night. Today, we’re having breakfast and then getting back to work.”

My lower lip sticks out. “Aww, come on! It’s Saturday. We should go out and do something fun.” I raise a brow. “You know, the thing you’re convinced I don’t know how to have?”

“Hey, you changed my mind about having no fun after you danced on top of a fountain in the snow,” he corrects. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hypothermia from that, by the way.”

I probably would have if I hadn’t immediately jumped into a hot shower and wrapped myself up in three layers of blankets when I got home. “Well, I was thinking something less extreme.”

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