Page 16 of Claiming His Bollywood Cinderella

Like Daadi, and Dream Girl.

He laughed so hard that tears pricked his eyes. Daadi and the Dream Girl sounded like the title of one of those artsy, cutting comedy films that a brilliant genius like Virat would make. His cell phone rang.

He yelled at Virat, got scolded by Daadi for yelling, and then made her promise she’d be back in two months this time rather than three.

“Vicky,beta, look after Naina for me,haa?” Daadi said, finally getting to the point. “She’s trying to find work in the film industry and it’s not like you to be harsh toward someone so innocent.”

He hung up, after promising Daadi he would look after that “poor innocent lamb” with the decidedly cutting tongue. But like it or not, he did owe the woman an apology, for more than one thing. Grumpy and arrogant he might be, but he knew when to admit he was wrong. And he had been kind of nasty to her.

The creaky whine of the old gramophone player and an old, slow song cut into his quiet reverie. He thought the language might be Tamil, but he didn’t understand the words. The soulful melody suited his own mood perfectly. He took the winding stairs up, toward the sound coming from one of the back bedrooms, anticipation building inside him, just as the melody came to a crescendo.

He found Naina Menon crooning softly along with the song, her small nose noticeably red, wrapping a beautiful, expensive-looking green sari in layers of tissue paper with the utmost care. A battered-looking suitcase lay open behind her, with a rumpled duffel bag. The bracelets she wore on one wrist tinkled every time she spread out another layer of tissue paper.

The song went through a particularly maudlin stretch. Ms. Menon laid her head against the wall, bringing one knee up. Losing herself completely in the song. She wasn’t crying and yet Vikram felt as if she was on the verge of it. He couldn’t move, transfixed by the simple and yet stunning beauty of the woman.

He’d always considered the expression of too much emotion to be a vulgar display. Maybe because he’d been exposed to such excessive amounts of it while growing up. Every day, there had been some unavoidable drama with his parents, until Daadi, who’d been living with them since his grandfather died, had moved out again, bringing Vikram with her back to this bungalow.

But Ms. Menon...it was obvious she was struggling with something. Her entire body seemed to move as one with the song.

She wore another oversized yellow kurta over blue jeans, with those dangling earrings again, and her untamed hair was held together by a small clip that was clearly losing its fight. Jet-black corkscrew curls framed a halo around her face. A colorful, flimsy scarf hung around her neck, a long, beaded necklace with a metallic pendant moving every time she took a deep breath.

She looked like the words from the song given beautiful form. Words he didn’t understand technically and yet the meaning they conveyed sank deep into his bones.

Loneliness. A desperate need for comfort. The very human need for companionship.

The song thrummed through him with a familiarity he didn’t understand. He looked anew at the woman, marveling at how easily he could sense her own confusion, pain and something else.

His first impression of her had been of a deceptively plain woman. And the flash of attraction he’d felt for her had blindsided him. She wasn’t his type.

Although, after the encounter with Dream Girl, he was rethinking arbitrary constructs like types. Questioning everything he’d been conditioned to think from a young age thanks to his constant exposure to the film industry. About beauty and art and authenticity. About the masks they all wore.

Now, in this moment, he realized calling Naina Menon plain was like calling a sunflower boring compared to some exotic, temperamental flower. Slowly, the song came to an end. The deep breath she took sent her breasts rising and falling and he watched, far too fascinated.

A breeze flew through the open windows, and the scarf flew away from her neck, revealing a fading pinkish-blue smudge on the area between her neck and shoulder.

Vikram stiffened, a thread of something piercing him with a sudden intensity.

She looked up and jerked. “How did you find...”

Coming away from the wall, she slammed her palm against her mouth and launched onto her feet so fast that she stumbled over the open suitcase lying at her feet.

It sent her toppling forward.

Vikram reached for her instantly, trying to overcome her momentum. She fell onto him with a thud that knocked her head into the underside of his chin. His teeth rattled inside his mouth and a wave of pain vibrated up his jaw. But even through the jarring sensation, there was a familiarity in the way her body pressed against his. A subtle wisp of a jasmine scent teasing his nostrils. A fragment of sound that had fallen from her mouth that reminded him of how Dream Girl had sounded when she...

“Let me go.” He heard the words as if through a long tunnel, while scents and sensations poured through him. “Please. I’m fine,” she said, louder this time, and Vikram released his hold.

She rubbed at her wrist as though his touch had burned her. “I’m sorry,” he said, not surprised to find his voice gruff.

Did this midlife crisis mean he was going to behave like a randy goat with every woman he came across? Hadn’t Virat teased him he was turning grumpier than usual because“your testosterone levels are falling and you clearly aren’t the powerful, macho guy who attracts all the women anymore”?

With Naina Menon’s warm imprint still on his own body, Vikram felt no lack of testosterone flowing through him. In fact, it felt like his libido was working overtime for the short contact had made his every nerve ending sing with desire.

“No, don’t apologize.” Ms. Menon cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, she sounded different, in control. “Thanks for catching me. You saved me from a bad fall.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her, a hint of premonition gathering at the base of his neck, tightening it unbearably.

This uptight, self-righteous, morality inspector couldn’t be his fun, bold, sexy Dream Girl, could she?

---