Page 26 of If I Loved You Less
When my tea is ready, I sit, pressing my palms against the cold countertops. Then, I warm them against my mug, holding the mug up my cheeks, to my chest.
I close my eyes and listen to the rain, the pitter-patter, the drop ... drop ... drop.
I hear a rattling.
My eyes open. I wonder if I’m hearing things.
Then I hear it again, and it’s the front door – not a rattling, but knocking.
I look at the clock in the kitchen. The blue numbers glow to inform me it’s nearly two in the morning.
Who could it be? I do not think Zeeshan Uncle will stir; I can hear him snoring.
Grabbing a scarf and wrapping it to cover my hair, I head to the foyer. I hesitate for a moment; what if it’s a burglar or something? But surely a burglar wouldn’t knock. With a shrug, I open the door.
And see a gorgeous man completely soaked through with rain. I know immediately who it is.
Rizwan Ali.
ChapterSix
“You’re not Shani Chacha,” Rizwan says, a slow smile spreading across his face. Thataccent. God, I love the English.
“Is that so?” I reply, raising an amused brow. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, if you are, you’re much more beautiful than I remember,” he says, eyes gleaming. He pushes a hand through his wet hair, and my stomach does a little somersault. It’s really him! “Can I come in please? I’m afraid I’ve brought the rain with me from London, and it is getting terribly cold out here.”
“I don’t think it would be wise of me to let a strange man into the house,” I say. Dimples indent into his cheeks, which sit between the highest cheekbones and sharpest jaw I have seen on this side of the ocean (rivaling only Fawad’s – wait a second, where the hell didthatcome from??? I don’t have time for intrusive thoughts right now!).
His dark brown skin is smooth and beardless, drawing more attention to his mouth and his perfect teeth when he smiles.
“I’m Rizwan,” he says, shocked I do not know who he is. (Of course I know who he is! I’m only pretending. Hehe.) “Surely the man who owns this house has mentioned me before?”
“Zeeshan Uncle mentions plenty of boys,” I say cavalierly, “though I do not recall anything memorable about you.”
“If you let me in, I assure you I will spend the rest of my time here being memorable.” Oh, that accent is like butter melting in the pan of my heart. I try not to grin and shiver instead.
“See!” he says, noticing. “Even you seem to be catching a cold. Let me in now and save us both.”
I step aside, granting him entrance, and he drips on the carpet in front of me, dropping down a wet leather duffel bag. His brown hair is darkened from the rain, but his hazel-green eyes are alert and lively as he takes in the quiet house, the darkened rooms.
“Zeeshan Uncle and Phuppo are asleep,” I inform him, closing the door.
“Phuppo!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers. “You must be Humaira. Shani Chacha has told me about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I say sweetly.
“But of course.” He slips off his shoes. “From what I have heard, there are no bad things to tell.”
“All girls have some secrets,” I respond, being coy, even though I don’t have any interesting secrets at all. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I begin walking toward the stairs, and he follows.
“Now I am intrigued,” he replies, as I climb the first steps. “You must tell me, for I love a good secret.”
“You’ll have to earn it,” I reply, turning around. We are eye level now. He devours the sight of me, then laughs, shaking his head.
“You are somehow even more charming than Shani Chacha described,” he says.
