Page 3 of If I Loved You Less
“I like period dramas,” I say. “And there’s nothing wrong with propriety.”
Mama used to hold propriety in very high regard. Something Naadia hated, but I never minded because it wasn’t difficult, it was really very easy. Mama would be so pleased whenever I enunciated my words while Naadia mumbled, or when I sat and walked with my back straight.
She would smile and stroke her hand through my hair, say, “Oh, my lovely girl, you could have been a princess in another life.” And I could feel the love in her voice, how proud of me she was.
“Well—” Naadia starts to argue, just like always, but she’s cut off as another intrudes into our conversation.
“Looking for Prince Charming?” a deep voice says. I suppress a groan. I don’t need to turn to know who it is that stands behind me, and then he’s walking to stand right in front of me, a self-satisfied grin on his otherwise beautiful face.
“Fawad! How did you know?” Naadia says, pleased to see him.
“Humaira is terribly predictable,” Fawad Sheikh says. This elicits a response from me. I snap my gaze toward him.
“I amnotpredictable!” I reply, realizing too late he’s only said it to rile me. His smile spreads, eyes glittering. I go back to ignoring him, though his is quite a presence to ignore.
He’s tall, lean, and immaculately dressed in a black suit tailored to perfection, his white shirt crisp, his tie straight as a ruler. His beard is neatly trimmed and accents the lethal lines of his jaw and cheekbones. His thick black hair is medium length and meticulously combed back, while still maintaining an artful air even as he runs a hand through it.
My eyes snag on the signet ring he always wears on his third finger. He has very nice hands, the fingers long and slender. He’s wearing contacts tonight, rather than his thin-rim gold glasses, putting his dark eyes on full display.
Which is all to say that Fawad is handsome (but don’t tell him I’ve said as much, he’s insufferable enough) and very rich, and at the ripe age of twenty-nine a very eligible bachelor indeed. I can see more than a handful of girls stealing glances and giggling amongst themselves, but I’ve been pursued by enough beautiful facades hiding lack of depth to not be swayed.
Besides, he is terribly annoying. Case in point:
“Did Rizwan not show?” he asks, unsurprised. “Don’t you get tired of the same disappointments?” His tone is both genuine and mocking. “You’re like a child who still believes in magic.”
I narrow my eyes at him, unimpressed by his condescension. “There is nothing childish about believing in love.”
“Well, if you are such a staunch believer, how do you know that poor guy with the drink wasn’t the love of your life?” he asks, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why brush him off so flippantly? Or the DJ, for that matter?”
I make an irritated sound. He is right, to an extent, and I dotryto keep my heart open to everyone – whoknowswho the Great Love of My Life might be hiding beneath! – but a girl must havesomestandards.
I won’t admit that to Fawad.
“I just know,” I reply lamely, suddenly losing all the wit I can usually be counted on for. Somehow, he is the only one who gets away with making me feel stupid.
He insists on being difficult and is somehow impervious to my charms, so I can’t even bat my eyelashes at him to make him shut up. I’m sure it’s because he has no emotions at all. Like a robot.
“Anyway,” I add crossly, “there is nothing wrong with seeking love.”
I bristle upon hearing how much of a child I sound like. I can usually be counted on for my maturity and wisdom and now I just sound naive, which I am decidedly not. Believing in love isn’t childish! What is the point of life if there isn’t love in it?
“No, there isn’t,” he replies, voice purposefully patient. I grit my teeth together. “Just as there’s nothing wrong with hoping to win the lottery, though you must admit it is unlikely and the ordeal unsavory.”
I scowl, opening my mouth with a retort, but stop when Naadia nudges me with her elbow. I turn to see her give me a pointed look, then snap my mouth shut. I remember why I must suffer Fawad’s company: Naadia is married to his younger brother, Asif Sheikh.
I am actually the one who set them up, but that’s beside the point. If I knew how much of a know-it-all Fawad was, perhaps I would have reconsidered the match. Though Naadia is absurdly happy with Asif, so I cannot complain.
I give Fawad a dismissive roll of my eyes. He and his opinion are irrelevant, anyway.
Just then, another man passes by, flashing a smile at me as he does. I smile back sweetly in response, batting my eyelashes to let Fawad know he hasn’t bothered me at all … and watch as the man passing by crashes into an auntie, who proceeds to curse at him in Punjabi.
“Don’t you get tired of making fools out of perfectly reasonable men?” Fawad asks, shaking his head with distaste at the scene before him.
“It is my favorite pastime,” I reply haughtily, lifting my chin. “I do so love to be desired.”
“It amazes me how you manage to carry around that head of yours,” he says, “when it is so clearly full of air.”
“I have excellent shoulder strength,” I snap. Fawad exchanges a glance with Naadia, and I hit him with my purse. “Now leave me alone, the both of you.”
