Page 71 of If I Loved You Less
“Humaira,” he says, voice low as he takes a step closer. A delicious shiver runs through me, urging me toward him.
His lips part, and there is something in his face that tells me whatever he says next will be momentous, will be life-changing, and just as he is about to speak?—
“Humaira!” Papa calls.
The moment breaks.
I startle back, feeling unsteady.
“I have to go,” I blurt. I run up the stairs.
ChapterSixteen
Idecide to throw a tea party.
It’s the usual group: Naadia, Asif, Fawad, Shanzay, Rizwan and I, plus Sadaf, though not Haya and Zahra, who are busy with some wedding preparations.
We encounter trouble when Papa ends up mentioning it to Mahum Phuppo, who mentions it to Yasmin—sorryJasmine—who invites herself and Emad over. Dreadful woman.
Though I will not let her ruin my day. The menu is perfect and consists of various sandwiches, shrimp cups, chicken patties, and mushroom tartlets for savory, cardamom buns, mini sponge cakes, orange ricotta pound cake, and coconut cookies for sweet.
Naadia comes over early to help me, but I do mostly everything on my own because I like to be impressive.
I wave her away, thinking I can handle it, but then regret it when everyone has arrived and I am still kneading the coconut cookie dough. At least I got ready first, but everyone is sitting out on the patio, enjoying our backyard – the verdant greenery and lush flowers, the bright sunshine, the beautiful waterfall and our little pond – while I’m stuck inside.
“Naadia!” I call from the window. She is laughing with Sadaf and does not hear. I groan, trying to telepathically communicate with her, and for a moment, I actually think it works when I hear the backdoor opening.
“Finally you hoe, come and help me,” I say.
I hear a laugh that is distinctly not Naadia’s.Oopsies.
“The hoe in question is occupied, but I can help,” Fawad says, coming into view. He is wearing a gray suit sans tie, which is quite flattering with his black hair and eyes.
“No, that’s okay,” I respond quickly, my heartbeat jumping off kilter.
Ordinarily, I would have no qualms about Fawad being my sous chef, but today, I am nervous. I have decided I am too comfortable around Fawad, which is a bad thing. I am afraid of what I will say or do; I do not know how to behave when I am so thoroughly disarmed.
Ignoring me, Fawad enters the kitchen, discarding his blazer and rolling up his sleeves. I stare at the movement, eyes glazing over the veins of his forearms. Oh, it is not looking good for me…
His gaze travels to my face, and he cocks his head to the side. I snap my eyes up, confused as he inspects me.
Pulling something out of his breast pocket, he approaches.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. I step back.
“Stand still,” he scolds, coming closer. He lifts his hand and wipes the soft cotton of his handkerchief across my cheek. I feel the imprint of his fingers through the cloth. Heat spreads through me, pooling in the pit of my stomach.
“Flour,” he informs me. He did not even directly touch me, but I feel weak in the knees. Goodness.
“You can assemble the shrimp cups,” I say, clearing my throat. “Over there.”
I point far away from my counter. The things are already taken out. He nods. As he walks over and begins his work, I press my fingers against the pulse in my throat, willing myself to calm down.
We complete our tasks in comfortable silence until I need the vanilla extract (goddamn the vanilla extract!) which is right in the cabinet in front of him.
“Excuse me,” I say softly. He sidesteps, giving me room, and I open the cabinet, then stifle a groan. Naadia put it on the top shelf! I swear this woman is testing me.
I stretch to reach, on my tip-toes, and just as my finger grazes the bottle, a warm body crowds me, a hand coming up just beside mine. I freeze, coming down until my feet flatten.
