Page 78 of If I Loved You Less
My jaw drops open as I gasp dramatically. He laughs.
“For such a know-it-all, I would expect you to know some,” I tease. Then I spot another familiar shape.
“There’s the Little Dipper!” I point, drawing the shape, but as I do, my jacket slips from my shoulder. I go to grab it before it falls, just as Fawad does.
His fingers close over mine on the fabric. An electric jolt runs through my arm.
“Would it kill you to wear this properly?” he asks, voice low as he adjusts the coat on my shoulders. Inadvertently, I step closer, looking up into his eyes, the curve of his lashes.
His hands linger on my shoulders, a sure and steady weight. In my heels, we are almost eye level, though I miss looking up at him. His gaze is warm enough to melt any ice in the air, his expression soft.
He looks at me closely, staring into my eyes.
“You have the most beautiful ocean eyes,” he says.
“But my eyes are black,” I reply stupidly. He’s the only one who ever gets away with making me stupid.
“Exactly. It’s like the ocean at night, dark and glittering with moonlight.”
My breath catches. I shiver.
Clearing his throat, he sputters back, and the air is immediately cold once more.
“Now wear your jacket properly,” he orders. “You’re going to get sick.”
“No I won’t,” I reply, tone indignant.
“Must you argue with everything?” he asks crossly. “You will get sick.”
Why must he always scold!
“What are you, Papa?” I respond just as tartly. “So what if I get sick? Let me get sick!”
He lets out a groan of frustration. “All you do is stress me out.”
I let out a sound of disbelief. “Rude!” I smack him with my purse. “I am a goddamn delight!”
“You’re goddamn frustrating, is what you are,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s a smile playing on his lips, and I laugh. The bickering is light-hearted, as if he does not seem to mind.
I don’t mind it, either, in truth.
This alarms me.
He steps closer, unraveling his neck-scarf.
“What are you doing?” I ask, brows furrowed. I lean away from him as he approaches.
“Hold still,” he orders. I do, and he wraps his scarf around my neck, covering my mouth so I can’t speak. He smiles. “There, much better.”
I open my mouth to protest, but when I do, I catch the scent of his scarf, his cologne embedded in the fabric, and it disarms me entirely. (I am convinced they put drugs in mens’ cologne; it is the only logical explanation.)
“Yes, much better,” he says, grinning now. His hands linger on the scarf ends, pulling me closer as if by instinct. His eyes are as bright as the stars in the night sky, just as magical, just as wonderful.
Something sharp turns in my stomach.
And I don’t understand.
ChapterEighteen
