Page 89 of If I Loved You Less
“Because you are dressed so casually?” he asks, amused as he looks me up and down. My cheeks heat under his gaze. I am wearing this gorgeous floral full-sleeved maxi dress and chiffon hijab.
“That’s different,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “Because you’re a girl.”
“No,” I say, even though he is right. Flustered, I smack him with my fan (yes, I have a fan that I brought from Spain).
“Hey!” He clutches his arm, then bends down to pick up a twig, and hits my leg. I gasp.
“Rude!” I go to smack him again, but he deftly avoids me. In the commotion, I trip on my heeled wedges, but if I’m going down, so is he.
I grab onto his arm, and we both go tumbling to the ground.
“Oof!”
“Ow!”
We lie side by side on the grass, recovering from the fall. The sun gleams in my eyes and I turn to the side, where Fawad’s chest is shaking with laughter.
“Stop laughing,” I scold, trying to be vexed and failing. “Look what you did!”
On the grass, his knuckles brush against mine, and I forget all about being cross to focus on the feel of it, the tingling sensation it sends shooting up my arm. I bite my lip.
A moment later, my palm turns up as his turns down. His hand slips into mine.
Something sharp turns in my stomach. I know I should pull away, but his hand is so lovely on mine, it robs me of my breath. I cannot move. Do not want to.
He strokes my palm with his thumb, and my breath hitches violently, returning to me.
With a jolt, I sit up, removing my hand. I feel very hot. Much too hot.
After a moment, he sits up too, brushing off his jacket. I gasp.
“Hold still!” I say, as I spot something in his dark hair. It distracts me from the too-quick rush of blood pounding in my ears.
“Goodness, what is it?” he asks, concerned.
“A bug, I think.” I get up onto my knees so I can see better, but the little caterpillar has disappeared into his thick hair.
Then, I catch a flash of green in the sea of black. “One moment.”
I go to grab it, but it wiggles out of reach. His hair is much softer than I imagined, and I would be lying if I said my fingers did not linger in the silk of his locks.
I retrieve the caterpillar, but do not remove my hand from his hair just yet. I revel in being this close to him, my heart beating deliciously fast.
He is eye-level with my heart, and I hope he cannot see just how fast it is beating. But he is looking up, for once, looking up at me, exposing the long column of his throat. His eyes are half-lidded, face solemn, as if he is praying.
“You’re at my mercy,” I tease.
“Aren’t I always?” he responds.
I bite back a smile, then pluck the little creature out of his hair and remove my hand. I sit down so we are eye level again, the grass tickling my ankles and calves under my dress. I lift my hand between us, holding the caterpillar up to show him.
“How cute,” he says, picking it off my palm. His dark eyes glitter with amusement. “I shall name her Humaira.”
“Rude!” I cry, but I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
He laughs, too, and we both watch as the caterpillar crawls across his index finger. I hold up my hand again, bringing it close to his, until my index finger creates a bridge with him. We do not touch, and it takes all my strength to keep the tremor from my hand.
