Page 78 of Not Safe for Work
‘No, but I know you are.’ When I just frowned at him in confusion, he offered by way of explanation, ‘That photo on yourdesk … the one with your brother? There’s an SRK poster on the bedroom wall behind you.’
I blinked in surprise. Not only had he noticed such a tiny detail … he’d alsorememberedit. Like it was important. LikeIwas important.
Neil slipped his hands into his pockets as we approached the metal gate of the mansion. ‘Figured it’d be rude to give you a Bombay tour and not introduce you to your first love.’
I shook my head, smiling into my chest.This guy.‘Unless you’re secretly rich enough to get us past this gate, I’m failing to see the point.’
‘Well …’ he said, drawing out the word just enough to make my heart stutter.
‘No way!’ I gasped.
He laughed, holding up both hands. ‘I’m kidding. Definitely not rich enough to know him.’
‘Don’t do that!’ I shoved him with way more force than necessary, but he barely budged. Instead, he caught my hand and twirled me in one smooth motion until my back met his chest, his arms wrapping around me. I willed myself to breathe as we stared up at SRK’s beautiful home, hyper aware of our proximity.
‘Sorry,’ he bent down to whisper in my ear, sending a tiny shiver down my spine. ‘But we don’t have to go inside to appreciate this … He was an outsider once, just like you, and look where he is now.’
The back of my head grazed against Neil’s chest as I nodded. We stood like that for a few seconds, him holding me from behind, his chin resting on my head. And then he stepped back and pulled out his phone to snap a quick photo. ‘Okay, pep talk over. Let’s walk.’
I laughed, grateful for the charged tension to be leaving my body. He pointed at the promenade and we crossed the roadtogether. The wind picked up as we stepped off the pavement and towards the rocks, the air thick with sea spray. I hesitated at the first slippery rock, my off-white printed long skirt whipping uncontrollably around my legs. Neil offered his hand and I held onto it tightly as I climbed down, letting him steady me whenever a rock wobbled under my feet. Eventually, we found a flatter patch close to the water and sat down, the waves crashing hard enough to mist our faces.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Neil said after a few moments of silence.
I turned to him. ‘For what?’
‘For how this all started. I saw how much this job means to you and instead of respecting that … I used it to my advantage.’ He glanced at the waves and then slowly back at me. ‘It was really shitty of me.’
A knot loosened somewhere deep in my core, leaving me feeling unsteady. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ I whispered.
‘And for what it’s worth, you’re way smarter than any NYU grad I know.’
‘See, now you’re just buttering me up.’ I bit my lip to hide my grin as a gust of wind whipped my skirt up around my knees. I tried tucking it under my legs so I wouldn’t accidentally flash Neil, but when I looked down, I groaned.
‘Sorry about your outfit,’ he said, pointing at the dark patches of mud that were splattered all over my off-white skirt. ‘The rocks are always wetter than they look.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, brushing at a stain I knew wouldn’t come off. ‘It’s not like it was couture.’
Neil frowned. ‘Why do you always do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Sell yourself short.’
I blinked at him. ‘What makes you say that? Because I said my skirt isn’t couture?’
He shook his head, still watching me. ‘No. Because you said it like it says something about you.’
I opened my mouth, then shut it. ‘I mean, you’re always dressed like you belong in a fashion magazine … and I’m sure I look like a cheap, hot mess in comparison.’
‘No, you don’t. You look great, always.’ I could barely hear him over the sound of the waves, but his voice was firm, honest. ‘You have great style.’
A slow smile crept onto my face. ‘Wait … the guy who roasts—okay sorry—offers “critical fashion commentary” on designer outfits is complimenting my style? Little old me?’
He let out a small laugh. ‘Sure I am. You’ve got that boho thing going for you … you’re very pahadi chic.’
I snorted, a wave of self-consciousness washing over me. ‘Pahadi chic? That’s not a thing.’
‘It should be,’ he said, his eyes tracing the print of my skirt like he was memorizing it. ‘The long skirts, the printed dresses …’ His gaze crawled up my body, resting briefly around my ears. ‘The silver jewellery …’ He reached out and flicked my jhumka gently, before his fingers brushed upward to gather a few windblown strands of my hair. ‘The thick, dark hair … always so wild and free.’
