Page 41 of The Defiant Wife

"Goodnight, Your Highness."

His gaze lingers for half a second. Then he nods once. "Goodnight, Diya."

My stomach immediately betrays me. Because for some reason the way he says my name sounds different tonight.

Warmer.

Softer.

More personal.

I hate that I notice. I hate that I care. I hate that it affects me. And I especially hate that I walk into my house thinking about him.

Because Veeraj Singh Shekhawat is a problem.

A very large problem.

And judging by the way my heart is currently behaving, that problem is only getting worse.

11. OPERATION: MAKE THE PRINCE REACT

DIYA

I am not awkward.Let me start with that.

I am not one of those women who spend hours overthinking a conversation. I don't replay moments in my head. I don't blush over stupid things. I don't stare at walls while wondering what someone meant when they said something.

I don't.Unfortunately, my brain appears to have decided otherwise.

Because ever since last night, it has become impossible to focus on anything for more than five minutes before a certain infuriating prince barges into my thoughts uninvited.

The worst part?The man is acting like absolutely nothing happened.Nothing.As if he didn't pull me halfway across a driveway.As if his face wasn't inches from mine.As if he didn't stand there looking annoyingly handsome in that white shirt while I forgot how to form coherent thoughts.As if he didn't whisper directly into my personal space.

The audacity.The absolute audacity.I slam a cupboard shut harder than necessary.A few heads immediately pop into my office. "Didi?"

I plaster on a smile."Everything is fine."

Nobody believes me.Including myself.The moment they're gone, I sink into my chair and groan dramatically.Because now my stupid brain decides to provide visual reminders.

White shirt. Motorcycle. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. Abs.

My face heats instantly.

No.No no no.We are not thinking about his abs.That wasn't even the important part of the evening.There were many things that happened.

Several things. Important things. Life-threatening things. Like him insulting my hair.Yet somehow my brain keeps returning to the fact that the man is unfairly attractive and surprisingly caring.

I hate it.A knock sounds against the door.Before I can recover, Lucky sticks his head inside.

The ten-year-old narrows his eyes suspiciously."Didi."

I point a finger at him."No."

He blinks."I didn't even say anything."

"I know that look."

"What look?"