Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
My wings.
That I’m wearing.
Along with the white slip dress I have on, I’m also wearing a pair of gossamer wings. Another thing my mother found objectionable but I love to pieces.
“They’re my good luck wings,” I reply.
“Good luck wings.”
“Yeah. They belonged to my biji.” I smile and explain, “My grandmother. She wanted to be an actress too.”
“So what happened?”
“Life,” I reply. “From what she tells me, Indian society back in the fifties wasn’t very conducive to women working, let alone women working in the film industry. So her dreams never became a reality. She’s the one who gave me the acting bug, much to my parents’ dismay.”
“Is that why you’re sneaking out,” he asks, “because your parents are dismayed?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
My heart blooms harder. “No advice against sneaking out then?”
“Just, as they say in theater,” he murmurs, “break a leg.”
“Why do they say that?” I wrinkle my nose. “That can’t be good.”
I think his lips twitch, but I can’t be sure.
“Back in the olden days, if you didn’t get to perform, you stayed behind the ‘leg line’ and wouldn’t get paid. So it grew as a term to say, hope you get an opportunity to perform and get paid. In modern times, however, it simply means good luck.”
I study his shadowed form for a few seconds, completely flabbergasted.
Awed.
“You’re a scholar, aren’t you?” I breathe out, impressed.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“I bet no one here knows that. Not one single person at this party knows where ‘break a leg’ comes from.” I shake my head. “Except you.”
“It’s a simple Google search. And people here have more of a reason to know what a penalty means than anything else.”
“Ah, soccer,” I conclude.
My dad owns one of the pro-soccer teams, New York City FC, more or less as a status symbol than anything else. His actual business is a group of hotel resorts all over the country. So everyone here is a soccer enthusiast.
“Soccer,” he confirms.
I wrinkle my nose again. “I don’t think I like soccer very much.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“You don’t like it either?”
“I like it enough.”
“But—”
“In any case, don’t let me keep you,” he says, cutting me off.
And it feels like a hint.
A hint that he wants me to leave.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go. But I have a condition.”
I think he shakes his head a little. “I think you should give up.”
I know he assumes that I’m still playing the game. That I still want to know his name, and I do.
But I want something else more.
So standing there, watching his smoking silhouette, I finish what I’d started to do before I ran into him. I take my bra off, despite his advice. I slide the other strap down my arm, then reach back and under my dress to unhook it. When I’m done sliding the thing off my body and the garment is hanging off my index finger, I drop it on the ground. And then sidestepping it, I take off.
On a run.
My fake wings flap behind me; the hem of my dress flutters against my bare thighs.
And my long, wavy hair whips back in the chilly breeze.
It’s like I’m flying and I love it.
But at this speed, I’m going to crash.
Against a mountain.
Or a body that grows bigger and bigger the closer I get to it.
It’s okay, though.
That’s my intention.
Crashing against him.
Because when I do, he’ll catch me.
I get that feeling from him. The feeling of safety.
And I’m right.
Because he does.
The moment I make impact, my front colliding against his, his arms go around my waist. His feet shift and he widens his stance to absorb the force with which I tackle him.
And I’m saved.
In fact, I’m more than saved.
I’m all warm and cozy.
And the first thing I say is, “Whoever calls you cold is crazy.”
“What the—”
“Because I think you’re as hot as a wildfire.”
“Are you fucking insane?” he grumbles, his arm tightening around my frame.
My arms tighten around him as well. “A little.”
He stares down at me for a few beats, a frown between his brows, and I’m happy—I’m super fucking thrilled, actually—that I can see it.
That I can see him.
Finally.
And immediately, I realize his face isn’t meant to be looked at in one go. You can’t just look at him and move on, no. You have to take your time. You have to study every angle because like his voice, his features have a depth to them.
His features have nuances.
They’re meant to be taken apart and analyzed and mooned over.
That arch of his dark brows; the crest of his cheekbones; the deep wells beneath them. The slanting angle of his jaw; the bridge of his nose and those lips.
God, those lips.
They’re luscious.
They’re curved at the ends, bowed in the middle, so very soft and plush-looking. Like petals of a dusky rose maybe. And when I imagine his mouth with a cigarette in it, it makes me tingle. When I imagine the orange embers making that mouth glow, it makes me feel heated.