Page 38 of The Defiant Wife

Oh, that's unfortunate.

Very unfortunate.

The man is built like he spends his free time lifting buildings. Through the fabric of his white shirt I can feel the hard planes of his stomach beneath my fingers.

My face instantly heats. No. Absolutely not. We're not doing this.

I tighten my grip slightly as the motorcycle accelerates. Then immediately loosen it because now I'm overthinking the grip. This is ridiculous.

He's just a man. An infuriating, very frustrating man. A man who believes emotions should probably be regulated by the government. Nothing more. Yet every time the motorcycle slows, I become painfully aware of the warmth radiating from him.

Every time the road curves, I'm reminded of how broad his shoulders are. Every time the wind shifts, his scent reaches me. Clean. Woodsy. Dangerously pleasant.

I hate it.

I especially hate that a small part of me doesn't want the ride to end. Which is clearly evidence that I've suffered some sort of temporary brain injury.

The city passes around us in comfortable silence. Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the engine and the occasional rush of wind.

Oddly enough, it doesn't feel awkward. It should. But it doesn't.

For the first time since meeting him, neither of us is arguing. No sarcastic comments. No debates. No attempts to strangle each other.

Just quiet.

And somehow that's far more dangerous. Because silence leaves room for noticing things. Like the fact that Veeraj slowed down every time the road became uneven. Or the fact that he positioned the motorcycle between me and any passing vehicle. Or the fact that despite pretending to be emotionally unavailable, he'd gone out of his way to make sure I got home safely.

My stomach does something weird. I choose to ignore it.

A few minutes later we pull into the driveway outside my house. Relief floods me immediately.

Thank God.

Normalcy.

Distance.

Sanity.

The motorcycle comes to a stop. I climb off before my brain can invent any more problems. The moment my feet hit the ground, I smooth down my clothes. Mostly because I need something to do. Also because I suddenly feel very aware of the fact that I've spent the last fifteen minutes wrapped around a very attractive man.

Not that I'd ever admit that out loud.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, brushing invisible dust from my kurti. "I'll send you the money for petrol so we're even."

Veeraj removes his gloves slowly. His expression remains completely blank. But there's the faintest tilt to his mouth as if he's mocking me. "You can't afford my chauffeur rates."

I gasp and pull a face, "The audacity." He merely lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for a royal escort," I continue. "You practically forced me onto this thing."

"I saved you from walking alone at midnight."

"I was fine."

"Uh-huh." For the first time I swear I see the tiniest twitch near his mouth. Not a smile. The possibility of a smile. Which somehow annoys me even more.

I turn away dramatically. Because clearly I'm winning this argument.

As I try to pull the helmet, I realize something horrifying: It won't come off. I tug at it and pull harder. Nothing happens. Ugh. Not in front of him. I refuse. I continue struggling. Silently. Dignified. Elegant. Like a swan. A swan trapped in a washing machine.