Page 103 of Protect my Heart
“I still can’t believe you’re mine.”
I bite my lip, because yeah, same. I never thought I’d feel this safe with someone. Especially not the boy who once fought with me over a sandwich that I made and fully intended to give to him until he ruined my painting and I got mad at him.
But here we are.
“Believe it,” I whisper.
He leans down and kisses me—soft and slow, like we have all the time in the world.
Which, for once, we actually do. I break the kiss first, poking his chest. “So what’s the plan for the day, Mr. Planner?”
“We have no plan,” he replies, smiling. “Except breakfast. Which I already ordered. And maybe a swim. And a nap. And then I thought we could watch the sunset in the pool.” I chuckle; he can never have no plans.
“You mean the pool that has a view of the ocean?” I ask.
“I spare no expense for you, Mrs. Malhotra.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. But only if you promise not to push me in.”
He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
He grins. “Nope. But I was always in love with you.”
God. This man.
EPILOGUE
ANIKA
If someone had told the 20-year-old version of me—the one stuck in a grey routine, pretending business books were poetry—that someday I’d be here, in my own art studio, barefoot and splattered in paint while my husband argues with a seven-year-old about the “correct way to draw a unicorn,” I would’ve laughed and told them to go sell that story to Netflix.
But here I am.
And the seven-year-old is winning.
“No, Aarav Uncle,” Rhea says with an eye roll so dramatic I’m tempted to applaud. “The horn goes in thecenter. Not the side. That’s not a unicorn. That’s a rhinoceros with a costume problem.”
I snort as I lean over her little table and gently correct the brush in her hand. “She’s not wrong, you know.”
Aarav throws his hands up. “Excuse me, I’m doing my best! You said, ‘Paint what you feel,’ and I felt like my unicorn needed… range.”
Rhea huffs. “Adults are so weird.”
He looks over at me and mouths,I like her. I bite back a grin and roll my eyes. Seeing Aarav with kids is not healthy for my ovaries. I still can’t believe he comes here every Saturday—not because he has to, but becausehe wants to. He claims it’s for stress relief, but I think he just enjoys messing up my palettes and flirting while pretending to mix colors.
“Boys and girls,” I say, clapping my hands softly, “we’re washing up in five minutes, okay? Let your paintings dry, and don’t touch anything till I say so.”
There’s a chorus of groans and “Miss Anika, five more minutes pleaaaase,” but they start winding down. I love how everyone here is in love with art and not because their parents want their children to excel in every field, so they enroll the kids in every class possible. I do not take such admissions.
Aarav walks over to my easel, smirking as he holds up his canvas. It’s… a mess. A chaotic, glitter-smeared, violently purple mess. “What,” I ask slowly, “is this supposed to be?”
“A portrait of you,” he says proudly.
I narrow my eyes. “With three eyes and a green chin?”
“Your beauty transcends realism,” he says, full of dramatic flair.
