Page 43 of Adrift

Rani

I sit there, re-reading the damn note until I’ve dissected each word in every which way I can. He’s tried to avoid me but failed. What the hell am I supposed to assume from that? That I’m unavoidable? But why? Because I’m in his way? Because he thinks about me the same way I think about him? And if not, then why?

I shake my head, squinting at the paper in my hands, searching yet another bouquet of beautiful flowers for an answer. Maybe it’s not as complicated as I’m making it. Maybe his statement is indeed an admission of his feelings for me, but then what about the look on his face when I blurted out the most mortifying request in the history of mankind?

If he did, in fact, admit to not being able to avoid me, not being able to stop thinking about me, then what was with the rebuff and repulsion when I asked him to kiss me? Wasn’t it repulsion I saw on his face? Or was he weighing out the predicament I’d put him in?

Shit. I don’t know. The man has never made it easy for me to read him.

Either way, I can’t fucking live here with this hanging between us. No matter how much I try, I won’t be able to sweep this under the rug and pretend like it didn’t happen. I have the rest of the summer to think about; I have my sweet nephew to think about. I can’t move forward from this unless I own up to it and clear the air–tell Darian I’d momentarily lost my goddamn mind and possibly had a stroke.

Shouldn’t be too hard for him to believe, given the strange things he’s heard me say before. I’ll just chalk it up to another Rani quirk, but at least I’ll address it.

I stand, surveying my dress and running a hand over it, before squaring my shoulders. It’s fine. I’m a big girl, and I can fix my mistakes like the budding adult I am.

Swinging my door open slowly, I make my way from my room and down the stairs. He’s not in the kitchen or dining room, so I know there are only two other places he’d be–his study or his bedroom. I didn’t see his bedroom door closed, like it usually is when he’s in there, so I turn down the hallway toward the study.

Releasing a breath and shaking my arms a little to loosen the nerves, I knock on the door. I feel like I’m about to get on stage in front of a million people, without having prepared my speech.

Time to wing it.

“Come in.” His voice makes me jump, even though I expected it.

Fucking calm down, Rani. Fix this and move on.

I turn the knob and enter, noting the wall of bookshelves, packed full of books, trophies, and trinkets. My heart hammers as I slowly slide my gaze toward him, watching him get up from his seat and walk around to the front of his desk. He sits against it with his long legs sprawled out. His arms are crossed over his chest, and I note his attempt at a casual stance, even though his shoulders are stiff and his eyes are trained on my every move.

I suppose I’m the one who needs to break this ice.

“Um . . ..” I clear my throat, unnecessarily. “I, uh, wanted to come here and say I’m sorry.”

“Rani–”

I lift my hand to halt his interjection. “No, please just let me finish. It took me a lot of courage to come here and address the foolish words that flew out of my mouth earlier, and I just want to mend whatever I did.” I take a breath and raise my chin. “I don’t know what got into me earlier. I’m sick to my stomach that I could be so brazen and impulsive with what I asked of you and I . . ..” My eyes fall to the floor as I fiddle with my hands, wishing this dress had pockets.

Why? Why can’t all dresses just have pockets? Is it so much to ask that women be given this small concession? If this dress was made for men, wouldn’t it come with pockets? I am positive it would. It just boils my blood when I think about the little injustices we have to swallow as women.

I momentarily forget what I was here to say as I get riled up about not having fucking pockets inside my dress so I can rest my hands in there and not fiddle with them like I’m doing right now. “I’d really like for us to forget my lapse in judgment earlier and just move forward.”

He’s silent for so long that I have to wonder if I’ve rendered him unconscious. I reluctantly bring my gaze up to his, finding nothing but his impassive expression. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and oh, this is not good. No, no, no. This is very bad, indeed. My eyes adhere to the movement like superglue, and no matter how much I try to unstick them, they won’t listen.

It’s like he’s challenging my restraint, waiting for me to either run out like my pants–er, dress–are on fire or find my way to him. My body sways like a pendulum being pulled in both directions.

Finally, my eyes flick back to meet his when he speaks. “You want me to forget that you asked me to kiss you?”

God, it’s fucking hot in here, like a damn inferno.

“Can you maybe not remind me of what I asked you to do?” I look away, my cheeks flaming before meeting his eyes again. “Can we just call it the ‘thing’ I asked you to do?”

His lips twitch. Fucking twitching, glistening, and ridiculously plump lips that no man should have. Women pay good money to have lips like that.

“I’m just trying to make sure I know which ‘thing’ you’re referring to. I assume it’s the kiss you requested that you want me to forget about.”

I release a hard breath, getting irritated with his use of the word ‘kiss.’ Why does he even have to say it? We both know what I asked. Is it not humiliating enough for me that I even said what I said? Why does he now have to repeat it over and over again and torture me with it? Whatever. “Yes.”

“Why?”

My brows pull up. “What?”

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