Chapter 2

His Number

Chapter 2 — His Number.

The monsoon was kind that evening. I saw him before he saw me — that half-smile he wore whenever he thought no one was looking. Mumbai's lights blurred through the rain on the window, and for a second I forgot to breathe.

"You're staring," he said, without turning.

"I'm admiring," I shot back. "There's a difference."

The café was nearly empty — just us, a sleepy barista, and the slow churn of Hindi jazz on the speakers. He slid his hand across the table until the tip of his finger grazed mine. I didn't move.

"You know what you're doing, right?" he asked.

"Depends. Are you asking me to stop?"

"I didn't say that."

Outside, a couple ran across the street with a single umbrella — laughing, soaking wet, gloriously stupid. Inside, his eyes found mine and stayed there. The rest of the world dimmed, polite enough to give us this moment.

"Tell me one thing," I whispered. "Something you've never told anyone."

He thought for a long moment. Then: "I've been falling for you since you spilled chai on my book three weeks ago. I just didn't know how to say it without sounding like a poem."

I smiled. "Try."

And he did.

[to be continued in Chapter 3]