Turning as fast as she could, Naina made her escape into her kitchen, hands feeling bereft and emptier than they had ever felt in her life.

Chapter Twenty-One

Vansh followed Naina to the kitchen, pulling on the shirt she’d handed him as he went. It felt a little bit like he’d been dismissed. Or like he’d done something that touched her. He never seemed to know which it was with her these days.

Her kitchen was a wonderfully warm and tidy space that suddenly smelled like someone had spent days cooking for a feast. An oversized canvas bag sat on the countertop, emitting the most delicious aromas of fire-grilled tandoori chicken and naan.

“Your mother stopped by to bring you food? It smells amazing.” His stomach let out a growl. It had been a while since he’d eaten. In fact, he’d worked out and then left to meet Naina and hadn’t had time to eat.

“Are you hungry?” The nod she gave the food was too sad by half.

“Are you kidding me? I know what your mother’s food tastes like. I’m starving.”

“You haven’t eaten anything all day, have you?”

“I just forgot.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but . . . Vansh, you look great.” She said that as though it were news she was afraid to break to him.

He grinned. “I am aware.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean you don’t have to starve yourself.”

“I like looking good.”

“No kidding.” Finally a real smile. “My point is . . . What I’m trying to say is—” His grin grew wider and she shook her head. “God, you’re totally going to take this the wrong way.” He loved how she tried to control her reactions to him just so she wouldn’t swell his head. He loved how she could never quite manage it. “But, well,” she went on, “you’d still look good if your body wasn’t this perfect.”

“You think my body is perfect?” That heavy/light arousal was back in his limbs, tightening his gut.

It was a small kitchen, and somehow he was standing too close to her again. She raised her hand to push him away but then seemed to think better of touching him.

Turning to the canvas bag, she pulled out a foil package. The smoky, buttery smell of naan made the different types of hunger coursing inside him mix together.

“Does your mom actually make naan at home?”

She opened the packet and held it in front of his nose, and he picked one up and shoved it in his mouth and almost died on the spot from the chewy, yeasty deliciousness.

“Mummy’s made it since before homemade naan was a trend. My parents have always had an old-fashioned tandoor oven in the house. Because Dr. Kohli needs his naan and kababs.” The brightness sparkling in her eyes dimmed.