33. REEMA

He's late.

I'm waiting outside the hotel, but he's not here yet. That's a problem since the whole plan was to be early enough to avoid the crowd, because I don't want anyone to see us come out of our different rooms.

Not knowing what else to do, I pull out my phone. The camera is accidentally pressed ON.

Flat hair makes an appearance on the screen. My fingers fidget with a pin as I imagine my mother's tutting disapproval. She'll say the style makes me look even older than I am. To be fair, it does when you compare it to the waterfall curls Esha has been nurturing for the last year. Technically, my hair could've looked like that if I hadn't kept cutting it myself.

But now the length is uneven, and since I'm an overworked hovel of a person, the ends are split and dry. Containing everything into a tight bun-loop is a mercy, so no one has to look at all that.

In the camera, the mirror-embroidery on my traditional clothes refract the light.

A Punjabi outfit comes in different styles but typically consists of three separate pieces. The bottoms can be genie trousers, leggings, or slim pants. The tunic top covers your bum and can have sleeves of various lengths or be sleeveless. The third piece is a dupatta. Sometimes used to cover your head, the long piece of fabric can also be draped over your shoulders as a fancy scarf. That is what I have done with mine. It's the fanciest part of my outfit and also camouflages the looseness of my top, which I'm sure my mother will also comment on.

Shutting my phone off, I debate barging back into the hotel to pound on Coleman's door, but before I can act on that very appealing impulse, I spot him walking towards me.

The effect of his entrance is a lot.

I expected trousers and a nice shirt, but he's in a suit. And it's not black. His linen three-piece shows off the strong, rangey lines of his body as if each inch has been tailored to an arrogantly specific degree. I'd bet a tooth that nothing came off the rack. That chest pocket, jacket vent, and the buttoned cuffs are all custom. And the color? It's sin. Pale green, a notch lighter than his eyes.

As the first official event he's attending, this man did not phone it in.

I'm buzzing with (outraged) hormones at the sight.

As for him, his eyes peruse my outfit slowly. A throat bobbles.

When he notices me watching him, he smirks.

My irritation flares. "You're late."

"No one else is here."

"We should still show up earlier. I've got a lot riding on this game of ours, unlike you. Though I should say this. You don't want it to go wrong, either."

"And why is that?"

"If we mess this up, I'll be in a mood at work."

"That would be a real threat," he says sagely, "except you are alway in a mood."

"Don't tempt me. I'll hide all the sugar-alternative packets you put into your coffee and cancel your subscriptions. No more Weekly Global Fiduciary blah-blah-blah Trends blah-blah-blah Trajectory Stocks…."

His mouth twitches. "I see your obsession with my habits grows stronger than ever, Patel. When should I expect you to start stalking me after-hours?

"Only after you get your delusions checked out," I volley back. "This is the only week where I care about your behavior. I need this to work out. Which it will. It has to."

My sister is pregnant and I've already messed it up by lying, and now I don't want to mess it up any further.

He studies my face, his arrogant smile replaced by something surprisingly serious. "If you are worried about me, then don't be. I'm not a man you have to manage. You might not be used to such competence, but I'll have no problem making your family like me, so stop looking so worried. I'm not going to do anything to reflect poorly on you. Trust me."

Trust me.

I don't trust anyone anymore, including myself.

Also, he has no idea what today has in store for us. So many more relatives have flown in for the Maiyan. My mouth sets in a line at the thought of them.

I turn and head towards Bells Estate, wanting to get it all over with. He follows behind, and I hear him wonder, "How can you be such a terrifying force at work, but be intimidated by this?"

I don't think he meant it as a real question, but I answer. "Maybe I'm dreading having to act like we've fallen for each other. To pretend we've ridden happily into the sunset."

"It's hard for me as well," he says. "You should paint a picture. For example, is there a riding crop in this sunset vision of yours?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You know, it doesn't surprise me at all that you like to be flogged."

"Why is that?"

"Making the other person do all the hard work while you get off is typical Coleman."

"Not everyone has what it takes to be a manager, Patel."

"Or it shows what little you bring to the table."

"Is this a disguised request for me to control you? I'll see if I can pencil it in."

"I'd rather skip on the disappointment, thank you."

"I love it when you appreciate me. You're so welcome."

A gurgled frustration sound comes out of me, mixed with words about how he's too much work to insult.

He laughs, and I smother any urge to join him. I also ignore how my heart piques with satisfaction when I make him break like this. When he surrenders to his amusement.

Coleman opens the door for me like a pretend gentleman, and I slip inside the main doors of the event venue.

Shockingly, I'm not such a nervous wreck anymore. My conversation with him left little room for anxiety. If we weren't always so against each other, I would get him to do this for me all the time. It sounds stupid but being with him refills my inner well with a certain no-fucks-given attitude. Put plainly, he works me up, and I feel almost invincible.

It's handy to keep around, but I can't get used to it. This is just another game we're playing, and it's going to end in a few days.