38. REENA

"Do you need help with anything?" I ask Esha as if I'm the picture of nonchalance and don't need many, many distractions right now.

Of course, as usual, my sister doesn't care about my needs. She brags that the beauty in her choosing this location for her wedding is how they're a well-oiled machine. She tells me to relax, go back to my room, and sit on my boyfriend's face since rumor has it we were seconds away from dropping our pants and sucking each other off just minutes ago.

She says her plan is to find Gurinder and do the same. And to catch up with him on how his week is going. So far their events have been separated, but tonight both sides are coming together for a joint Jago party.

Since my sister is of no help, I try to look for my parents. They are nowhere to be found. When I cave and call my mother, she tells me how she was planning on spending more time with me and Coleman, but can't seem to get out of bed. A nap has taken priority.

Before she goes back to sleep, I tell her to stop dad from bringing up marriage and me and this week. Even if I wasn't passing off a fake-boyfriend as real, in no reality would I bandwagon my wedding to my sister's big moment. For one, she would kill me. Second, I doubt I'll ever get married again.

Not that my family understands this.

They're already imagining Coleman and I will be together forever. Once again, I realize I hadn't thought this whole fake-dating plan through. I didn't factor in what would happen after the wedding. For sure, every call I get from my family will now include questions about my future with him. They'll keep pushing about timelines, proposals, moving in together, babies…

How do I stop that?

Maybe by the end of this week, I'll hint at trouble in paradise? Or some big difference of opinion that is forcing us apart? Or a road-bump we have in bed…?

No one is going to believe that last one. Especially now.

His delicious grip on my neck as he toyed with my mouth…

No! Not thinking about that.

To keep distracting myself, I message Leo. He's sent a photo of Wyatt in gorgeous, sunny Jamaica. Below it is a message: My vacation is better than yours. And a follow-up: Have you fucked Satan yet?

I refuse to answer his question, because I'm repressing hard right now, but I send him a selfie. I'm behind a fern in the hotel lobby, so his vacation is better than mine at the moment. Putting my phone away, I scan the foyer. Everyone has either left to walk Main St or has already made it to their rooms. The coast seems clear.

I dash through the lobby and I'm smiling because I think I've made it without ambush, but then I meet my cousin Manu and her husband there, sans their children for once. Dammit!

We greet each other and make small-talk. They don't allude to my divorce, how they had little hope for my future, or ask about my ovaries. Actually, they say it's been too long since we've caught up and seem happy to see me.

When the elevator comes, we step inside.

"Your boyfriend seems great," says Manu. "I can tell he loves you."

U-turning away from that topic, I compliment her outfit. My mistake. Suddenly we're talking about Indian outfits, and Manu is telling me how her husband is a clothing horse, and it's noticed that he and Coleman have similar body proportions. They are both tall and athletic.

The elevator opens to their floor, but Manu keeps the door open with her hand. "Does he have any traditional Indian outfits?"

Considering Coleman was a last-ditch date, no, he does not. "We've had a… busy year. There wasn't time for him to get any ordered, but it's fine. He brought his formal suits and they are nice!" I assume.

Not all relatives are bad. Some are good or neutral, and some have an insanely generous Punjabi spirit. This pair falls into the last category. Manu won't let it go. She insists her husband has an extra outfit they can spare for tonight, drags my room number out of me, and promises to deliver it for Coleman to try shortly.

After they leave, I will the elevator to hurry the fuck up. I'm sweating.

If they come inside my room, it won't have his things in it. It won't look occupied by a couple!

In a flash, I'm pounding on Coleman's door, praying the corridor stays empty.

When he finally answers, I step back and gasp. "What are you wearing?!"

Smoothing a hand over his face, he then brings it to the back of his neck and scratches. It makes his pectoral bunch, which I very much notice since he's got no shirt on! Not only that, but the raising of his biceps makes it that much more obvious that his upper body is a powerful "V" shape knitted with clear, mappable muscles that would make any fitness trainer delirious with pride.

"This isn't some Vegas strip-show," I scold. "Cover yourself!"

"I was resting, Patel." He moves to the side enough that I can duck in. "Don't knock as if the building is burning, and I'll have time to put on a shirt next time."

Spotting his luggage, I go straight for it and grab the handle. The rest of the room—true to form—is absurdly neat.

"Does it need more henna?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"What? No.Grab your stuff. You've got to bring it to my room."

"Why?"

"No time to explain." Who knows if Manu is already there, knocking? "Just trust me!"

I assume that is the wrong thing to say, since why would he do that? But he has put on a shirt, gone and collected a toiletry bag from the bathroom, swung a duffel onto his shoulder and then with a brisk tug, takes the luggage out of my hands.

Since I'm empty-handed, I try to take something off his hands, but he ignores my attempts and orders me to be his door-opener.

We're quick and efficient, but still run into an aunty on our way. I don't recognize her, vaguely mumble something about laundry, which makes no sense, and don't pause for any chit-chat.

Only once we're safely back in my room do I breathe properly.

Coleman walks around. He stares at the empty chip bag on my dresser, the chocolate wrappers, and the empty water bottles I haven't gotten around to recycling. Plus, the hairbrush plonked on its side, half-hanging from the ledge of the table.

"Don't waste time," I say, stopping his judgy survey. "Quickly, make it seem like you've been staying here the whole time."

He puts his luggage in the corner. The duffle is dropped beside it. They remain closed. My empty wrappers are thrown in the trash. When he starts gathering water bottles, I grab his toiletry bag and put it in the bathroom. Next to my toppled over makeup and perfume bottles, it doesn't look like it belongs, so I unzip the bag and pull out a few things.

Coleman's head pops in the doorway. "Stop that."

"Pay attention. This is how you trick women into thinking you're not a serial killer." I pull out a bottle of cologne, catching a subtle whiff of it. So this is what he smells like. The bottle is brought to my nose. Without meaning to do it, my eyes flutter close. I forget I'm being watched and smell it again. It's more than nice. It's sumptuous.

Glancing in the mirror, I catch his smirk in the mirror. He says something about me needing private time and walks away.

"It's revolting," I yell out, too late.

Deciding I should put his toothpaste on the counter, I pull out the tube. Along the way, a few packets of foil nudge my hand. I look down and my face explodes with heat.

Condom companies love false marketing, right? Their sizes aren't accurate. Double XL could mean anything.

"What else am I supposed to do?" he asks, calling out my name.

I don't have time to splash water on my face. I'm grateful for how my brown skin hides blushing since my cheeks are basically on fire. Leaving the bathroom, I pretend I'm cool as a fucking cucumber. Act casual. Act like those aren't his. Act like they weren't meant for his dick, but emergency gloves for his hands. Or for balloon animals. Yes, he's a balloon animal enthusiast. How weird and fucked up is that…

"Patel?"

I force myself to smile. "Now we wait. It shouldn't be too long now."