Page 79 of Cherish my Heart

And I realize—with an odd rush of heat to my chest—that I am.

When I’ve finished, he takes the tiffin from my hand without a word, sets it aside, and then reaches into his coat pocket.

A packet of Hajmola.

I blink. Then laugh.

“You’re joking.”

“In my personal experience,” he sighs, “you should have it.”

I giggle, “I want to know about this personal experience now.” I wiggle my eyebrows, but he’s already getting up.

“Get back to work, darling.” He smiles at me softly as he leans against his table, crossing his arms.

“You’re ridiculous.” I complain.

“And you’re dramatic.”

“And you’re overworking me.”

“And you’ll thank me when your business scales globally.”

I groan and flop back against the couch, dramatically pressing a hand to my forehead. “You’re impossible. I wanted a soft boyfriend. One who brings flowers, kisses my forehead, and lets me rest.”

He leans closer, his arm draped behind me now, brushing my shoulder. “You want soft? I’ll give you soft.”

He presses a kiss to the side of my temple. Warm. Unrushed.

“But you also want power,” he murmurs against my skin, “respect, independence. You want a world with your name on it. And for that, I’ll be the one pushing you—every day, every project, every deadline. Until you don’t need me anymore.”

My throat tightens. “What if I always need you?”

His eyes meet mine. Still so steady. Still so sure.

“I’ll always be there.”

My heart folds into itself.

It’s unfair, really—how he balances the fire and the gentleness so easily. One moment he’s my boss, barking out orders; the next he’s the man who knows exactly how much masala I like in my rajma and wipes the corner of my mouth without thinking.

I didn’t plan this.

Didn’t think I’d fall so fast.

But here I am. Melting into him like butter on hot rice.

I get up and walk towards him, his eyes never leaving mine, and I reach for his tie.

It’s slightly loosened, probably from the morning’s stress, but still neat—still very him. My fingers slip around the silk, grip it gently, and I tug. Just enough to make him stumble half a step closer.

His breath catches.

But his hands stay by his sides, like he’s giving me control, letting me lead whatever this is. Maybe that’s what undoes me. The fact that a man like him, with all his intensity and control and damn authority, is just standing here—waiting.

My fingers curl tighter around the fabric.

And then, without overthinking it, without giving myself room to spiral or analyze, I rise on my toes and press my lips to his.