Page 38 of Drunk On Love

How do I know this? Because I am blinded by how much his skin glows, and his hair looks unreal. And I hate my traitorous, confused body for not letting go of the fact that he took care of me the entire night.

“No saree,” I said, giving my soon-to-be-unfriended best friend a firm look.

“Why not…? Fine!… I’m going to kiss your beautiful chef tonight,” her voice was dripping with mock determination. “And I’ll tell him how utterly, hopelessly crazy you are about him…”

“Myra, stop it! Don’t be insane.” I snapped, but I could feel my face heating up.

“Babe, you’re falling for him, and it’s written all over your face.”

“Myra, I swear, if you even try—”

“What?” she laughed. “Now, go put on thismodal Silksaree because this chef deserves to know what he’s dealing with!”

“No wonder you entertain the whole planet with this emotional circus…” I sighed, grabbing the saree from the bed. “But remember this—you owe me. And I’m not crazy about him. Just… his beautiful body.”

Myra just grinned, unfazed. She’s owed me about a tetra-billion times by now, but does she ever follow through? Of course not.

Once, I covered for her when she somehow lined up two dates with two different guys on the same day, only for a third one to show up at her massive mansion to surprise her. I had to abandon my favorite movie halfway throughand rush over to handle the chaos. Don’t ask for details—it was messy. It involved three mushroom pizzas, seven and a half cheese slices dunked in soda, and, in the end, Myra walked away with only nineteen boyfriends instead of her usual twenty that night.

“How do I look? Stop grinning…” I tossed a pillow at her. “And where did you find such a revealing blouse? I feel like I’m practically naked!” I glanced at her, pulling at the fabric nervously.

“Your brother’s invited the biggest business tycoons tonight… I think they’ll need some serious medical attention after…this,” she laughed, clearly enjoying every moment of my discomfort. Her laughter was showing no signs of stopping.

I looked at my reflection. Maybe it wasn’t just the saree that made me feel…exposed. Maybe it was the memory of his voice last night—low, warm like he wasn’t just calling me ‘baby’… he meant it.

“Speaking of medical help, I swear I’ll break your neck in the next two seconds if you don’t stop grinning at me like that,” I shot back, exasperated.

“Whatever… and your sweet chef isn’t going to recover from your sexy looks anytime soon,” she smiled mischievously, adding the finishing touches to my makeup. “Now, go knock him dead… And hey… I’m dying to know whatpositionhe prefers while—”

“Shut up! I hate him… and now I hate you too,” I huffed, standing up to slip into my sandals. “Myra Sharma has officially lost it… Please take note, people: she’s now a walking threat to national peace!”

She just laughed harder, then casually yawned and stretched out on the bed. “I had phone sex last night, and can you imagine how many orgasms I had in twentyminutes?”

I am this close to losing my love for my best friend.

It’s becoming clear that keeping Myra under some sort of lock and key—or sending her off to an eternal yoga retreat—might be my only option if I ever want peace. This girl just can’t go a day without talking about sex.

But honestly, how hard could it be to live without it? I mean, here I am, managing just fine. No sex, no heart-thumping encounters, no ridiculous “soul connections.” Just me, my work—and the occasional—okay, very rare—self-care moment. That doesn’t count, right? Touching yourself once in a blue moon, only because you got curious from all the over-the-top girl talk, doesn’t exactly put you on the“obsessed”list.

But before I could retort, we both froze.

A throat cleared behind us.

Oh no.

OH. NO.

I turn slowly, every cell in my body begging for this to be a false alarm. Maybe just the wind. Or a polite ghost.

Nope. It’s him.

Standing at the doorway like some brooding monument to bad timing, arms crossed, expression unreadable—except for that one eyebrow arched just enough to make me want to trip over my own dignity.

“Umm… Roy asked me to tell you he’s waiting,” he cleared his throat, low and casual, as if he didn’t just walk in on a moment he wasn’t meant to witness.

I stared at him.

He stared back.