Page 67 of Drunk On Love

She huffed, clearly annoyed. “A week after her birthday, I have my book launch. Then, in another week, I’ll be moving back to France.”

The words hung in the air like an aftershock.

“France?” I repeated, too quickly.

She didn’t seem to notice. Just nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I went there for college, but I fell in love with the place and ended up staying longer than I planned.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just said something that tilted the axis of the room.

“I came back to India about a year ago,” she added, more quietly now. “But I still miss it.”

I swallowed, the taste of garlic bread suddenly dry in my mouth.

“I didn’t know you were planning to leave.”

“I wasn’t sure I was,” she said, offering a small smile. “But… the past year hasn’t exactly gone to plan. And maybe that’s the sign I needed to finally move on.”

Move on.

I nodded slowly, but my chest tightened—something between hesitation and something I didn’t want to name yet.

“Right,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “France.”

She smiled again, softer this time. “Don’t look so surprised. I don’t exactly belong here.”

And there it was—the sentence that shouldn’t have stung but did. I didn’t realize until now that I wasn’t ready to imagine a world where she wasn’t in mine.

“Do you ever think about staying?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She glanced away briefly as if the thought of being away brought both relief and a twinge of sadness.

I tried to change the air, lighten the weight hanging between us.

“So now, without your fake boyfriend, what if Dadi decides to marry you off during the birthday party itself?”

Her glare was swift and sharp. “Mr. Oberoi,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, “Don’t make me break your teeth—on your birthday.”

“Please, don’t let my birthday stop you from fulfilling your fantasies,” I grinned, flicking a green chili in her direction.

“Ouch… that could’vehurtme!” She yelped, stepping off the stool.

“Really? I missed the chance to see you in the headlines tomorrow:Bestseller author gets hit on the head by a green chili and forgets how to use her brain.”

But I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

I was so caught off guard by my laughter that I didn’t notice her rushing toward me. And then—shiiiittttt.

She scooped up a fistful of flour from the counter and chucked it straight at me.Direct hit.

It was everywhere—my face, my shirt, even my eyelashes.

“Kiara Randhawa…” I blinked through the white cloud of chaos, still processing as she grabbed another fistful of flour and launched it at me, turning my meticulously groomed stubble into something resembling a snowy landscape.

“What? You’re not the only one who can write headlines—” Her laughter was ringing through the kitchen as I stood there, covered in flour from head to toe, my black shirt looking like it had survived a powdered sugar explosion.

I dropped the knife and left the counter as I stalked her around the kitchen island. “You think this is funny?”

“Absolutely.”