Page 71 of Drunk On Love

I didn’t want to move.

“How does that even count as a kiss?” Meeta groaned dramatically, throwing her hands in the air before stuffing more chips into her mouth.

“You’ve become soboring, birthday boy!” Meeta called out. “Remember when we used to catch you in the college, being all romantic with… what was her name?”

Manav rolled his eyes, pouring himself a drink. “It was a dare… Ms. High Heels.”

Meeta made a funny face, mocking him, and threw a piece of lemon in his direction. The game carried on for a few more rounds of increasingly ridiculous dares and truths. Kartik and Meeta found every excuse to kiss. Lina, the designated adult of the group, dramatically covered Nick’s eyes at every instance of PDA, while Myra shrieked in mock horror.

I stayed quiet, letting the warmth of the moment soak in. I felt happy—genuinely happy. There was something magical about the energy in the room. It was chaotic and silly, but it radiated love in every possible form.

Yet, beneath the laughter and joy, there was an odd ache in my chest.

Something’s wrong with me tonight.

____________

Oh, I’m in trouble.

Big, big trouble.

I want to kiss Manav Oberoi. And I want to kiss him so badly that every time his knuckles accidentally brush against my skin during dinner, it sends goosebumps the size of potatoes all over me.

And that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is, he noticed. And it didn’t end there—he smiled at my potato-sized goosebumps.

Now, after the party, my once-belovedThe Cape Houselooks like a jungle. Some people are so drunk they’re still making out on the front couch for the past hour—I’m pretty sure it's Kartik and Meeta. Lina and Nick left and managed to return to their houses in one piece, and most of the other guests had cleared out, too. Myra is somewhere, glued to her phone, probably with boyfriend number 751.

I’ve somehow found a quiet corner in the kitchen where I can make a strong coffee without the urge to bang my head against a glass window. Sleeping with Myra is out of the question—especially since she’s likely gearing up for a night of phone sex.

And sharing the bed with Mr. Hot Oberoi? That’s impossible tonight.

Why?

Because I don’t trust myself around him.

He’s in a completely different zone tonight. He’s smiling, cracking jokes, and those biceps of his have been torturing me for the past few hours—or maybe days. His disheveled hair is practically begging me to run my fingers through it, and those bare feet… honestly, they could put me in a coma if I stared too long. How is this man effortlessly doing all of this to me?

And don’t even get me started on his hands—those big, soft, warm palms. I shivered when he grabbed my hand to steady me as I was about to fall face-first onto the floor.

That moment earlier—when I kissed him, it wasn’t planned. It just happened. And his eyes… the way they flickered with something raw, something unspoken. Could it be real? Or is my imagination running wild, painting things I want to see?

No. This isn’t the detergent talking, and it isn’t just his cooking. That’s everything. The way he holds me steady when I lose my balance, the way his laughter is a rare treasure that I’ve somehow managed to unlock, and the way his smile feels like it’s meant just for me.

And the way he looks at me sometimes… like he knows exactly what’s going on inside my head, yet he’s not saying a word about it.

Oh God, I should never have come here. I should never have met Manav Oberoi. Because now… I’m falling, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.

Please, God, let me make this one cup of coffee without burning down the entire house. I need it.

I plugged my earphones. Arijit Singh’s voice filled my ears, his soulful notes transporting me to another world, one far from the chaos of reality. My eyes scanned the email on my screen—a confirmation of the lease contract for my small cottage in France. In just fifteen days, I’d be starting a new chapter in a different country.

No distractions.

No Manav.

And no random kisses for birthday boys.

I exhaled sharply, as if the very thought could erase the memory of his lips on mine. Fifteen days.