Page 38 of When Love Trespassed

Raichand Villa – Five days later

It was the first Saturday of February, and for the first time in weeks, the evening felt blissfully normal.

The sharp bite of the winter had softened and was replaced by a gentle breeze that danced through the curtains.

Nandini stood at the door, watching in awe as her grandfather walked across the living room, dressed in a beige kurta-pyjama, leaning lightly on his walking stick, his steps steady and confident.

It had been five days since his cast was removed, and already, he was walking on his own without support. Just the stick and his stubborn spirit. Her heart swelled.

“Look at you,” she said, smiling as she rushed to grab his shawl and draped it around his shoulders. “All set for a party like a college kid.”

Grandpa smirked, straightening his collar with dramatic flair. “What can I say? My old friends at Serene Meadows have specially invited me. There’s paneer, politics, and gossip waiting for me. How can I refuse?”

She laughed, walking him to the door where his longtime friends Mr. Verma, Mr. Iyer, and Mr. Bhargava waited near the gate, leaning on their own canes and chatting animatedly.

They had organised a special dinner at the Serene Meadows clubhouse to celebrate Grandpa being back on his feet. The idea thrilled him to bits.

“I’m finally free from house arrest,” he whispered loudly, grinning. “Tonight, I’m going to live a little.”

Nandini chuckled and fixed his shawl properly.

“You deserve it, Daadu. But don’t push yourself too much. Walk slowly and take rest in between. And don’t forget to take your medicine after dinner.”

He gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You sure you’ll be okay alone?” Grandpa asked, adjusting his muffler with practised ease.

Nandini grinned. “I’m not a child, Daadu.”

“Neither am I,” he quipped back. “But that hasn’t stopped you from fussing over me, has it?”

“Only because I care,” she said, grinning. “And don’t flirt too much with Sharma Aunty.”

Grandpa looked positively scandalised. “How dare you! I’m a one-woman man,” he declared with mock indignation. Then, with a sly glint in his eyes, he added, “But a little innocent flirting keeps these old bones moving. It’s good for the heart, you know.”

Nandini burst out laughing. “You’re impossible!”

He winked. “That’s what keeps me young.”

“Right,” Nandini said, still chuckling and hugged him gently. “Be back by eleven, okay? Verma uncle said he would drop you.”

“I’m not a kid, Nandu. I can handle myself,” he replied, but there was fondness in his eyes.

With a final wave, he stepped out, joining his friends, who began cheering the moment he appeared at the gate. She watched them stroll down the path towards the waiting vehicle, talking loudly, animated and alive again.

Nandini locked the main door with a soft click and leaned against it for a second, letting the quiet of the house sink in.

It felt good to see Grandpa reclaiming little pieces of his freedom again.

She smiled, thinking about how proud she was to see him walking out the door on his own, with nothing but a stick and that familiar swagger in his step.

As she turned and walked toward the living room to draw the curtains of the French doors, her hands paused mid-air. Through the glass, she saw him.

Shaurya emerged from the pathway that ran between their villas, the old mango tree casting faint shadows behind him under the soft porch light.

He looked sinfully relaxed in grey lounge pants and a plain charcoal T-shirt that clung to his frame just right.

His hair was still damp, freshly showered, and the sight of him walking closer made her stomach flip in the most traitorous way.

His entire demeanour screamed effortless allure.

How did he manage to steal her heart every single time without even trying?

She stood frozen, watching him draw closer to the door like a scene straight out of one of those romance novels she used to mock. He approached the door with a slow, confident gait and raised an eyebrow when he caught her gawking.

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “You really need to stop showing up like this. Looking like… that.”

“Like what?” he asked, stepping in when she finally opened the French door.

“Like trouble... the tall, sexy kind,” she muttered under her breath, her cheeks tinged with pink.

Shaurya chuckled, and even that low, velvety sound curled through her like warm honey.

“You’ve got a way with words, Miss Raichand.”

“And you’ve got a way of making even a chuckle feel illegal,” she huffed, crossing her arms, as if that might protect her from the sheer hotness he walked in with.

He stepped closer, the freshly showered scent of his body wash filling the space between them.

“Where’s your grandpa off to? I saw him leaving with his oldie friends.”

“Clubhouse dinner,” she replied. “His friends organised it to celebrate his recovery and were here to pick him up. He was acting like a teenager headed for a late-night date. Can you imagine?”

Shaurya laughed softly, the kind of sound that went straight to her chest. “Good. He deserves that.”

He glanced over her shoulder into the living room. “And where’s Lakshmi?”

“Lakshmi Aunty has gone too. She left for her sister’s place in East Delhi. Took the weekend off. You know how she stayed with me all the time when Daadu had the cast on his leg. She deserved this break too.”

Shaurya paused, his gaze sharpening with interest. “So you’re alone tonight?”

Nandini arched a brow, pretending not to notice the way his voice dropped half an octave. “I am. At least until Daadu returns by eleven.”

Shaurya stepped even closer. “And what exactly were you planning to do for the next couple of hours? Re-read that steamy, scandalous neighbour-romance again?”

She slid her palms up his chest playfully. “Nope. I’ve read that enough. Besides, you know how the real version’s keeping me busy these days.”

He smirked, already knowing her answer. “So?”

“I ordered a few new outfits online,” she said casually, pulling back with a grin. “I thought I’d try them on.”

“Alone?” he asked.

“Lakshmi Aunty’s usually my fashion critic. But she’s not around…”

His expression turned wicked. “Tonight, I’m your critic.”

Before she could object, he gently nudged her inside and shut the French door behind them.

She folded her arms, arching an eyebrow. “Wow. I can’t believe the workaholic Shaurya Ahuja is ditching his work for this. No mysterious work crisis today?”

He smirked, that familiar grumpy glint returning to his eyes. “The world can wait, Nandini. My inbox might be full, but tonight, I’ve got better things to look at.”

Her breath caught, and the blush rose instantly in her cheeks.

“And besides,” he added, his voice dipping lower as he stepped closer, “you think I’d rather be staring at spreadsheets when I could be watching you strut around in those dangerously cute outfits you always pretend aren’t made to drive me insane?”

Her heart flipped, lips parting slightly in surprise at the way his words stirred a low heat in her belly. She tried to keep up the banter.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a fashion show. Not a strip show. So, don’t get any wrong ideas.”

Shaurya didn’t miss a beat. He turned her around, gave a light, playful smack to her lower back, and whispered against her ear, “Don’t waste time, Miss Raichand. Stop talking and go start the show.”

She giggled…nervous, excited, and completely giddy as she grabbed his hand and led him up the stairs.

His gaze was firmly fixed on her, as if she was the only assignment on his agenda tonight.

And from the way his eyes darkened with every step she took, she knew… she’d better put on one hell of a show.

***************

Shaurya stepped into Nandini’s bedroom for the first time, and for a second, it felt like walking into a chapter of her life that had been off-limits until now.

The room was warm and lived-in, just like her.

Cream-coloured walls contrasted by sheer lavender curtains.

In the middle stood a queen-size bed, piled with a messy mountain of pastel pillows and a half-tucked quilt.

A worn-out stuffed panda was perched in one corner of the bed, clearly the longtime favourite.

Fairy lights twinkled along the window, casting a soft glow across the space.

There was a chaotic collage of polaroids by the study table displaying pictures of Nandini with her Grandpa, Nandini with Lakshmi, and a much younger Nandini in pigtails grinning at a birthday cake.

It was every inch the room of a 25-year-old woman, part grown-up, part whimsical—her private sanctuary.

He let out a quiet breath, realising that he’d been allowed into the part of her world no one else got to see.

Ten minutes passed, and she was still in the bathroom. He knocked lightly.

“Nandini, are you trying to knit the dress in there? It’s been ten minutes.”

Her muffled voice came back. “Perfection takes time. Have some patience, Mr. Grumpy Fashion Critic.”

He chuckled and leaned against the wall near her bookshelf, eyeing a stack of romance novels that confirmed everything he’d suspected. She was a hopeless romantic.

Finally, the door creaked open. The moment he looked up, he froze.

Nandini stepped out slowly, wearing a silver maxi dress that hugged her in all the right places.

The spaghetti straps rested delicately against her shoulders, framing a neckline that dipped lower than she’d anticipated.

Her hands hovered self-consciously, covering her breasts, as if she could shrink the fabric into modesty.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes slightly nervous as she looked at him.

“I think the size’s fine,” she mumbled. “But the neckline… might be a little too deep.”

Shaurya didn’t move at first. He simply stared, his intense gaze lingering at the hollow of her throat before lifting to meet her uncertain eyes.