“Am I?” Veer arches a brow. “Then why are you suddenly acting like a knight in shining armour?”
“I saw a bad situation, and I fixed it. That’s it,” I snap.
“That’s not your style, bro,” he points out, smirking.
“She was in my pub, and it was my responsibility to make sure she was fine,” I grit out.
“Anyone could’ve taken her to the hospital,” he fires back. “And don’t give me that crap about responsibility.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw, but the idiot doesn’t stop.
“What really triggered you is that you’re completely, undeniably attracted to her. And you just can’t stand to see her hurt or in any kind of pain.”
My patience snaps. “Veer.”
He raises both brows. “Hit a nerve?”
“Drop it.”
“No.” His voice hardens. “And you know what else pisses me off? The fact that you gave our guest house to host the stupid ceremony.”
“You’ll get over it. I expect you to attend it and be a good host,” I order, and he narrows his eyes, his jaw stubbornly set.
“I don’t think I can play the good host. It’s better I stay out of it.”
I let out a slow breath, the kind that feels like it scrapes against my ribs. Of course he’d say that.
“You will be there.”
Veer shakes his head firmly. “I’m a Rathore. I don’t tolerate or entertain anyone who disrespects me or my family.”
“Let me make one thing clear. The ceremony is happening in our space. That makes us the hosts,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Then you host. I’ll pass.”
“If you pass, then you’ll face the consequences. Ones you really won’t want.”
The only reason I want him there is because I can keep an eye on him. The last thing I need is Veer doing something stupid. Something he always does whenever he’s unhappy or curious. And right now, he’s both. He’s not happy about the wedding, and he’s curious about my feelings for Meera.
Veer stares at me for a few seconds before murmuring, “I’ll be there.”
With that, he rises to his feet and leaves the room, muttering something about needing air, and slams the door behind him. I stare at the door for a long moment, run a hand through my hair, and force myself to calm down.
Just then, the intercom buzzes.
I press the button. “Yes?”
“Sir, Ms. Meera Sinha is here to meet you,” the receptionist replies.
Of course she is. Just what I was expecting.
“Send her in, and put all my calls on hold,” I instruct, ending the call as I lean back in my chair, eyes locked on the door, waiting for her to walk in.
Five seconds later, Meera strides in, her eyes locking onto mine.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Why are you doing this?” she snaps, crossing her arms as she stands in front of my desk.
