SITARA
I don’t regret kissing him.
If that even counts as kissing—because it was brief, soft, barely there. A moment that could have passed as accidental if either of us were dishonest enough to pretend it meant nothing.
But it did.
And now I can’t look him in the eye.
Which would be manageable if we weren’t currently trapped together in a very expensive, very quiet flying tube with leather seats, soft lighting, and entirely too much proximity.
Closed spaces are doing me no favors today.
I sit curled slightly into my seat on Dhruv’s private plane, tablet balanced on my lap, stylus poised like I’m in the middle of something important. I am not. I haven’t been. I’ve reread the same line on my screen at least twelve times, and it still makes no sense.
Because Dhruv Singhania is sitting across from me.
Not beside me—no, that would be too merciful. He’s across, legs relaxed, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up just enough toexpose forearms that should honestly be illegal. His posture is deceptively casual, but his attention is anything but.
It’s on me.
Fully. Entirely. Unapologetically.
I feel it like heat.
Every time I shift, I’m aware of his gaze following the movement. Every time I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my skin prickles as if he’s touched me himself. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching. I canfeelhim watching.
Which is unfair.
Because he knows. He knows exactly what effect he has on me. And instead of being a decent human being and giving me space to recover from my own poor life choices—like kissing my husband and discovering that, wow, I might actually like it—he’s doing the opposite.
He’s leaning into it.
Literally.
At some point—when did this happen?—he leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees, chin tilted just enough that I can see his eyes even from my peripheral vision.
He looks so focused and amused it’s almost infuriating. I stab at my tablet a little harder than necessary.
Focus, Sitara. You are a grown woman. You draw romance for a living. You have survived worse than one attractive man with boundary issues.
Except he’s not justone attractive man. He’s my husband. He’s kind. He’s attentive. He smells good in that unfair, subtle waythat makes you want to inhale deeply and then slap yourself for doing so.
I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me hyperaware of everything. The leather creaks softly. I hear his breath change.
Traitorous body.
Enough.
I finally snap my head up and glare straight at him. “What?”
The word comes out sharper than intended, but I don’t care. I’m done pretending I don’t notice him staring like I’m the only interesting thing in the cabin.
His lips twitch.
Not a full smile. That would be too easy. This is worse—a slow, knowing curve that suggests he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Nothing,” he says mildly.
