The long lunch had dissolved into the lazy golden sprawl of afternoon. Plates were cleared, the last crumbs of saffron-vanilla cake swept away, and the villa’s shaded lawn became a soft green stage.
Damiano, Arjun to the family, had discarded his shoes and lowered his large frame onto the grass. He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, the other arm free. Raghuveer sat cross-legged in front of him, surrounded by oversized wooden alphabet blocks. The toddler’s tiny brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he stacked them with surprising speed and precision.
“A… B…” Damiano’s deep voice was quiet, almost reverent. He handed over a bright blue block. Raghuveer took it, studied the curve of the letter, then placed it neatly atop the red A. A triumphant little bounce followed.
“Smart boy,” Damiano murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just like your Amma.”
From the patio, Alankrita watched over the rim of her teacup. The ladies, Lavanya, Sumitra, and two aunts, had drawn her into gentle conversation about Cambridge, her thesis, her health, whether she was eating enough. She answered automatically, but her eyes kept drifting back to the lawn.
The feared Michelin-starred chef looked utterly unguarded. One long leg stretched out, the other bent, his body curved protectively around the small boy who treated him like a favourite climbing frame. Every time Raghuveer crowed with success, Damiano’s stern face softened into something almost boyish. The sight did strange, painful things to the inside of Alankrita’s chest.
Lavanya followed her gaze and smiled knowingly, but said nothing.
By the time the light turned the colour of ripe apricots, Raghuveer had exhausted both his blocks and himself. Damiano gathered the sleepy toddler against his chest and settled onto a low garden bench. The boy’s head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder, one chubby fist curled in the fabric of Damiano’s shirt. Damiano sat motionless, large hand splayed across the small back, thumb stroking absently.
Alankrita approached on quiet feet.
“I’ll take him,” she whispered. “Thank you… and sorry for the bother.”
As she leaned in to lift her son, Damiano’s voice came low and rough.
“He is beautiful.” A beat. “I am sorry I was angry. I thought you had hidden him from me.”
Alankrita’s arms closed securely around the warm, sleeping weight. “Ok,” she said softly, acceptance without invitation, and began to turn away.
The pallu of her saree had slipped. A narrow strip of bare waist, soft and smooth above the curve of her hip, glowed in the evening light between blouse and pleats.
Damiano’s hand rose almost without his permission.
His fingertips brushed that exposed skin.
Alankrita froze.
The touch was warm, slightly calloused, devastatingly gentle. His thumb stroked once, slow, wondering, mapping the incredible softness he found there. Heat flared under his palm; something primal and possessive roared awake in his blood.
She jerked as if scalded, clutched Raghuveer tighter, and walked away fast without looking back. Hurried goodbyes were offered to the family. Aravind, reading the storm in her eyes, immediately offered to drive her home.
Damiano remained on the bench long after the car’s taillights disappeared. He lifted the hand that had touched her and stared at his own fingers in the gathering dusk. The ghost of her skin still burned there, silken heat, the gentle give of flesh, the faint scent of her jasmine oil.
The hunger that had been simmering since lunch now raged.
He closed his fist slowly, as though he could trap the sensation forever.
He could not.