In a bid to save the man she loves, Amrit ends up making a deal with the uncompromising Kuwar Veer Pratap Singh. Bound by mutual weaknesses and wounds they hide from the world the two goes from unwilling pretenders to unlikely allies. Sometimes, it...
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Summary: "Hum se shaadi karlo Amrit. Sachchi wali..."
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For a moment neither of them says anything. Amrit isn't certain if he means to answer her instant complain or means something else altogether.
His eyes are different, with drops of water hanging from his lashes. They are dark, hooded and strangely - full of promise.
Something stirs inside her, beginning of a whirl that Amrit does not want to get caught in.
"Challo!" Veer pushes her forward, breaking that pause between them.
Drenched they crowd under the shade of the boathouse roof while Veer fumbles with the door. It opens a crack - and he pushes it all the way open.
Amrit enters hastily, not quiet looking at him.
Inside is dark, dimly lit only by the dangling lanterns outside. Their light wavers in the rainy wind and cast moving beams of orcher into the room. Amrit who expected some kind of a warehouse stops short.
Inside is an artist's retreat.
There are stacks of canvases in the corners. A table groaning beneath the weight of supplies. On the walls hang a few choice paintings and in a corner, is another table with stacked up paper work.
Taking a turn Amrit notices the door leading away from that main room. This place is larger than she had anticipated.
Veer peels off his jacket, muttering some choice words under his breath. Just as a beam of light crosses the room and the water in his hair glisten, Veer looks up and meets her eye.
"Can you try to light that goddamn thing?" He gestures with his chin at the lantern behind her, dangling in front of the window. "I can't see anything. Matches wohi par hai dekho."
Amrit jerks and whips around, her cheeks heating up at having been caught staring.
She feels around for matches and finds a box on the windowsill. Her fingers fumble to produce a light. She hadn't been that cold to start with. But her hands tremble now, Amrit could barely strike the match.
On her fourth try, she jumps with a gasp when much larger hands grip hers and halts them. Veer stands behind her, his hands covering hers, holding them steady until their trembling stops.
Amrit gulps, feeling his arms brush against hers - feeling his body heat seeping and meeting hers through all those layers of partially wet clothing.
Veer guides her hands, steadily gripping them and they strike the match together.
The spark catches and the match is lit, still he doesn't let her hands go. Instead he brings her hand to light the wick of the lantern and draws it back to his mouth to blow it off. The tickling of his breath on her fingers make them curl into a fist.
