Too old.
Too tall.
Too rich.
Too out of my league.
That's Aryan Arora, the billionaire CEO for me. But apparently, he is the perfect marriage material guy according to the world's pushiest parents of mine.
Getting married was neve...
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I took a brief glance at the open kitchen window, through my shoulder at the sound of the door clicking close softly.
A high-pitched voice reached my ears as footsteps came nearer to the kitchen, "Honey! I am home!"
I ignored him, waiting for the macaroni in the pot to come to a boil. A second later, I felt him standing closer to me.
"No kisses for your husband, huh?"
Setting the flame low to simmer the sauce, I turned to look at him. "Why are you suddenly so willing to play house with me?"
A bemused smile stretched his cheeks, his eyes tired of the day-long work yet sparkling with devilishness. "You started it at the office when you reeked of jealously like days old molded bread."
I scoffed, scrunching my nose. "I wasn't jealous. And that was a weirdly gross analogy."
He whispered, trying to mimic my voice, "Be home soon, I will be waiting for you."
My fists formed into balls, as I exclaimed, highly offended, "That isn't how I talk!"
He laughed heartily, "That's exactly how you talk, my dearest wife." He stressed intently on the last word.
"Whatever." I spun around and decided to focus on the food. That was more important.
"You are not going to fight with me for calling you my wife?" He asked as if he had come home just to light up my bulb of useless banters. And now that I had refused to fight with him, he sounded sad? Or was it disappointed?
"Nope. No fighting."
He exhaled noisily, "Come on now... Fight with me about something. Anything. I need a charge-up. I need some adrenaline in my veins to stay up for the thing you had called me home early for."
I grinned, peeking at him, "And why do you think I called you early?"
Rolling the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, he came to lean against the countertop beside me. My attention got hooked on the way his arms stretched when he picked up the bottle to drink water. I tried not to stare, barely succeeding in my effort. The sound of him speaking broke my train of distracting thoughts, "Are you trying to talk dirty to me, Mrs Arora?"
I raised my eyebrows, placing my hand on my waist, and glanced into his eyes, challenging, "If and when I talk dirty to you, you will know for sure, Mr Arora."
He choked on the gulping water.
Coughing loudly, he bent his knees, clutching them with his hands, waiting for the stifling wave to pass.
He breathed in and out deeply, his voice hoarse from the throat assault. "You are not supposed to say things like that, woman. I could have suffocated to death."
