THIS WILD CATASTROPHE

PLAYING FOR KEEPS

BOOK 1

AARTI V RAMAN

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 CONTENTS

A Note for You

A Glossary of Terms
This Wild Catastrophe Playlist
Prologue : The Fan
TWELVE YEARS AGO
1. Queenie
2. Queenie
3. Noah
4. Queenie
5. Queenie
6. Noah
7. Noah
8. Queenie
9. Queenie
10. Queenie
11. Noah
12. Queenie
13. Queenie
14. Queenie
15. Noah
16. Queenie
17. Noah
18. Queenie
19. Noah
20. Queenie
21. Noah
22. Queenie
23. Queenie
24. Queenie
25. Queenie
26. Queenie
27. Noah
28. Queenie
29. Noah
30. Noah
31. Queenie
32. Queenie
33. Queenie
34. Queenie
35. Queenie
36. Noah
37. Queenie
38. Queenie
39. Noah
40. Noah
41. Queenie
42. Queenie
43. Queenie
44. Noah
45. Noah
46. Queenie
47. Queenie
48. Queenie
49. Noah
50. Queenie
51. Queenie
52. Noah
53. Queenie
54. Noah
55. Queenie
56. Queenie
57. Noah
58. Noah
TWELVE YEARS LATER
Epilogue: Noah

Excerpt from Heartbreak Vows

Excerpt from Fox and Mischa’s Book
Excerpt from Jace Archer’s Book
Thank You
Also by Aarti V Raman
About Me

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 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

The cricket-loving fan who thirsts for a happy ever after. How is India-
Australia for the enemies-to-lovers trope?

And every romance reader who has been judged on their looks, their
weight, their shape, their name, the color of their skin and felt shame.
Queenie is here to tell you, “If you’re not the heroine of your own story,
who are you?”

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 A NOTE FOR YOU

Dear Reader,
Thank you for giving me the privilege of your time, energy, and money,
considering the time we live in. I do not take this responsibility lightly. And
I damn well want to earn it all with Noah and Queenie’s epically angsty,
banter-filled story.
When you enter This Wild Catastrophe and the Aartiverse’s
Archerverse, I hope you find escape, relief, entertainment and, most of all,
hope in the hours you spend here.
This book broke me, plain and simple. Both in the writing and editing of
it, and simply in the time it took for it to come into existence. Writing it
strengthened my belief in my own skill, my talent, and yes, my magic. But
my magic is nothing without you – a writer is only as good as the reader
who devours their work. And for me, that’s you. <3
A small note on the content of This Wild Catastrophe. Noah and
Queenie’s story deals with some important issues – body image, bullying,
predatory assault (but not on page). All of these details were necessary to
tell the story of a girl who had lost her self-worth and the boy who watched
as being around him helped her get it back.
‘Cuz in the end, that is all this story about. A princess who rescues the
knight back once he rescues her!
 With that being said, I leave you to enjoy this real fairytale set in the
only sport that matters – cricket. (I’m kidding. Or am I? :P)
Love,
Noah, Queenie, The Gang, & Aarti

PS: I’d greatly appreciate a rating or a review once you’ve read This Wild
Catastrophe. And consider signing up to The Writer Gal Letter where you
get first looks on all the important Aarti V Raman booksy news.

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 A GLOSSARY OF TERMS

While all the many colloquial terms given here have also been explained in
the course of the story, I figured the glossary would be a handy text guide to
have before reading This Wild Catastrophe. Especially so you understand
the complex and fascinating sport that is cricket!

AUSTRALIAN
Heaps: Lots
Arvo: Afternoon
Berk: Idiot (affectionate term)
Mum: Mother
Mate: Buddy, pal.

HINDI & TAMIL-SANSKRIT

Kutte: Dog
Ulloo ke patthe: Daft fool
Saale: Slimeball
Suar ki aulad: Son of a cowardly pig
Paneer Pakoras: Cottage cheese fritters. Spice-marinated cottage cheese
cubes dipped in gram flour batter and deep fried till crispy
Gaajar ka halwa: Dessert made from carrots, milk, sugar, and clarified
butter or ghee. Grated carrots cooked in boiling milk with sugar and ghee,
till properly melted. Served with raisins, chopped almonds and cashews on
top.
Bete: Sweet child
Beta: Child
Baccha: Little child
Kunju: Baby girl
Kuttils: Little girl
Chachu: Uncle
Ennekku nee vennum: For me, you’re the want

CRICKET
Match: Every cricket game is called a match. A match is played for two
innings, one by each team playing.
Innings: Length of time each team fields/bowls or bats for a number of
overs, depending on the format being played.
Over: A single cricket match over consists of six deliveries by a bowler.
Depending on the format being played, a cricket match will be of 20 overs
each (T20), 50 overs each (ODI) or a total of 360 overs (test) between
playing teams.
T20: Twenty-Twenty over matches. Where each team plays for a maximum
of twenty overs.
ODI: One Day International. Also called 50 Over Matches, where each side
plays a maximum of fifty overs.
Test: Test matches are five-day matches. They consist of two innings
played by each team, where Team 1 plays Inning One, followed by Team 2
playing Inning One, then Team 1 plays Inning Two and Team Two ends
with Inning 2. Each of the five days can have a maximum of ninety overs.
Team: A cricket team consists of twelve players with varying specialties
like batter, bowler, and one wicketkeeper. A team is also allowed four
substitutes in international matches. No substitutes can be made once a
player enters the field, unless injured.
Pitch: Twenty-two-yard rectangle which counts as the running length for
batters.
Stumps: Three wooden sticks placed on either end of the pitch. Two bails
are placed on top connecting the three stumps. When the bails off, a batter
is considered ‘out’ and must depart the field.
Outfield: Length of the ground/stadium where the match is played. Always
a circle.
Batter: Person batting on the pitch. There are two batters on either end of
the pitch, one on the batting end and one on the non-batting end.
Wicket: A batter secures their ‘wicket’ by not getting out and scoring runs.
Bowler: Person bowling from the non-batter end. Bowlers are classified as
pace/fast bowlers, spin, midarm, mid-off bowlers, depending on their
specialty. A bowler secures their wickets by getting the batter out and
curbing runs.
Wicketkeeper: Person sitting behind the batter who ‘keeps’ the ball from
running over him. Also responsible for catching the ball and getting a batter
out.
Fielder: Every player who is not batting or bowling or keeping is a fielder.
Fielders are placed all around the outfield in strategic positions by the
captain to catch the ball, stop the ball, and curb runs scored by batter.
Umpire: Deciding authority on the score, deliveries, wickets. Stands on the
non-batter’s end behind the stumps to have a clear view of the pitch,
wicketkeeper, and batter.
Third umpire: The TV umpire who watches from the den. Final decision-
maker for difficult to ascertain wickets.
Run: Unit of measurement to decide the score. A run is scored when a
batter hits the ball and crosses from batting end to non-batter end – also
called running between the wickets. Runs are usually singles, doubles,
threes, fours, and sixes. A double is when batter doubles back after a single
is scored. Three runs are scored when the batter goes back to the non-batter
end.
Four: Four runs are scored when the batter hits a ball beyond the circle of
rope around the field called the boundary line. Also called a boundary.
Six: Batter hits the ball beyond the boundary line or out of the
stadium/ground. Consider it like a homerun in baseball.
Team Score: Team score is total number of runs scored by the batting team
in their innings. It is written as 300 for 5 wickets.
Batter Score: Batter score is total number of runs scored by individual
batter during their innings. It is written as 100 off 26 balls/deliveries.
Bowler Score: Bowler is total number of wickets taken by the bowler
during their bowling spell in the team’s innings. It is written as 5 wickets
for 20 runs.
Out: Term for when a batter is caught or bowled out.
Bowled Out: When a bowler’s ball smashes the stumps by beating the
batter, it’s a bowled out.
Caught/Catch: When a bowler’s ball is caught by either the wicket keeper,
the bowler or any fielder after making contact with the batter’s bat, it is
called a catch.
Cover drive: A type of batting shot used by batters to score runs. It requires
the batter to hit the ball between the fielders ‘covering’ him. Usually used to
get a boundary.
World Cup: The International 50 Over ODI World Cup, where ranked
national teams compete for six-seven weeks through round robins, playoffs
to reach the quarters, semi-finals and finally the final. One team gets
declared the winner and gets the cup. The ODI World Cup is held every
four years.
Skipper: Captain, leader.

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 THIS WILD CATASTROPHE PLAYLIST

Listen on Spotify

Noah and Queenie’s soundtrack has been shared chapter by chapter, cuz
music makes any story worth telling, better.
Enjoy

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“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid
the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I
had begun.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Pride and Prejudice.

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 PROLOGUE : THE FAN
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘JUICE’ BY TOBE NWIGWE, PAUL WALL

“…PERCY, let’s do a quick recap of this year’s One Day International

Cricket World Cup final match, shall we?” The commentator chats with his
partner and gives a rundown of the score, so far. Ending with, “With only
eleven balls left and twenty-four runs needed for a resounding final win
with only four wickets in hand… Can the captain win the match for his
team?”
I almost consider muting the damn commentator off. Especially as they
go into a TV commercial break in the middle of the fucking over because
the batter, the captain, is on a medical timeout. I mean, yes, it’s bad what
happened to his thumb but come on, man! It’s the damn ODI World Cup
final match. Play through the fucking pain.
The program then switches from the live feed to the replay of the
supersonic ball that smashed into the batter’s thumb over two layers of
protection. Ouch.
“Stop giving me the damn play by play.” My thumb thrums in
sympathetic response, while I side-eye the pie lying next to me. It’s half-
eaten because I, Simon Archer, the coldest CEO on Wall Street, need the
comfort of carbs and sugar while I experience this traumatic moment on
television, thousands of miles away from the MCG - Melbourne Cricket
Ground.
 The commentator comes back after the break and gives impressive stats
of both teams. “Of course, let’s not forget the four World Cup Twenty20
championships already under this team’s belt,” he continues. “And the third
Test World Championship clinched so magnificently just last year with a
double century from the captain himself. I just⁠—”
I mute the TV, uninterested in stats and text the group chat cheekily
called FOMO, Bro!
Is he okay? What’s the medical situation on the ground?

Idiot 1 aka Jace Archer answers back promptly.

Seems okay. Still standing.

Idiot 2, Cade Archer, sends me a selfie of the two of them peering

through binoculars from the VIP box with shit-eating grins.
I send them profanities in response, get cussed back in return. I turn my
attention to the screen, unmuting the TV. The captain is finished with the
medic.
The commentator says, “…And he truly is great. Winning all the
important cricket tournaments in six years is something no one has
achieved. Ever. And, I do mean, he has won everything in his captaincy.
International Premier Leagues, world cups in all the formats, individual
series against the top teams in the cricket-playing world.”
“FUCK, YEAH!” I punch my fist in the air.
The batter has put on his white batting gloves (I privately think they are
exactly like baseball catcher’s mitts) over the splinted thumb and is walking
away from the medic. His stance is confident, and his jersey #22 is sticking
to his back from the heat.
Excitement courses through my veins. I check the group chat.
Idiot 1 (Jace) –
Roger on the injury. He’s good to go.

Idiot 2 (Cade) –
Maybe he should get the sub in. Thumb splints are no joke.

The commentator replays what Idiot 1 told me just moments ago,

almost word for word. Play resumes again.
 The bowler sets up the ball. He is a pacer, a fast bowler, clocking at two
hundred kilometers per hour, looking to capitalize on the captain’s thumb
injury. It’s how I’d do it too if I was the other team.
I take a giant bite of the pie. It hits my system like a drug, making me
feel better, almost hopeful even.
Dealing with stats is my day job. So statistically, the odds of my team,
fine, our team winning are fifty-two to forty-eight. Because the other team
is just about the best there is. They are ferocious today. And not above such
tricks as injuring the captain.
Cade sends me a GIF titled ‘Missing you’, with a child blowing
bubbles.
I silence my phone while the bowler runs up to the umpire, standing on
his side of the twenty-two-yard pitch. Right where the stumps are. He is a
six-five beast. His attack is lethal with a wicked curve on the ball’s tail.
Hell, it almost took out a man’s thumb ten minutes ago.
The camera tightens on the batter, hunched over his three-foot willow
bat, filled with sponsorship stickers and personal talismans, so it comes up
to his waist.
His stance is impeccable while he shields his injured right hand. Sweat
drips down his face over the protective helmet.
Cricket is not usually a brutal game, but it has its moments. Like today.
“Come on, come on, just play him off,” I chant. “No need to be a hero!”
My phone buzzes. My eyes widen at the text Jace sends.
But then I forget everything, even the pie on my fork as the white
season ball arcs over the bowler’s shoulders in symphonic motion. It sails
almost three feet over the heads of the umpire… the batter on the other
end… and jumps the middle of the pitch. It is almost sure to hit the batter
facing it, on the face. Its trajectory is true and unmissable.
But the batter adjusts his position quickly, pulls his padded foot up and
swings his bat, almost widely, defensively and THWACK! The middle of the
bat connects with the ball.
Physics does the rest.
As if in slow motion, the batter gently guides the ball and bat over his
own head and pats it away. Then the film speeds up and the ball sails up and
over the heads of the fielders spread around him and almost out of the
stadium roof, the camera following its path faithfully.
I can barely hear the cacophony of sound and drama.
 The commentator shouts, “It’s a six! It’s a SIX!” Six is the highest
number of runs a batter can score with a single ball.
The crowd roars wild and my heart goes ballistic. I gobble down more
pie.
My team makes three more runs to bring their run chase down to
thirteen off the last six balls. It’s not impossible odds but this is cricket. Any
fucking thing can happen here.
And, of course, something happens.
The first two balls of the last over, gives the other team wickets,
followed by a catch appeal. I pace through the next two balls until the
commentator says, “It’s the last ball of the over. Six runs needed to win the
match. And just one wicket to lose it. Can we see history in the making
today?” The commentator’s box is full of grins and then the camera moves
to the bowler who’s practicing his run up.
He’s just about to begin his descent down the field when the TV goes
black with a squick.

The power did not just go off right before the last ball! I pay astronomical
sums to make sure of such exigencies.
“What the…” I put my hands up and look for the cause.
“I am sorry to disturb you.” My wife, the love of my life, who just
casually shut off the damn TV right before the last ball is about to be
bowled, yawns. “But I just need this back pain to stop. I held it off for as
long as I could but now my lower back’s killing me.”
“Moonshine.” I almost run over to her, touch her hugely pregnant belly.
“You should have come sooner if you were in pain.”
In the back of my head, I know the match is over. One way or another.
My team won or they didn’t. But all of my focus is on my wife.
She shrugs. “I could hear you yelling at the TV. Figured it was life and
death. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You can interrupt me anytime you want, you know? You’re more
important than all the life and death situations in the world.” I squeeze her
back and drop my head on her shoulder, bending my knees to accommodate
the differences in our height.
 Lia is a tiny thing and I’m a six-feet tall idiot who was yelling at the TV
screen when I should have been taking care of my very pregnant wife.
She grins and shakes her head. “Oh, please. It’s not me you’re
concerned about, buddy. It’s the Bump.” She affectionately pats the beach-
ball sized bump on her stomach. “I used to think you were protective of
me…”
“I still am,” I protest automatically.
“You didn’t stick me with one of those med-watches because I wore
heels during House of Niamh’s New York Fashion Show showing before,
right?”
“You were almost four months pregnant,” I correct her stiffly. “I was
just trying to make sure I could rectify the situation, if you decided to
overdo it, Madam CEO.”
It was sneaky, I admit. How I’d gifted her a watch monitoring all her
vitals and pulses and had the data linked to my devices so I could constantly
be assured of her well-being and The Bump’s.
I’m a first-time father. There’s no playbook here, is there? Apart from
the mountain of parenting books my wife insisted I read to prepare for the
changes to our lives.
“Rectify the situation!” She laughs. “It’s a baby, sweetie. Not a
corporate takeover.”
We leave the cavernous family-come-entertainment room and enter the
passage of Silverine, the antebellum mansion my incredibly doting wife
gifted me on my last birthday. But I also spent a fortune on restoring it to its
former glory, including taking a hand in its renovations when we were first
married.
I touch the replica mansion dollhouse, complete with removable hinges
and doors my siblings had had commissioned as a gift for the next Archer.
A warm glow fills me when I imagine The Bump checking it out with wide
eyes.
My gift to her is the castle in Ireland where we’d spent our
honeymoon…and I fell in love with her. Again.
We step out of the elevator I’d had installed for Lia’s pregnancy and
into our private sanctuary on the top-most floor.
She makes a beeline for the bathroom and mutters about pea-sized
bladders. I arrange the cloud-like, ergonomic body pillows I’d had the
company invent just for her. They’re in the shape of clouds too, to give it
that fluffy feeling.
She comes in and immediately cuddles into my outstretched arm. Her
spine gives slowly, curving into the hard contours of my body.
Since we aren’t fooling around, I just gently caress her back. “Next
time, come find me as soon as you are in discomfort, okay? I hate the
thought of you in pain.” I drop a kiss on her exposed neck.
“Hmmm. Okay. Now do your thing, please. It’s the only thing that stops
your daughter kicking me.” Her order is sleep-husky and extremely
desirable. But then again, I’d desire her when she was ninety and a creaking
bag of bones to my ninety-five.
I obey her because I want her to rest more than fucking her into
oblivion.
“Listen well, Q,” I begin in my best storyteller voice. A little deeper
than the timbre I use to flog global stock markets into submission. “Because
I’m about to tell you a real tale. Not a fairy tale. It has real, brave people
and secret fears, nail-biting finishes, and drama too.”
“Hmmmm.” My wife hums against my hand. “More, please.”
“Once upon a time,” I intone. “In a beach town much like ours, let’s call
it Barrons Bay, there lived a young woman named Queenie. And this is her
story…”

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 TWELVE YEARS AGO

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 CHAPTER ONE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘WHAT WAS I MADE FOR’ BY BILLIE EILISH

“…KUTTE. Ulloo ke patthe. You bastard. Saale. Suar ki aulaad.” I take a

deep breath and imagine the guttural Hindi swearing in picture animation.
Kutte - Dog.
Ulloo ke patthe - Daft fool.
Saale - Slimeball.
Suar ki aulaad – Son of a cowardly pig.
The heroine, a bubbly Kareena Kapoor, continues cussing in one of the
most iconic scenes in Bollywood cinema. She’s on blast through the tinny
speakers of Lizzie Bonnet – my Karman Ghia - who runs better than she
looks. For context, Kareena is talking to her cowardly ex who ditches her
after she runs away from home to marry him.
I also have to curse my nemesis out, after her bullying and rumor-
mongering forced me to drop out of Thorndon University, Ivy League’s
best-kept secret. I’m actually attending the biggest party of the summer -
the Barrons Bay May 31 Jam – for this reason.
A sexy Jeep with blinding lights cuts in front of me with a bumper
sticker – I score. You clap! - and I swerve a little to avoid hitting it. The
upsetting jerk opens up my glove compartment and out fall a sheaf of
papers all with the dreaded FINAL NOTICE, LAST WARNING printed
on them.
Shoving them back inside without ceremony, a little sliver of dread
slithers down my spine. One of those final notices is from the college dorms
informing me I am no longer eligible for campus housing since I have been
an inactive student for two consecutive semesters.
 It was served three days ago.
I am now homeless as well as futureless. And the worst part? My over-
achiever parents currently serving on a tour of Doctors Without Borders,
aren’t here to witness my humiliation at the best university in the whole
world. Nor do I have the nerve to tell them why their elder daughter – who
got a four-year scholarship for a pre-med degree – is currently working as a
diner waitress for seven dollars an hour.
Undignified tears prick my eyes, and I angrily blink them off. Take a
quick peek at the rearview mirror to see if my winged eyeliner is intact. It
is.
I’m not eager to get to the Barron’s Bay Jam but I press on and take the
turn to Lake Quigley, parking amid a sea of Hummers, Jeeps, and Lexuses.
I check myself in the nearest mirror.
Ripped jeans with no camel toe which fit my butt and thighs perfectly
with comfy, platform heels. Check.
A tee shirt proclaiming ‘You’re excused’ in Amy Winehouse (RIP)
black. Check.
Boobs outlined clearly under the tee shirt. Double D check.
I swipe on the juiciest lip gloss I have – candy pink flavor – and it adds
to the shine of my nude brown lipstick that somehow really works with my
suntanned desi skin. Summers in a beach town are brutal when you’re in the
service industry. But it doesn’t mean I need to look the part.
Just then, my phone vibrates against my hip pocket. I extract it and the
screen lights up.
My heart aches at the text from my parents –
Kunju, how are you? Please call me when you see this. An
email once a week is not enough. Appa’s threatening to call off
the tour for you.

I unscrew the flask I carried with me to avoid being drugged by a

stranger at this party and take a hefty swallow. The whiskey burns my
throat.
Because I want to answer them so badly, I switch my phone off as I
enter the party. I also make a silent promise to myself to sort everything out
with my parents once I take this final step and confront my mean girl bully.
I get a few glances when people see me – and I can see things in their
eyes. Recognition. Pity. Derision. Curiosity.
 I can guess their pathetic line of thought too - Did she do it? Did it
happen? Is she making it up to get attention? How sad if she is lying about
it. She needs help.
A toned, tanned, blond princess jostles me and I almost stumble.
Her doll-blue eyes fill with scorn when she recognizes me. “Watch
where you’re going, Rumor Girl.”
“You watch yourself,” I defend myself.
“Come on, Kylie,” her beefy boyfriend, in a Hawaiian print shirt and
tight shorts, soothes her. “Let’s not…” He gives me a look full of
speculation and horribly lusty desire. “Tangle with the help.”
Before I can say something back, they melt into the crowd. Their
behavior is not new.
I am a waitress at the local diner aka the help. And I have been called
far worse names than Rumor Girl since January by these girls. The
boyfriends of the perfect blond princesses often look at me like I am
something they want to devour and discard. Like I’m used goods.
And, usually, it never affects me. I have truth and righteousness on my
side. But today…
I glance down at my Amy Winehouse defiance outfit. I stick out like a
sore thumb amidst all the pretty, bright colors. My confidence plummets to
a zero.
When I look up, I’m surrounded by a crush of bodies. Couples are
making out. Hard. Like, with tongue and boob-squeezing and everything. I
can even see some action down there.
I should have guessed the party would basically be hookup central.
A horrible thought strikes me, and I pause mid-stride hearing Rihanna
croons through the speakers, between a grinding couple and a crip-walking
dancer. If this is a hookup party, then she might be with a date too…
As if by magic, my roving eyes spot my crush, Edward Durham IV. He
always tips twenty five percent and gives me a wide smile every time he
sits at my station. English Edward is nice. And I have wanted to ask him out
for weeks…
And there she is - Veronica Washington. Codename Moronica, aka my
bully, and the woman I am here to have a showdown with. And the horror?
Edward is tonguing her, hard. Her hands are in the back pockets of his
shorts. Her flirty, sunny yellow, summer dress floats around them at the
knees.
 They are a beer commercial come to life – tall, pretty, perfect.
My heart takes a beating, seeing them together. It’s further proof the
universe hates me. Because Veronica is his date. She gets everything I
don’t.
I down more of my flask, its contents slosh on my hand because the crip
walker bumps against me. This shit is pretty potent. It burns a line down my
middle and makes my head swim a little.
I weave, taking one careful step at a time.
I’m finally in Moro…Veronica’s line of sight. I catch sight of her squad
of Barbie-perfect minions grinding with shiny, preppy dude-bro types.
Although one of them is a throuple, so that’s progress.
Oblivious Veronica is still tonguing her preppy, blonde boyfriend. Any
second now, she’s going to see me. In my ‘Back in Black’ outfit. Which
outlines every curve I possess. Vividly.
Sweat streaks down my back and heads for the dip in my hips.
Why did I have to wear black for a summer beach blowout?! What was I
thinking?

“Veronica…” I announce myself. Loudly.

Edward shakes a bit, as his dreamy blue eyes find me. To his credit, he
looks the tiniest bit ashamed. But Veronica just turns around in the arms of
her man. She runs her cat green eyes over me…my outfit. Tracking the
curls sticking to my neck (thank you, humidity.)
“Queeeeenie,” she breathes. “Did you say my name?”
I glance over at Edward, who’s silent. “Yes, I⁠—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I’d given you permission to use it. Did I?”
Veronica says smoothly. She runs her talons over Edward’s arm hair.
My stomach drops along with my heart, straight to the ground.
“I just⁠—”
“Came alone to the party, I see.” She cocks her head. “Or are you just
waiting to run back to your boyfriend once you’ve put in an appearance
tonight? Is that your plan?” She emphasizes on boyfriend like it’s the
dirtiest word on the planet.
Everyone is silent now, watching Veronica and me.
 Say it. Curse her out like Geet did. Show her what it feels like to be
completely humiliated, Queenie. Do it. Tell her how you were gaslit by the
Thorndon faculty because they could not believe you when you told them
what one of the professors had done.
I straighten my spine and pull myself taller. I swear I open my mouth to
begin my monologue, but then Veronica laughs. The tinkly sound belongs
in an autotune viral video.
“I forgot,” she continues nastily, “No one’s going to want to date the girl
who’s ruined her life with rumors.”
I suck in a hurt breath. She did not just say that.
“Cat got your tongue, Queenie?” she asks sweetly. Her ivy-green eyes
are slits of venom and rage. “Or is that alley cat, ladies?”
Her mean girl squad laughs at her feeble attempt at a joke. And pretty
soon everyone within vicinity hears her.
“Better to be a cat than a vile dog of the female persuasion, V.” I
swallow past the lump in my throat and throw out this comeback.
“No one wants you here, Bitch Queen,” she hisses out.
Edward gives me an apologetic look, as if he wants to be anywhere but
here. But he doesn’t step up and defend me. My crush disappears a little as
he allows his date to talk complete shit to me.
Even though, from her perspective, I absolutely deserve it. And nothing
I can say will change how she feels about me.
My shoulders slump in defeat.
I can’t do this. I cannot be the object of derision and taunts yet again. I
can’t be homeless, futureless, and the laughingstock of this party. I just
cannot. Shame and regret create a volatile combination in my stomach,
making me want to hurl and cry at the same time.
“That’s what I thought, Rumor Girl. Get going, will you?” Smugness
fairly drips off her honeyed words.
And they make me do something reckless. Say something reckless. Be
someone reckless.
“Actually, I just wanted to know if you’d seen my date.” I tilt my chin
up and dare her with my quiet, insane words.
I don’t have a date. I don’t have the D of a date. Not tonight or any
night. I haven’t since high school prom when John Fong came out as gay to
me during the final dance.
 What am I doing? Why am I lying through my teeth to the girl who will
use it as more weapons in her arsenal to humiliate me?
Abort. Abort, Queenie!
But I don’t abort. I stand there and dare her to call me on my blatant lie.
I look around casually, hoping to see a total stranger.
“Oh yeah?” Veronica scoffs. “Who’s the mystery date, then? I’d love to
meet the guy who –”
“Oh…there he is! So sorry for the trouble.” I smile brightly and chirp
like a demented beauty queen.
I turn to the other side and brush against someone’s shoulder. I almost
stumble. I put my hand out on instinct and grab hold.
It turns out to be a person. A strange male person. No one from campus.
It’s all I need. I drag the male person to my side and almost shout,
“There you are. I thought I lost you.” I smile at his shoulder, holding onto
his jacket with a death grip.
Then I wave like a goddamn queen at Moronica and her mean girls.
Have the last word in this game we play. “Cat’s out, ladies. See you never.”
I turn to face the male person, go up on my toes. And say, “Please, just
go with this. I’m so sorry, but, please, just go with it.”
His eyes widen. “Go with…”
I don’t give him a reason to talk further and just mash my lips against
his.
For the world’s worst first kiss.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWO

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOVE ON THE BRAIN’ BY RIHANNA

FOR A SECOND, the strange male person freezes. I don’t blame him. I’m
basically attacking his personhood for my own agenda. More tears gather in
the corner of my eyes at my predicament. My lips are almost smushed
against his tightly closed ones. I can taste his bristle and cologne -
sandalwood, citrus, and myrrh.
I know I’m not a great kisser, but this is the pits.
Then, his lips part. And he’s kissing me back.
Soft and slow and gentle. Our chests are pressed together, breathing the
same air in motion. Its hypnotic. Sweet.
My eyes almost drift shut at the simplicity of our lips touching. But I
don’t, because I achieved my objective. I’m sufficiently swallowed by the
crush of people and Moronica cannot spot me anymore.
I tear my lips away from the male person’s and swallow. I also drop
down to my toes.
“I’m so incredibly sorry about that.” I talk to his white tee shirt,
showcasing a leanly muscled chest.
“What just happened?”
“A mistake. A desperate one. I was just…” I shrug. “Trying to get away
from someone.”
“And you thought Frenching a stranger was the best way to do it?”
“Yes.” I am nothing if not honest in my humiliation. “I’ll just…” I turn
to leave.
He touches my elbow, lightly. In a non-threatening way. It sends sparks
down my stomach, dissolving the acidic shame into nothing. “Hey! One
second.”
I turn around slowly.
“Was your mission accomplished?” He asks me gently.
I don’t know what to make of this conversation, this man. “Wha—yes.”
I nod emphatically.
The crowd surges around us.
“Then…Excuse me,” I hear.
I look up, like tilt my head back and look up. “Excuse me?”
He smiles, flashing a row of cute white teeth against thinnish, pink lips.
I trace his cheeks, tanned, lean, and cut to perfection; hidden behind a slight
scruff. To the wavy black-brown hair brushing the collar of his jacket. His
slight widow’s peak gives him a distinct forehead. His ears are cutely
hidden behind the hair. And his nose is pure Roman ancestry, all straight
and unbroken.
I am trained to objectively study human anatomy as a pre-med student,
but he is a pretty great specimen of facial structure, so all I can conclude is
WOW!
The Pretty Great Specimen of Facial Structure - PGSOFS - nods at my
tee shirt. “That says ‘You’re excused.’” His smile is earnest. “So, I thought
I’d just do the polite thing and excuse myself.”
His eyes are golden-black in color. I haven’t seen eyes like this; must be
a recessive gene thing.
I am still holding onto his jacket. So, I try and step back. Someone
bumps against me.
The PGSOFS puts a protective hand on my upper back. “Are you
okay?” He tracks my face in concern.
“You don’t have to do that.” I quickly step back from him.
“Do what?”
“Be the gallant knight.”
“Aah, you protect yourself, don’t you?”
“I absolutely fucking do. I have pepper spray, mister.” I tap my bag
which has all my essentials. Cash, phone, keys, pepper spray, and lip balm
because chapped lips are no joke.
He winks. My heart does a slow roll in my chest because he also tips his
head down, bending down to meet my eyes. Our knees brush because of the
height difference.
 “Maybe you can protect me, then?” His smiles invites me in. “This
party is full of women who want a piece of my…” He taps his glistening
lips.
“I’m sorry about that again.” Guilt flushes on my cheek and neck red. “I
don’t go around doing…” I wave at his kissable lips. “That.”
“Awesome,” he drawls out, pronouncing it ‘Oh-Some.’ “Makes me the
first then.” He pauses before continuing, “And last, I hope.” He yells to be
heard above the noise.
“You’re Australian,” I declare, zeroing in on the Oh-Some.
The stranger blinks. “How did you know? No one gets it right the first
time.” With every word, his accent is more apparent. Especially the way he
sometimes rolls his r’s and sometimes flattens them.
“My team beat your team’s ass in the last cricket tournament,” I answer
smugly. And successfully distract him from the awkward conversation I do
not want to have about why I had kissed him in the first place.
He asks the most predictable, sexist follow up question. “You follow
cricket?” Like a girl couldn’t possibly understand the game.
“That’s an incredibly clichéd thing to say.” I turn to move away.
“You’re right. It is. I apologize.” He tilts his head. “I didn’t think any
Americans followed cricket. Please, stay,” he requests.
And I do. Surprising myself. Shocking myself.
“I had to listen to the Australian captain “whinge” about how his boys
performed badly against the Virat juggernaut,” I tell him haughtily. “And let
the team down during the match presentation. Trust me, I know cricket.” I
airquote ‘whinge’.
Cricket is something of a cross between baseball and old-fashioned
croquet. Except, baseball has nine innings and cricket has only two – one
for each side to bat, field, and bowl and try to get all the batsmen out. A
batter runs between the wickets on the pitch, scoring runs around the
outfield. And it involves a lot of waiting around, while the ball is fetched by
a fielder from the stands.
“You’re Team India, then,” he realizes.
“Proudly Blue since forever.” I tilt my chin up in the same aggressive
way I’d dealt with Veronica.
My humiliation and crushed heart are momentarily shoved into deep
freeze. I have more important matters to attend to – namely, trash talking a
member of a rival nation in the greatest sport ever invented.
 Okay, I know that’s not true. Because all sport is great in its own way.
But I also have seen the cheers and the fireworks my dad (the
conscientious, rule-following surgeon) lets off every time India beats
Australia hollow along with half our neighborhood desi association.
Cricket is not just a sport. It’s a fucking emotion.
“Damn it.”
“Yeah.” I nod. And loosen my grip on the Aussie PGSOFS’s jacket.
“Dammit, indeed.”
“Nevertheless,” he recovers smoothly. “Would you be willing to protect
me with your pepper spray if I ask nicely and plead asylum?”
Okay, he did not just say that. No one says that. Not unless they are
overly dramatic.
I can’t help it. My lips twitch and break out in a small smile. Maybe it’s
the alcohol or the loud party music or Rihanna’s seductive lyrics…or maybe
it’s just this man and his ridiculously perfect face and earnest smile…
“What’s it to be, desi girl? Do we have a deal?” His voice goes down a
notch and hits the back of my spine. Exactly like the alcohol. How did his
voice get this deep?
I blink now. “Did you just call me desi girl?”
“What else can I call you?”
I don’t want to, I absolutely do not…but dammit if I am not a little
charmed. I maybe the black cat everyone avoids when they see me coming,
but I am still human. “Only if you promise to keep your whingeing to a nil,
Aussie boy.”
“I promise. Scout’s honor.”
His eyes gleam, like he has done something incredibly smart or
wonderful.
“Yo! Calvin!” Someone yells for him. “Get over here. We need you.”
He straightens up.
And I remember why I am here in the first place. For closure. To give
Moronica a piece of my fucking mind like Geet from Jab We Met! Not to
drool over pretty great specimens of facial structures of the Australian
persuasion.
“You should go.” I look at him with a parting smile. “I should go too.”
“I…” Calvin looks torn, looking over my shoulder. Where his friends
(and, of course, he wouldn’t have come alone to the summer party of the
year) are calling for him. “Give me five minutes.”
 “Sure.”
“Desi girl.” He grabs my back again.
I feel heat. Like an actual rise in my body temp because he touches me
with intent. I am so shocked; I don’t even give him shit for grabbing me.
“Give me five minutes. Do not move from here. Not a centimeter. I’ll be
back. And in case you don’t believe me…” Calvin whips off his letter jacket
– a blue, cream, and black sports deal and hands it to me. “Hold onto this.
I’ll be back for this. Okay?”

My strange rescuer lopes off, his legs eating the ground and parting the
crowd. Until the dancers and hookups converge around him and I can’t see
him anymore.
I clutch his jacket; it smells refreshingly of detergent, fancy cologne,
and the beach.
This is definitely a parallel universe, because things like this do not
happen in the real world. Not to anyone. And definitely not to me.
I start to move, regardless of what I told Calvin. Obviously, I am not
hanging around waiting for a strange man to pick up his jacket.
A strange, charming man, a traitorous part of me whispers.
A strange, charming, Australian cricket fan. Who felt safe and gentle
and took the time to make sure I was okay. Who also kissed me back,
although that could just be motive, means, and opportunity playing out in
boy brain.
A girl kisses you. You kiss her back. The end.
A headache throbs in the back of my eyes.
I’m so tired of thinking things through. Of being alone and isolated. I’m
so tired of not being held.
Calvin held me so nicely. Safely.
Besides, he is from out of town, so he doesn’t know anything about me.
Which makes him doubly safe.
So, why can’t I have one night off from the depressing disaster of my
life? Why can’t I just be a normal twenty-two-year-old tonight?
I tilt my flask back and finish the whole thing off, the alcohol burning
my throat as I gulp it down. I go straight to point two of the evening’s
agenda.
Get. Full-on. Drunk.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THREE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘I MET A GIRL’ BY WHEAT

I PRACTICALLY MOW people down as I move toward my friends

hollering my name. Calvin! Dumaine!
They use my middle name – Noah Calvin Dumaine – because it belongs
to my dad. And I don’t—Caalvinnnn! I wince as I hear the chant again.
“I am not available.” I grab Fox and turn him around. “If anyone asks,
you tell them I’m unavailable.”
Fox De Rossi, my best mate, my partner in crime and the best keeper-
batter in Australian second-string cricket blinks at me, concerned. “You’re
not running back to the cottage already, Noah. We just got here. This is a
party.”
“I am not going back home, man,” I assure him. I can never bring
myself to call the Cape Cod mansion we live in ‘cottage’, I am not wealthy
like Fox ‘my family is richer than God’ De Rossi. “I just need some alone
time.”
Fox is not convinced. He is right to be worried about me.
I have become a bit of a recluse since spring, when we started
rigorously training to participate in Triskelion Cricket Training. Entry is
free and by invite only, although the participants needed to let the
organizers know if we also need accommodations. Since my mates were
also invited, we decided against camp boarding.
I almost wept when I received my three-inch thick envelope with all the
papers and details inside. Definitely had a Chosen One moment right there.
Because after the mess I could not salvage with the Australian National
Cricket Board eight months ago, I am just happy to get to pick up the
willow again.
“I thought you were done with the brooding, Noah,” Ares slurs next to
me, sipping from his hip flask. He bumps my shoulder and almost manages
to dislodge me.
Ares is my second roommate and a giant dude. Not an actual giant,
though, but the man’s muscles walk before him. And it drives the women
wild seeing his tatted sleeve. He pays them no attention. Ares is a sleeping
giant most of the time.
“I am not brooding,” I retort calmly. “I…”
I met a really intriguing girl who kissed the fuck out of me. She talks
cricket like she knows it. And she is a rabid Team India fan which makes
this a sort of Romeo-Juliet situation without the bloodshed and the cousin
dying.
I stop talking because I don’t want them to give me shit over it. And
they will.
“Fuck it.” Fox throws his hands up. “He met a girl.”
I give him my death ray stare. The one I gave sassy bowlers who tried to
shit-talk me on the runup, before I hit them for a six out of the stadium. “I
did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Ares toasts Fox with his flask. “Sherlock, here,
can smell this shit in the air.”
“Love is not shit, arsehole,” Fox barks. Something dangerous and
pained flashes in his normally placid eyes.
“I wasn’t talking about love, arsehole,” Ares drawls. “Hormones. I am
talking about Noah’s hormones. Which are beginning to clog the rest of our
pores.”
I snarl at Ares. He jumps back agilely when I try to grab him.
Fox, the peacemaker, gets in the middle and pushes us apart. “We’re
planning to go cliff-diving with the rest of the Triskelion gang, Noah. You
sure you want to miss it?”
“Cliff-diving?” I chuckle. “Like in that vampire movie your mum loves
so much?”
“It’s team bonding, you berk,” Ares grits out. Technically, Ares is Fox’s
foster brother since the De Rossis made him one of their own when Ares
was like four, about fifteen years ago, and Fox was nine or ten. I am the
surly school mate who tagged along with Fox for vacations and holidays
and after school when my own home situation became…uncomfortable, ten
years ago. Now, Ares is my brother too as much as Fox.
“If you two idiots are done messing around, can we just figure out
who’s the designated driver for tonight so some of us can get shitfaced?”
Fox demands, hands on hips.
“Don’t drink and swim, Fox,” I order automatically.
Ares shakes his head. “Ever the responsible captain.”
A bomb goes off in my chest at the C-word.
Once upon a naïve time, I’d dreamt of becoming Captain of the
Australian National Team. Leading the boys in baggy green to greater and
greater glory. I was such a cocky motherfucker, it was ridiculous.
“Do not drink and drive too. Fox, you’re the designated driver.” I hand
him the Jeep keys. “Ares does not go last, over the cliffs. Send Markham
after him.” Stuart Markham has a steady temperament on and off the field.
He’ll make sure my mates don’t drown in the Atlantic.
“You won’t even come to watch?”
I hug Ares after his grumpy, hopeful question. “I’m sorry I can’t.
Hydrate, okay?” Then I smile and let him off the hook. “I’m going to find
the girl I met.”
“I told you; it’s a girl. Sir Gallant Knight cannot resist damsels in
distress.” Ares shakes his head in semi-disgust.
“She has pepper spray, man. She’s not a distressed damsel.”
Although she did kiss me because she wanted out of a sticky situation.
But I wasn’t going to share that tasty morsel with my bros. They really will
make my life a living hell over it.
Besides…after weeks of feeling like a total outsider in this privileged
beach town, I’ve finally found someone I vibe with. I don’t want to share
her with anyone, just yet.
“Fine. Go have fun. We will get all the glory.”
I give Fox a quick one-armed hug and rush back to my not-distressed
damsel.

Desi girl’s not beautiful, in an obvious movie star way. But she has
presence. I couldn’t stop watching her when we were bantering about
cricket and pepper sprays and the sign on her tee shirt, that she filled out
super snugly with all her curves.
Besides, she wore black to a summer beach party, all black… it begs for
at least one more conversation and further investigation.
I spot her easily, although her body language screams wariness. I want
to know what’s made her so wary, and so desperate she had to kiss a
random stranger to get out of a ‘situation’.
But mostly I just want to get to know her better. This Indian cricket fan
who worships Virat.
I tower over half the party goers, so I keep her in sight. Most people are
arm-in-arm with each other or making out, hard. When I was personally
invited by the mayor’s daughter to attend this party, I thought it was a
mandatory town festivity thing, not every teenage party ever.
Desi girl looks like an alien in a sea of pinks, reds and yellows. And
smells of sugar, vanilla and flour. She’s not super tall, I got a tiny crick in
my neck from bending down to talk to her. But she is intriguing as fuck.
And not because she kissed me like she was drowning and only my lips
could save her.
As kisses go, it was a mess but…then when I kissed her back, and she
stopped …something changed. Shifted inside me. Made my breath slow
down and my mind turn to syrup. I wanted to… never stop kissing her till I
learned all the ways she could be kissed.
I’m a red-blooded man. But kissing is not the first thought to enter my
mind when I meet a woman. I have more restraint than that.
“Were you about to kidnap my jacket, desi girl?” I tease her lazily.
“Hardly, Aussie boy.” She turns to face me. Her hair’s a mass of curls
that felt so soft when I touched her back. Her eyes are a beautiful brown
like all the South Asians I know, but they tilt at the corners in a distinct
almond shape. And then there’s her rounded cheeks and the pugnacious
chin she juts out every time she feels threatened.
My eyes wander to her kissable lips immediately. I do have more
restraint than that.
“I thought you wouldn’t come back.” She hands me the jacket. “I was
so sure you’d be bragging to your friends about me. The unhinged goth girl
who plastered you one without your consent.”
“For the record, I give you post-kiss consent to kiss me, anytime. So,
you can stop feeling guilty.” I drape the jacket over my arm. “You don’t
have experience with decent men, do you?”
She gives me a stinky side eye. “My dad’s a decent man.”
“My bad. I take that back.” I blink, struck by the strangest déjà vu. “I
kind of get the feeling we are already in the middle of a conversation…” I
wave my hand at her and then back at me. “…when we just met.”
Then, she shrugs. “Stranger things have happened, right?”
Something about her tone makes me want to protect her. Maybe it’s the
desolation or the determination.
If I was back home in Sydney, I’d be one hundred percent certain this is
all an act. That she knows I am millionaire attorney Calvin Dumaine’s son,
a target for women who troll for men with a blank check.
But I am in small-town America. No one knows me here. I’m nobody.
So it can’t be that. She has no reason to want to kiss me, talk to me…except
she wants to?
“Do you want to get out of here?” The words are out of my mouth
before I can stop them.
Her pretty, lined eyes widen, giving her a cat goddess look.
“Just to talk,” I rush to assure her. “Nothing else.” Although I wouldn’t
mind repeating the activity that brought us together in the first place.
Maybe, even use tongue and do it properly. Like the French intended.
The thought stops me cold. Okay, seriously, what is happening here? I
like women, and it’s been heaps long since I had a lady friend, but I am not
obsessed with women’s bodies and tonguing them just because I met them.
That fucking kiss. It blurred boundaries that usually exist in these boy-
girl situations. And now I’m stuck on this Virat-obsessed fan.
“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Her tone is wary. “Didn’t you
come to the party with them.”
“I told them I’m unavailable for the night.”
“And they were okay with it? They didn’t force you to go with them
anyway?”
“They listen to me, not the other way round.”
“And they weren’t curious to know why you’re unavailable?”
“They were.” I let slip some of the heat I feel. “But what makes you
think I want to share you with my friends tonight?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Shit. I came on too strong.
She’s going to leave--
She hands me the flask she holds. “Want some whiskey?”
 I look at the amber liquid. I can imagine the whiskey going down nice
and easy. Filling me with a small buzz since I’d only had my post-workout
protein shake before driving down to the lake. It’d be a small buzz…
nothing even. I could⁠—
“No, thank you.” I politely hand the bottle back to her. “I’m good.”
She takes a swig and wipes her glistening, dark-colored mouth without
answering me.
I decide to do the decent thing. Let her go. “It’s ok⁠—”
Desi girl interrupts me with, “If I’m going to a secondary location with
you, I need your name.”
“Going to a secondary location?”
“It’s what the FBI tells us not to do when faced with a potential
kidnapping,” she informs me loftily.
“In this scenario, are you the kidnapper, or am I?” I tease her.
She tosses me her car keys. “You’re not drinking, so you’re driving.
That makes you the kidnapper.”
I grab them before they hit my chest. “I’m Noah.” I hold out my hand.
“Calvin Dumaine.”
She looks up at me, blearily. It occurs to me this woman is drunk. And
the right thing to do is to take her home. Have her sleep it off.
“I’m De—Queenie Madhavan.” She slides her palm into mine and
stares up at me. A tiny, curvaceous thing even in strappy heels.
My fucking cock jerks up, just from one touch. It’s been too long since
I’ve been with someone. I do have better restraint than this. Usually.
“Miss Madhavan.” I drop a light kiss on the tips of her fingers and step
back.
“I’m starving.” She takes her hand back slowly, without breaking eye
contact. “I need carbs.”
“If that’s what you want, then carbs it is.” I pocket the keys.
“Lots of carbs,” she repeats. “Noah.” The way she says my name, like
she’s testing it, goes straight to my erection. Fucking hormones mess with
my head.
I clench the keys tighter. Ares was right. I do need a distraction from the
constant brooding and worrying about my future.
And Queenie Madhavan is it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOUR

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE (TAYLOR’S VERSION’) BY
TAYLOR SWIFT

THIS IS the strangest night ever.

It’s the only thought in my buzzing head as I lead Noah Dumaine out of
the party. Everyone’s too wasted to give me a second glance. But I second
and third guess myself as I squeeze past the crowd.
Am I really going to drive off into the night with a complete stranger
who I kissed fifteen minutes ago?
“I can finally feel my ears.” Noah tugs at his cute lobes. “The air feels
freer too.” He even takes a deep breath. “Less full of Eau De Privileged
Brat.”
And this is why I am thinking of doing it anyway. Because he says self-
deprecating things like this.
We stop at the food stands at the beginning of the lot. Buy plates of
vegan hot dogs, plantain fritters, crispy burgers (tofu for me, since I don’t
eat meat) and bottles of beer from a stand selling it. I trust the stand more
than all the fancy alcohol inside the party.
We juggle brown bags and continue toward the parking lot. He spots my
car, the lone Karman Ghia, an ancient rust bucket in less-than-pristine
condition, and whistles. “Nice car.”
“Do not diss Lizzie Bonnet,” I instantly snap. “She’s…temperamental.”
Noah blinks. “You named your car what?”
“I finally read Pride and Prejudice in the spring. And the main character
is called Lizzie Bennett?” I point at the hood of the car. “A car hood’s also
called a bonnet so –” I shrug.
 He laughs, delighted. “You punned your car with Jane Austen?”
“Lizzie takes no shit from a man, requires a lot of maintenance, is
independent by nature. It’s a no-brainer, my man,” I retort as I step in the
passenger side. I know it’s a little silly, but I don’t care. I’m due for a little
silly.
“It actually makes sense.” He folds himself in the driver’s seat. Gives
me a pained look. “Can this be any tinier?”
I help him adjust it to his height with a wry grin. “I’m a tiny person.”
He three-point-turns us out of the lot, when the driver’s dash pops open,
and something falls on his lap.
“Great Gatsby?” Noah squints at the title as he hands it to me.
“Yeah.” I brush my hand over the worn cover of the secondhand book. I
am a sucker for old books. “I’ve never had time to read before this year
with school and stuff.” I give him a small smile. “So, I’m making up for lost
time.”
This is partly true. I love making my way through the classics and
science-fiction, fantasies, and romcoms, devouring one story after another.
But the real truth is, reading fully occupies my mind. And gives me no time
to think.
I need that more than anything.
“Full of surprises.” Noah guns out of the parking lot and on the merging
turnoff. We are roaring back the way we came.
I take the bottle of Herradura from the dashboard, twist it open, wipe the
mouth and tip the tequila down my throat. Noah eyes me but makes no
comment.
I offer him the bottle, out of a latent sense of courtesy. “You can have a
tiny sip. I won’t tell.”
“No, thanks, Queenie, I’ll stick to beer.” He nods at the brown paper
bag in my lap.
“Let me take a wild guess. You love beer but are not a fan of tequila,” I
declare boldly. “Or whiskey.”
His eyes widen slightly, so I see myself reflected in the golden ring of
light from the lampposts. “That’s slightly accurate. Half-correct, in fact.”
“Which part’s incorrect?”
“I am a fan of tequila, but I don’t drink anything strong anymore,” he
answers. “And yes, I do love my beer. I can drink it forever.”
I nod, file this knowledge away. Noah Dumaine only drinks beer.
 “It’s my turn to guess.” He changes gears.
I turn in my seat, his jacket brushes against my thigh and I feel… that
zing. Which arced into me and cured me of my black mood.
I don’t know what to call it. It can’t be attraction. I don’t have time for
attraction. Or, god forbid, a crush. The last one stung so badly, even if the
crush in question doesn’t know how badly he hurt me.
“Alright.”
“You like black.” He nods at my all-black outfit. “In fact, you love
black.”
“I like Amy Winehouse. RIP.” At his raised brow, I elaborate. “I like
standing out. And black is sexy always.”
“Indeed,” Noah murmurs.
“What are you doing here, in town? Are you an expat or something?” I
ask him point-black.
“Or something.” He changes gears competently, shifting into fourth.
Lizzie purrs under his hands.
“A man with secrets, then,” I decide. I demolish more of the tequila.
And eat some of the fritters straight from the bag so the salt soaks up the
alcohol. “I wish these were paneer pakoras.” At his questioning glance I
wave one at him. “Cottage cheese. Fried in oil. Pure heaven.”
Noah smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He points at the cliffs, coming up
on the next bend. “Do people have houses there?”
I nod. “Yeah, the cliffs are the most exclusive neighborhood.”
“Really? Tell me more?”
I fill him in on Barrons Bay history and its founding, dating back to the
1700s. Highlight House of Niamh, a billion-dollar fashion empire, which is
still partly headquartered here.
Noah drives across the horse-shoe shaped delta and the cliffs that give
Barrons Bay, Connecticut its name.
“I don’t understand how this is a beach town when half the owners are
Manhattan billionaires but--” My words trail off, as he brakes smoothly to a
stop. “Are we at Mo’s Drive-In?”
We are. We’re at the abandoned, out-of-commission, drive-in theater
located on the other side of Lake Quigley near the Bay. So, the scent of
tangy ocean primes the air. The beach is just a few yards away with a heady
smell of summer heat and the sound of roaring waves.
 Noah nods at the Mo’s Drive-In sign rotting on the screen’s masthead.
“I take long drives, sometimes, to clear my head and when my mates are
being too rowdy with the drinking. That’s how I came upon this place
and…I kind of figured out how to run the projector.” He drums his fingers
against the steering wheel.
My jaw drops. Noah knows how to fix broken electronic machines too.
Is there nothing the man’s not good at? Who is he and what the fuck is he
doing here? And what is he doing with me?
Sure, he doesn’t know how infamous I am but who goes to so much
effort for a literal stranger?
Maybe you’re worth it, a small voice whispers inside me.
“Is this really a date then? We have dinner and then go to a movie?” I
half-joke to cover my intense awkwardness.
“It’s whatever you want to call it, Queenie.” This time, he touches my
arm, so it’s meant to be reassuring. But it only makes me aware of how
large his palm is, when it covers my elbow easily. Heat zings into me,
zapping my insides.
“You call the shots.” His words are too sincere to be an act.
There is no shot.
I want to say it. I want to say the words and stop Noah cold. I know he
will respect my boundaries and not say another word on the subject. I might
not know anything about the man apart from his taste in alcohol, but I know
he will respect me. This is not a conclusion, this is fact.
He exudes safety and intelligence, even if he is not telling me the truth
about himself.
I hand him the beer bag. “This all depends on one thing.”
“Oh yeah.” His palm slides against mine in the bag exchange. “What’s
that?”
My stomach sinks. I lean forward, without meaning to. My traitorous
gaze slides down his PGSOFS face, rests on his pink, kissable lips.
He suddenly splits into two Noahs.
I blink and he becomes single again. “I…”
“You…” He breathes.
I want to kiss him again. Maybe it’s the alcohol or this strange night or
how I already know what he tastes like, I want to brush my lips against his.
Instead, I ask him, “Are you available? For dinner and a movie?” I point at
the seat I occupy. “Is there anyone else who should be here?”
 Hopefully he is single. I never bothered to ask him his status before…
but going to a secondary location changes the rules, doesn’t it?
Damn it, this is confusing. I am technically in the clear because I don’t
know any of this yet. So, when I kissed him, I was kissing who I thought
was a single stranger.
It’s Schrödinger’s Kiss till I asked the question.
I want to chug more of the tequila and have it burn through my doubts
and reservations.
Pure intent slides into his eyes turning them devil-black. His nose
gleams in the moonlight. “There’s no one else, Queenie Madhavan. There’s
no one but you.”
My vision wavers again. “You’re so dramatic.” I have to put this out
there.
“I’ll stop.”
I shake my head. “No, don’t stop.”
With that answer, I allow myself to be swept away by this strange night.
And this strange but safe man.

We sit on the hood of my car after allowing it to cool down and scarf down
the food and beer. He makes no comment about my vegetarian choices, just
tries all the food and approves the fritters.
I ask Noah about weight watching and he just stuffs half a burger in his
mouth. Clearly, the man loves his carbs. I don’t know why I like that, but I
do.
The alcohol, the cool summer night, and the company lulls me into
feeling…floaty. I am not Queenie Madhavan, tonight. I’m just a girl on a
date with a boy she just met. An Aussie boy.
It freaks me out because I’m not freaked out by this notion.
“Why do you make that face?” Noah intrudes on my inner thoughts
with the question.
I take a sip of the beer, and he splits into two Noahs again. I blink and
he coalesces back into one person. I’ve consumed a lot of carbs soaked in
salt. I should not be this level of buzzed. Right? I mean, I only had like one
little whiskey flask and polished off the bottle of Herradura and one beer,
while Noah almost demolished the six beers. Plus, I’m in the age group
which is biologically meant to hold their drink. So…it’s just nerves, I
rationalize.
I am not drunk.
“What face?” I ask him warily.
“That one. Every time you take a sip of the beer.” He wrinkles his nose
and scrunches his cheeks. “You make the face.”
“I tolerate beer,” I confess. “But give me something Irish or Mexican
anytime.”
“So, you spend a lot of time drinking then?”
I shake my head immediately. “God, no. I am not a teetotaler or a party
animal. I was too busy juggling pre-med courses with my TA position and
applying for grants on the side for med school in September.” The words
slip out involuntarily.
“Where do you study?”
“Thorndon,” I answer softly. “I had a full scholarship.”
“Damn. You’re smart, desi girl!” Noah toasts me with his beer mug.
And drains it again. “Like, heaps smart if you were doing all that.”
“I’m not in school anymore,” I tell him softly. “I…I dropped out in
January.”
I still remember the kindly eyes of the counsellor who patted my cold,
clammy hand. A little break will do you good, Queenie. You’re being too
hard on yourself. You need rest.
Her words were meant to be comforting. But they made me feel the
same thing everyone else’s did. Like I was the problem.
I wait for his inevitable follow up-question. If you’re so smart that you
got a full-ride scholarship in a prestigious university, why did you drop out,
Queenie?
But Noah surprises me once again. “So,” he begins earnestly. “Were you
the hot, nerdy TA who has a secret thing for jocks? Hopefully while
wearing glasses and one of those plaid mini-skirts?” His pitch-black eyes
are so playful, non-threatening.
I am mock-indignant. “That is so clichéd. Not to mention borderline
offensive.”
“You know, you accuse me of being clichéd.” He bites into a fritter.
“But literally the first thing you said to me, after post-kiss consent, was talk
shit about Australian cricket.”
 “I—” I immediately begin to defend myself, but I can’t. Dammit. He is
right. “I did do that, didn’t I?”
His smile is pure devilry. “Yes, you did. And I immediately became
crazy about you.” He says crazy in a way that makes me feel hot and cold at
the same time. It has to be all the black I’m wearing.
I’m not attracted to this man. I cannot be.
I throw a fresh tissue at him. “You did not. God, you’re so dramatic.”
His laugh, rich and male, splits the night air. “It’s easy to be dramatic
with you, Queenie.”
My lips twitch in a smile. Involuntary. Spontaneous. “Do you charm
everyone with your quick tongue, or it’s reserved for special occasions?”
Noah takes a sip of his beer and licks the foam off his lip with his pink
and foamy tongue. He doesn’t stop staring at me when he answers my
cheeky question. “My tongue’s not for everyone.”
Heat spreads everywhere through me. As I reluctantly, unwillingly,
think of his tongue and what all it could do.
I will not blush.
It is in that moment I realize intense eye contact with Noah Dumaine is
the sexiest form of foreplay invented.
I slide my eyes away on the pretext of gathering all the food debris. We
dispose it off in the recycling bins. And I’m once again struck by the
strange sense of safety and danger. This night is weird. Spending any more
time with him is probably inviting trouble.
Right?
As we walk back to the car I ask him, “So, what do we do now?”
He quirks a brow. “What do you want to do?” He is suggestive and cute.
I am burning up. “I don’t mean…” I flail my hand, while color rushes
up my cheeks. “That!”
“You’re heaps cute when you’re blushing. Relax, I’m pulling your leg,
Queenie.” Noah laughs again and brushes his shoulder against my arm.
“We’ll do whatever you want to do. Full stop.”
The alcohol fizzes through my insides at the way he stresses ‘full stop’.
This is the longest I’ve spent in a long time not hating myself, hating the
world, or both. And he’s giving me the choice. If I say yes, then it means I
am now an active participate in this event.
It is ridiculous to call this a date because I mean…I kissed him before
we even exchanged hellos, and he just started flirting with me because I
kissed him… but calling it a date means I want this too.
Except, how can I? When everything else in my life is basically on fire
at the moment? How can I want to steal a moment of time that feels so…
safe and warm and good.
“Didn’t you promise me dinner and a movie?” I ask him slowly.
He nods. “Indeed, I did.”
I wave at the white screen. “Well, then?”
But then Noah smiles and points to the hood of the car. “Settle down.
I’ll be back in a jiff.”
“No serial killer masks and axes, right?”
He holds his hand, palm closed. “None. Scout’s honor.”
“That’s not the Scout’s salute,” I shout after him, but he’s gone.
For a moment I wonder about his motives for hanging out with me.
Probably, he is a PGSOFS looking for a good time for the night because he
is bored or whatever.
And that’s…fine. It’s fine by me.
I settle on the hood of the car, then think better of it. I stand down, legs
crossed at the ankles. Then I run back to the dashboard and get the little
bottle of rum I’d stored there two months ago, when I was caught in a
spring hailstorm and on the verge of hypothermia. Lizzie’s heater is…
temperamental. I would never drink and drive but just splashing some on
the throat and palms is enough to unfreeze the bones for a few minutes.
The screen lights up with a blaring of trumpets to signify a 20 th Century
Fox Production.
Noah lopes back to me. “Missed me?” He settles on the hood of the car,
swinging his legs on the fender. He hands me a popcorn bag filled with
fragrant kernels. But I wrinkle my nose. “This can’t be safe or healthy.”
“It’s just for atmosphere, woman. I’m trying to set the mood here.”
“Sorry. Thank you so much, Noah. It’s lovely and thoughtful.” I
gingerly accept the bag and place it next to me. Then I climb to the hood of
my car and sit with my legs folded under me, because I don’t trust myself to
not slide down. Suddenly the rum hits me like a truck.
I should not have had so much to drink!

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIVE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘NEVER BE THE SAME’ BY CAMILA CABELLO

WE WATCH THE TITLES. I giggle when I see the little baby ape on the
screen. “This is a reboot of the Planet of the Apes franchise! I have seen this
one.”
“Oh yeah? I haven’t.”
“Dude. This movie was everywhere.” I nudge his shoulder. “How come
you haven’t watched it? Were you studying hard in college?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never been to college, if you must know.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how else to respond.
“It’s no tragedy, Queenie. I was…busy…working. So, it’s all good.” He
bumps me back.
I nod enthusiastically and he turns into two Noahs again. I stop nodding.
Okay! I have to stop drinking now. This is the most I have ever imbibed,
and I clearly cannot handle it.
“I thought you’d be the studious type,” Noah muses. “Not be into
popular things.”
I shrug. “I try to have fun too. I’m not a total bore.”
“I don’t think you could be boring if you tried, Miss Madhavan.”
I grab his arm. And point at the screen. “Shut up and see this, okay?
This scene is important.”
Noah turns his head away from me, but I can feel the heated warmth of
his gaze on my cheeks. After five minutes of watching a grown-up Draco
Malfoy be terrible to monkeys, I turn around and look at him.
“What? Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware…I’ll stop,” he says contritely.
 “Dammit.” I mutter to myself.
“What?” He sounds so earnest and sexy when he flattens the question.
I make the decision on the spur of the moment. “Noah.”
“Yes, Queenie?”
I look him full in the eye. His nose is a sharp slash in the moonlight and
his jaw is lean and sexy with the barest scruff. That damn jaw solidifies my
decision. “I give you post-kiss consent, too.” Then I ruin my power moment
by softly adding, “If you want it, that is. If not, then…”
“Are you saying this because you’re drunk?” He is so quiet. So
thoughtful.
I shake my head. Then, I nod. “I am drunk. But I know what I want.”
He pauses for a suspenseful moment. “Queenie?”
“Yeah?”
“Come closer.” He’s inches away from me, and a lot closer than we
were a second ago.
I get close, like two magnets drawn to each other. My eyes are already
drifting shut. I fist my hand on my lap as the intent and heat from his
dramatic words slide into my shoulders and spine. Settle in my womb.
Resonating there like the chimes of a bell.
“Hey.” Noah brushes his luscious lips against mine in soft sips.
My eyes seal shut, lashes brushing against my sensitive skin. I try to
open my mouth.
But he cups my cheek and holds me in place. His palm is rough and
calloused, as if he does outdoors work. It sends prickles up and down my
body, arousing it, inflaming it. I understand the chemicals involved in
bringing about sexual arousal but experiencing it from a man’s hand on my
cheek is…
I stop thinking because Noah kisses the corner of my lips.
I lean forward and fix my lips to his. He smiles against my mouth and
then we kiss. Soft and sweet and slow.
I drag him closer, but I almost slide off the hood, so he boosts me
farther up. I lie down and he comes half-down on me, still kissing me softly.
“Open up,” I mutter against the side of his lips.
“Yes, ma’am.” Noah lets me into his mouth.
I grip his head, digging my nails into his skull.
He sucks in an aroused breath. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
 We kiss fast and hard deep then. I tongue him down and he pushes me
against the hood of the car. The heat of the warm engine and the man I’m
making out with is seductive. Uncontrollable. My legs twine with his and
he settles fully on me.
Our kisses are fast and breathless. It’s all so good, I let myself float.
“Pretty Queenie with her prickly banter.” Noah touches the edges of my
braid and cups the back of my neck.
Chills follow his touch; I move closer to him to steal his heat.
“Beautiful Noah with his flirty compliments,” I manage back, even
though my pulse speeds up at the deep words.
The apes shout in terror, I seal my eyes shut when Noah opens his
mouth and swallows me whole…
And my world goes dark.

The next morning 5 am

“Hmmmm….” I stretch a little. And dash against a hard bump.
I move and someone growls back. A hand comes around my waist and
pulls me closer. A mouth nuzzles my neck. I am liquid from all the heat and
sensations. I run my bare leg, over my dream man. He presses closer.
Oh, this is a hot dream with a hot, dream man.
I scratch my nails against his arm, dusted with hair. He tightens around
my waist and I’m flush against a defined chest. I drop a kiss on the arm
closest to me.
I hear his words in my dreamy mind. Lovely.
I like the compliment even more. I squeeze the wrist and play with the
curls there.
His hot breaths feather over my skin, my shoulders, the place where my
neck meets the shoulder. Intimate and caressing. His fingers inch over my
naked waist.
This is a perfect dream.
I turn around and aggressively kiss him back. My lips eat at my dream
man’s lips. He kisses me back, passionately. It’s all I can think of – passion.
Because his heart is in sync with mine, and the way our lips mesh
together…like he can’t stop kissing me… its passion.
 My stomach drops because I’m not experienced in passion. It’s strange
and alien and wonderful.
His tongue sneaks in.
I open up and let him in. It’s hot and sexy. The way he takes charge and
just squeezes my tongue before playing with it and then gently kissing me.
I make a broken sound. He hauls me closer to his chest, his hands rough
and demanding. Sure.
I’m undone by the surety.
We are so close, and I feel so good, so incredibly good I want to stay in
this moment and keep kissing my dream man.
“Love,” he drawls. His accent is distinctly Australian. He cradles my
jaw so we can kiss at a different angle.
My brain wakes up before I do…
…And I understand three things at once.
One, I’m not in a dream. This is real.
Two, his breaths smell of beer and burgers.
Three, the rough hand cupping my cheek is the same one from last
night.
I open my eyes. And see Noah Calvin Dumaine’s pitch-black, irisless
eyes looking at me as if he’s going to devour me. The stubble on his
appealing jaw has grown. It’s his breaths on my unclothed back. His hand
near my chest… my braless chest.
His hair is mussed, and his lips are parted in the prelude to a kiss.
I feel his morning breath again. It’s a mixture of beer and all the carbs
we consumed last night.
I look down and the sight horrifies me. I am not naked. No…
But my You’re Excused t-shirt is on backwards, with the flipping bird
cartoon on the front, stretched across my chest. I look further down, and my
heart almost stops.
I am only wearing my panties. Nothing but my panties.
My chubby brown legs are entwined with Noah Dumaine’s hair-dusted
longer legs. Like we’re eels in a pool.
I stop breathing as the realization hits me.
This is not a dream anymore. This is real. I’m half-naked with a
complete fucking stranger who’s only wearing boxers!
A shockwave of images go through me. Mingling past and present in a
terrifying mixture. A t-shirt on backwards, a girl’s bare legs…sobs so loud
my ears are ringing from them.
Noah’s caresses my arm again, light and questing.
“Good morning,” he murmurs right in my fucking ear. Which is still
echoing with sobs.
I shake my head. Once. Twice. To clear it. It doesn’t clear. It just gets
more muddled as feelings join in the shockwave of images. Helplessness,
anger, regret, guilt…shame.
Oh god. Oh god. What happened last night? Oh god, what did I do last
night? Oh god, did I…did we…Was I stupid enough to do something so
stupid and not remember it?!
Noah blinks, concern sliding into his aroused eyes. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth but what comes out is a soundless scream.
He sits up with wild eyes, a confused expression on his scruffy face.
I scramble away from him and hit the wheels of my car. The rough,
grating surface makes everything ten times worse.
My brain races at the speed of light.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
I remember the events of last night. Piling one on top of the other, a
train wreck in slow motion. The kiss. The smile. The banter. His smile. The
dinner. The drive to the drive-in theater. Him calling me Pretty Queenie. His
kiss swallowing me whole… I am a gullible, stupid fool.
Oh. My. God!
I put my hand over my mouth and scream again. Soundlessly.
Noah tentatively touches my shoulder. “It’s okay, Queenie. Nothing
happened. I promise.”
I look around wildly and try to make sense of everything. Anything. I
cannot.
But I see something else that chills me to my bones.
A crowd of people, Veronica’s mean girl minions, are gathered just over
the sand dunes on the other end of the beach, backlit by the rising sun, in an
orange-pink glow. They’re now walking toward Noah and me.
A half-naked Noah and braless me!
Oh no!
I consider screaming again but I don’t have time for it. I give an
incredibly confused and cautiously afraid Noah one grim look.
 “This never happened. Whatever this is, it never happened, okay? I
can’t afford another scandal!” I spy his clothes against the sandy front. And
throw his pants at him. “Cover yourself, Dumaine.”
His eyes widen again at my words. And he tries to touch my shoulder.
I whip the blanket under us, over myself, covering myself as modestly
as I can, and crab walk on the palms of my hands toward my car. I fling
open the passenger door.
“Listen to me…” He says loudly.
I climb into the car; the blanket slides off me and pools on the sand.
Noah catches it and wraps it around his midriff as he peers down at me.
“Queenie, please.” His damn accent almost melts my dread and resolve.
Almost.
But I dive over the gear shift and somehow slither into the driver’s seat.
Noah puts a hand on the window.
I shoot him a venomous glance. “Stay back and stay away from me!” I
hiss out. My heart is beating its way out of my ribcage. I slide into first,
determined to not look at Noah’s confused, hurt, PGSOFS face.
I’d feel bad for him. But he doesn’t know Veronica or how small towns
work. He doesn’t know why I dropped out of school in the first place. How
the rumors were so terrible and the judgment so horrible, I just had to leave
or lose my mind. He doesn’t know what would happen if Veronica found
me half-naked with him.
He doesn’t know anything about me.
Tears blind my eyes as I almost jump into the car and drive away,
spinning gravel on the perfectly great specimen of facial structure who just
might be my downfall after all.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIX

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘CHECK YES, JULIET’ BY WE THE KINGS

The same morning, 9 am

“YOU’RE LATE,” Ares hisses as I squeeze in next to him on the stands of

the Barrons Bay Football Stadium. Fox just looks me up and down and
shakes his head.
I want to growl aloud. I thought I was spending the night with a funny,
smart, hot and willing woman but instead she humiliated me and left me
naked as she screeched away in her clunker, spraying me with sand.
“Why are you late?” Ares demands as I dump my kit bag. “You weren’t
in bed when we staggered home this morning. Thanks to De Rossi here.”
I hang my head and take a deep, centering breath.
“You’re not my warden, Sandoval,” I say mildly. “Can you just—” I
make a cutting motion with my hand.
“I am worried about my best friend who disappeared for the whole
night. But you’re right, I’m not your warden, am I?” Ares asks icily.
I feel like a right bastard. He’s right. I can’t take my shitty mood out on
my mate. It’s not fair.
“Ares, I’m sorry.” I grab his arm and squeeze it. Hard. “That was petty
of me. I’m just…” Hungover and disappointed and reeling from the
strangest and angriest brush off I have ever experienced in my life.
Especially because the kiss before was fucking explosive and consensual.
Fox’s look is all concern; his De Rossi greys expressing all sorts of
things I am in no mood to acknowledge.
 I just can’t get over the image of her screaming at me. Screaming like
she’s about to get murdered in a slasher movie. There was actual terror in
her sleep hazy eyes. Like I was…God! I can’t even think the words.
And it freaked me out, so I wanted to scream too. And then she just
bolted…even though I know nothing happened. If she’d just given me a
quiet moment, I’d have told her that she’d gone swimming in the Atlantic
and her clothes were a mess, so I made her wear just the tee shirt.
But you wanted something to happen right before she started screaming,
mate. I look at my mouthy dick. Fuck you, we are mad at the woman who
treated us so poorly, I think grimly.
“I…I had to jog back to town from the drive-in and then hitch a ride to
the cottage,” I whisper-talk quickly. “I’d have been late, but Sandoval’s
Harley handles the roads just fine and furious. Thanks, mate.” I give him a
conciliatory smile.
He squeezes my arm, voicing his support.
Fox leans in. “You look like shit, Noah. Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to spill the whole sorry mess out when a sharp whistle
sounds in the air. Followed by two short blasts.
As one, thirty-two heads turn to the entrance, where three men in Savile
Row suits and aviators, each carrying a golden whistle and clipboards,
stride onto the ground, followed by a team of people in shorts and jerseys
that advertise Triskelion Cricket Training.
All the chatter goes quiet.

I’m in the presence of three of the greatest cricket players in the last fifty
years. The first one is Padric Alastair, three-time World Cup winner and
English bowler who captained his side to countless victories against the
Aussies. The second is Rohit Devgan, Indian batting legend, whose
nickname is The Rock because he defended the Indian batting order for
close to twenty-three years. He also won Player of the Tournaments during
his team’s three World Cup Victories. The last of them is Australian Aiden
Gilcrest, a wicketkeeping-batting god who destroyed Padric’s team in return
and holds the record for the best catch reflexes in the whole game. Ever.
 “Good morning, gentlemen. Is everyone present?” Padric, six-one, grey-
haired, English, begins politely. “Is everyone sober? That was a hell of a
party last night.”
A nervous titter breaks through the ranks. But no one answers.
“Close enough.” Lean-hipped, iron-haired Rohit responds to the
Englishman. “Everyone’s brought their kits, I hope. This is a working
practice.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorus.
“Let’s go to the field, shall we?” Aiden suggests, waving us with his
clipboard.
We file out in silence, looking at the three legends in awe. The only
reason any of us are here is to learn from the best of the best – The Golden
Trio.
The ground needs some work, with patches of grass shooting up to my
ankles and tickling it. But the ground is good-sized; will make for a good
outfield when we go out to bat. And the newly-erected roofs of the stands
shine in their glass and chrome glory.
“Gentlemen.” Padric nods at us. “Before we kick things off today, I…”
Aiden nudges him. “We,” he says emphatically.
“We,” Padric continues wryly, “Would like to take a moment to
introduce Triskelion Cricket Training. Talk about why you are here, and
what you can hope to get out of Triskelion.”
One of the group shouts Long Live the Queen while shooting the
Australians a pointed look.
I bristle at the Aussie clapback, but I also respect the fuck out of Padric.
The man is a bowling genius.
Padric grins and tips his glasses down. Then he resumes his serious
coach face. “I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Strong, but it’s entirely
unnecessary. Because, at Triskelion Cricket Training, our aim is to teach
you to beat any team, any batter, any bowler, any keeper and any fielder
hollow. Regardless of how important the match is or who the opposing team
is.”
His announcement is met with catcalls and applause.
Rohit holds his hand up and immediately the crowd quietens. “What my
coaching partner is saying is we don’t appreciate trash-talking other teams
during this camp. All teams are equal and so are all players, great or not.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Devgan sir.”
 “Call me Coach Devgan. Coach Rohit Devgan.” Devgan pockets his
glasses and looks at us with beetle-black eyes.
“Yes, sir. Coach Devgan, sir,” Ares calls out lazily. Arrogantly.
The last of the trio, Gilcrest, checks his clipboard. “Ares Sandoval.” He
looks Ares up and down. “Under-16 Player of the Year for Australia.
Scouted by the Melbourne Marvels T20 team next year as opening batter
and played his T20 debut for them. Hit a six in the first ball of the innings,
right?”
Ares is all assholery and smugness as he folds his arms. “Hell, yes, sir.”
“What happened next ball, Ares Sandoval?” Aiden asks innocently.
“I was bowled out by the pacer,” Ares admits quietly.
“That’s right. Let’s first learn to last through the opening over before
thinking of beating Devsy’s or Paddy’s records, alright?”
“Sir, I—” Ares begins hotly.
“Will speak next when I am spoken to,” he says pleasantly. “Am I
clear?”
No one cracks a wiseass comment or laughs. Ares vibrates against me
but keeps his mouth shut.
“We are here to turn each and every one of you into masters of this
game you all presume to play. And this?” Aiden taps his clipboard. Then he
tosses it behind his back.
“This does not matter anymore. You know you are all the best. The very
best of the best in the age group of nineteen-to-twenty-four. From South
Africa, the Caribbean.” He nods at players from each country, who are
standing clubbed together. “India, Australia, New Zealand, England, and Sri
Lanka.”
Coach Devgan waves the thick invitation envelope I received on the
first of April. “Each of you have received an invitation to participate in the
first-ever Triskelion Cricket Training program. And the requirement to entry
was simple. Excellence,” he says brutally. “If you’re excellent consistently,
since you wore your first jersey, you made the cut. If you’re not, you don’t
know this place exists. That we exist.”
This was true. I’d tried to get online and find details about Triskelion
Cricket Training when I first got the invite. There wasn’t even a website to
check out.
“It’s also the main reason why Triskelion is conducting this camp away
from the prying eyes of cricket-obsessed media here at Barrons Bay,”
Devgan continues. “We have connections with the town’s Chamber of
Commerce and …no one gives a shit about cricket here.”
Fox cracks a smile at the backhanded joke.
There’s one person who gives a shit, I think to myself. Then I
immediately block all thoughts of her. I’m mad at her; she is a screaming
virago. I will not think about her.
“All that matters here is how well we do the job.” Padric points at the
coaches. “And our job is to make sure you do your job.” He points at us.
“That you produce the best possible results in every format – be it T20,
fifty-overs or a five-day test match. That you produce it under stressful and
difficult conditions.”
Padric smiles pleasantly. “You’re here to work as a team. To win as a
team,” he emphasizes. “With your instincts, gamesmanship, and natural
talent. To win with people you don’t know…maybe you don’t like. For this
reason, you’ll all train, run drills, get in net time, ground time, the works for
the first month in the teams we put you in. Later on, we will reveal details
about the Triskelion Cup.”
“Your job,” Aiden barks. “Is to be the best possible batter, bowler,
fielder, or keeper for your team. Some of you have specialties, strengths.
We will help you hone those strengths to a razor sharpness, until they
become your armor. And your weaknesses?” Aiden’s smiles is sharp,
cutting. “They will become your best friends.”
“Since you are also guests of this beautiful town you will be on your
best behavior off the field too,” Padric adds. “So, last night was the last
party you indulged in, gentlemen.”
“That goes double for any kind of shenanigans.” Devgan starts counting
with his fingers. “No drinking and driving, hooliganism, roughhousing, or
destroying local property, hooking up casually and causing trouble for the
locals,” he continues coldly. “If you behave contrary to these instructions,
your spot in the camp will be immediately revoked. Forever. This is a first-
strike offence.”
“Are you saying we can’t socialize with the locals, Coach Devgan?” A
South African player raises his hand.
“Of course, you can socialize with the locals. Make friends. Make
connections. Meaningful ones,” Aiden emphasizes. “But that is all.”
“Are we clear?” Devgan barks.
“Yes, sir,” we chorus as a group.
 “You see,” Aiden smiles at Devgan and Paddy and continues, “There is
a prize to be awarded at the end of the Triskelion Cup, gentlemen.”
“A phone call,” Padric says before we can ask what the prize is. “We
make a phone call to the national selection board of your home country and
bring the officials down here to watch one of you play the finals of the
Triskelion Cup. One of you.” He points his clipboard at us. “Will leave this
camp with an offer of playing for your home country. Wearing its colors and
picking up the bat or ball for the national cricket team.”
My heart thumps wildly in my chest with each word Paddy says.
“One of you,” Aiden continues grimly. “Will get a jumpstart on your
dream. The one dream you all have which hasn’t come true for you yet.”
This is my dream. The only dream I’ve ever had. To play for Australia.
To lead Australia.
“If you’re beyond excellent. If you’re worthy. If they find you worthy
on the day’s play. If…” Devgan puts his glasses back on. “You can impress
Paddy, Gilly, and me. And believe me when I say this, I have seen tapes of
all of you and, so far? Consider me unimpressed.”
I fist my hands at my sides. Devgan might not be impressed by me yet
and I might not be hot shit like the Sri Lankan batting prodigy or the
English under-19 pacer, but he is going to make that call for me and me
alone.
“Practice begins in earnest tomorrow,” Paddy announces. “Today, you’ll
change into your kits and run laps and drills. Get to know the field, break it
in. Some of you will be in charge of putting the pitch together. Others will
be taken to the field in Pennington, a sister training ground, and discharge
pitch duties there.”
“But sir, it’s the groundsmen’s jobs to prepare the pitch, isn’t it?”
Aiden laughs. Devgan pinches his nose, and Padric smiles pleasantly at
the young Caribbean player who made the comment.
I don’t know what freaks me out more. All three are equally terrifying.
“Son, do you see a groundsman here?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Exactly.” Paddy nods. “Learn to study the pitch by prepping it. Put
your hands in the grass, the soil, touch it, feel it…use it,” he barks. “This is
not some fancy camp for the best players in the world, gentlemen. With
fancy vitamin drink vending machines and two-hour saunas. This is
Thunderdome,” he says bluntly. “You either cut it or you don’t. The choice
is yours.”
The Caribbean player hangs his head.
“Any other questions, gentlemen?”
The air stirs in our silence.
“Excellent. You have fifteen minutes to get changed and assemble back
here. Understood?” Aiden asks.
No one says a word.
“He asked a question, boys,” Devgan calls out.
“Understood!” We yell at the top of our voices.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOSE YOURSELF’ BY EMINEM

PRACTICE IS BRUTAL, cutthroat, with each of us trying our level best to

make an impression on the men in the ten-thousand-dollar suits. Suits they
earned by being the best athlete, sportsperson, cricket player for their team
and country.
I hydrate and run laps and drills with my new team. I walk around the
pitch and stamp it flat for the next practice game. I keep my head down and
my mouth shut, ignoring the pain in my head not even Tylenol could kill.
We work for almost eight hours straight, with a brief break for lunch.
Switching teams and partners, working with the support coaches who also
carry around the dreaded clipboards and whistles.
I collapse on the field after the final whistle blasts, staring up at the sky.
My legs are jelly, thigh muscles straining from the effort of squatting
around the pitch and outfield. But I’m happy.
In the one place I’ve always belonged. My home. I clench fistfuls of
grass and breathe in the smell of manly sweat, testosterone, and stamped
grass. It’s intoxicating.
A face swings into view for me. I frown as I try to figure out who it is.
“Noah, right? Dumaine?” A posh Brit player peers at me. I’ve gone to
high school with a couple of these blokes. They are all teeth and no bite.
“Yeah. That’s me.” I sit up slowly and stretch out the kinks in my neck.
“Uhm…” The player squats next to me. “I don’t know how to say this
but…here…see for yourself.”
He shoves his Motorola flip phone in my face and presses play on a
video.
 The picture becomes clearer as the grainy video pushes closer to the
people in the shot.
It’s me. Naked and on the beach front, next to the clunker of a car
Queenie Madhavan drives. The blanket barely covers my jiggly bits. My
hair’s wild and sticking in all directions. And right next to me, wide-eyed
and hair in a cloud of curls, is her. She’s got the blanket shoved under her
armpits but, even from a distance, I can see the golden, sun-kissed curves
under it.
It looks bad. Whatever is happening between us looks bad. Really bad.
Like getting-kicked-off-camp bad.
I can’t hear what the two of us are saying, but I remember her words
clear enough. Even after half a day has passed and I’ve scrubbed my mind
clean off her.
This never happened. I can’t afford another scandal.
The video changes cameras and points the other way now. A plasticky,
green-eyed blonde blow a kiss to the camera. “What do we have here,
Barrons Bay? A secret couple on a beach date? Who could it be? Let’s find
out, shall we?” She blows another kiss to the camera, then turns it the other
way round.
My stomach tightens with nerves. Oh god. Oh god!
Queenie’s expression, of utter distaste, is imprinted in the backs of my
eyes. And immortalized on video.
This is horrible. Like having a bomb dropped on a small city and
watching it go up in smoke.
“Who sent you this? Who’s this chick?” I grab the screen and play it
again.
“It’s Veronica Washington… my girlfriend. I’m Teddy Durham.” The
posh player holds his hand out.
I give it a brisk shake, my mind already racing ahead. Already thinking
of possible outcomes. Liking none of them. “Who else has seen this video,
Teddy?”
Teddy has the grace to look ashamed. “Veronica’s really popular, she’s
the town princess. And she doesn’t like the girl in the video…Queenie?
Like, really doesn’t like her. I don’t know who she wants to send it to.”
Teddy takes his phone back and gives me a squeeze. “I’m sorry, man. I just
thought you should know.”
The video plays again on a loop.
 Oh fuck! What am I going to do?
“Dumaine, get up,” Padric barks at me. “Why’s your phone out,
Durham?” He grabs Teddy Durham’s phone from him and checks it out. His
eyes narrow when he sees the video.
“Sir?” My mouth is dry, my nerves are a livewire. “Sir, I—” I’m blank.
I don’t know what to say.
Paddy gives me a grim look as he jogs to the coaches and shows them
the video.
In sickening concert, all three coaches start walking toward me.
I have no defense. I have no excuse.
I am going to be chucked out of camp before it begins.
Fox begins to run toward me. Ares does too. But the three men of the
apocalypse are all I care about. And they’ve already decided my fate.
I think quickly. Run through every possible scenario. And hit upon the
only one I can think of that might work. I remember the coach’s words and
Queenie’s words…
Make connections. Meaningful ones.
I was in a desperate situation….
I get up and fist my hands at my sides. Face the Triskelion coaches.
“Before you say anything and kick me off camp, which you’re
completely within your rights to do, I’d like to say two things,” I begin
quietly, confidently. Deferentially.
They stop walking. Watch me.
Fox and Ares are panting as they reach my side. Even they are watching
me. Everyone’s watching me fuck up one more time.
But I want this.
I want this more than them. For one, I am on the older end of the age
group, twenty-four. For another…I need this. More than anyone else at this
camp. They are all talented and skilled and the best of the best, but they are
younger than me. They have less to prove because they didn’t screw up all
their chances already.
Even my brothers, Fox and Ares, don’t need this like I need it. They
don’t have to keep a deathbed promise like I do. I don’t know anything else
but playing the game. I don’t even have a fucking college degree.
I only have this one thing. This one shot at making the Australian men’s
squad and I am fucking determined to do what I can to keep it. Even more
than the mad and hurt I feel at the screaming virago abandoning me this
morning.
I talk fast, breathlessly.
“This is an embarrassing thing to happen to anyone. Especially her. Her
name’s Queenie Madhavan and she’s just…” I grit my jaw and spit the
bitter words out. “So very special. And I don’t know how to explain what
happened except…” I swallow for effect. “It did.”
“What’s the second thing you’d like to say, Dumaine?” Rohit Devgan
asks quietly. Dangerously quietly. “And I’d like it to be the reason why my
goddaughter is moving away from you like you’re going to murder her
while you’re both…unclothed.” He says the last word, pained.
What in the--?
My eyes widen although I keep the curse inside. Out of all the girls in
this godforsaken beach town, how did I end up on a porno video with the
coach’s goddaughter?
“No shenanigans, Dumaine. The instructions were clear as day.”
“The instructions began today, sir,” Ares defends me stoutly. The fool.
“At the meeting.”
Padric turns to him to blast him publicly.
I know what’s at stake here. Everything.
I didn’t make the cut for the National Selection committee last year.
And my time in the local T20 leagues was, in a word, disastrous.
Catastrophe does not begin to describe my tenure as a professional
cricket player. And the main reason why I have not attended a day of
college – I captained the under-19 world cup, when I was seventeen, even
before I finished high school. I haven’t stepped foot in an academic
institution since then. Not even to collect my high school diploma.
“Sir, what Ares is trying to say is we didn’t know we were being
filmed…and this is in very poor taste, either way. But.” I look at Fox and
telegraph my need urgently to him, sweat dripping down my forehead to my
eyes.
He nods, a tiny affirmation.
I deliver the master stroke with a straight face looking at Rohit
Devgan’s rock-like face and blazing eyes. “What you’re seeing is a very
private moment between me and my girl, sir. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“You and Queenie are dating?” Rohit demands, hands on hips.
 “Not just dating, sir,” I emphasize, gruffly. “She’s my girl and I’m sorry
if it goes against the rules of the camp.” I hang my head in contrition.
The coaches look at each other. But they aren’t immediately asking me
to leave.
So, I know this is the right move. A good captain makes up strategies on
the fly to deal with a problematic player. And I used to be a damn good
captain before I fucked it all up.
“Will Queenie confirm this when I talk to her? And you best believe I
will be talking to her right fucking now,” Rohit barks.
I nod enthusiastically and push my sweaty hair off my forehead. “Of
course, sir. It’s all true sir.” I push my palm up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Shower and get changed.” Rohit looks me up and down. “We’ll get to
the bottom of this right away.”
“Five minutes, sir. Just give me five minutes.”
I practically blitz past the crowd in my eagerness to exit the field. I’ve
been waiting for this chance for the longest time. This isn’t just a training
camp for me. It is the highway to my success. And I’ll be damned if anyone
fucks with it.
Anyone.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHT

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘OH NO’ BY BIIG PIIG

The same morning 11 am

Dear Amma,
Are the patients of West Africa superheroes
already because you and Appa are building
hospitals and treating them? I am sure they are.
They’re so lucky to have you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your call yesterday.
I’m busy studying for the special course I’m
taking for extra credits after my semester break.
The classes are tough but I’m excited…

TEARS BLUR my eyes as I finish typing the falsely detailed email and
whoosh it off to my parents. I am yet to talk to them – on call and video
chat – because I don’t know how to lie to their face. If they know their best
and brightest elder daughter is working for minimum wage they’d be back
here in a heartbeat and trying to get to the bottom of why I’m not finishing
out my senior year.
They worked so hard and sacrificed so much, to get me into Thorndon.
My hardworking parents commuted for hours to get to Manhattan so my
sister and I could have a safe life, a stellar education. I cannot break their
hearts by telling them the reason my semester break turned into two was
because the whole campus painted me as a Scarlett Woman and the girl who
cried wolf. That the thought of going back makes me want to scratch my
eyes out.
I stash my bag in the employee locker room of Ma’s Pantry. My head
pounds even after I downed all the Advil I had in my dorm room. It is
definitely a cluster migraine.
I sniff again and will the headache to recede.
How could I have been so stupid last night? How? Did I not learn my
lesson from before?
The pocket doors bang. I look up, wincing.
“Can you please…?” I make shushing motions. “My migraine is killing
me.”
“I’m going to kill you,” my best friend and fellow waitress, Mischa
Bhargav, announces dangerously. “You did not answer your phone the
whole night!”
“Yeah, I⁠—”
“Do not give me any excuses, Q.” Mischa glares at me, her doe-shaped
baby browns shooting literal fire. “I am not in the mood for them.”
“I wasn’t going to.” I hug her waist from behind.
She stiffens for a moment before relenting.
“I’m sorry,” I say mournfully. “It was a…weird night.”
“Tell me everything,” she commands.
As she wipe down the surfaces and I refill the sugar, salt, and ketchup
bottles, I fill her in on my night. In short.
Mischa and I bonded in middle school when both of us grew not just
boobs but also extraneous fat around our middles. Suddenly, we weren’t
like the rest of the leggy girls in school who took extreme delight in
reminding us of how different we were during PE class.
But, truthfully, we became friends because we both loved watching
corny movies like Sleepless in Seattle and 10 Things I Hate About You and
being co-presidents of the I <3 SRK club (we both dressed up as Anjali for
the eighth grade Halloween party – she was the demure saree-wearing,
straight-haired hottie, I was the chirpy, sweatshirt-wearing tomboy).
Our outfit choices reflect who we are too. She is the eternal romantic
who longs for a preppy Prince Charming. I am the knowing cynic who X-
rays for the douche beneath the prep.
Together, we are besties to this day. In fact, Mischa’s studying to be a
doctor too, at NYU. Although she wants to go into sports medicine in some
capacity and not cardiology like my parents hope for me.
“….And I shot out of the beach like a bat out of hell, this morning,” I
finish as the patrons start streaming in through the doors.
Mischa’s eyebrows almost touch her forehead as I wind down my sordid
tale of drinking, kissing, and hooking up with a random stranger.
“I have so many questions,” she begins urgently.
“They’re going to have to wait.” I paste a smile on my face as I stash
the last ketchup refills.
The line cooks and the main chef, Pestroni, are already back in the
kitchen waiting for breakfast orders as I walk to the middle of the diner.

“Hi, would you like to hear today’s breakfast specials?” I ask the customer
in my section, politely, hiding my burp behind my pad.
The customer, in a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and a flannel shirt,
grins at me. “Are you on it, sweetness?”
I slide the pad down and peer at him. His blond hair is thinning in the
front. His blue eyes are wrinkly on the sides, making him a late thirties
specimen of dubious charm.
I remember the customer service training I’d received the first week of
working here, back in January, from Ma’s son, Joseph Junior.
You’re a pretty girl and you’ll get a lot of attention because of it. As
long as they don’t grab you with their hands, please show some restraint.
Any broken flatware will come out of your paycheck. And medical
emergencies will not be compensated, if they can be diffused with a sweet
smile.
“No, sir, I am not,” I say politely. “We are a diner with a name for pie.
Not people.” I tack on a smile at the end of my snark.
“That’s a shame.” He leans back and reads the board behind me. But his
eyes linger on my chest.
I fight the instinct to hunch and cover up my boobs or thrust them in his
face like I’m about to give him a lap dance. Neither is appropriate customer
service.
“Let’s hear the day’s specials, then.” He slides his hand on the front of
the table and fingers the edge of my apron.
 I wonder if this constitutes grabbing.
I list them really fast. “Hash browns with a stack of buttermilk pancakes
and a side of bacon. Rashers with waffles and cream, fried tomatoes with
bacon on the side. Eggs are poached, sunny side, scrambled, fried, no
frittatas, two buttered toasts on the side. Extra toast’s charged separately.
We are also running a special on the pies, but you’ll have to get the whole
thing, they’re just a little old.” They are two days old but I’m not telling this
jerk.
Red Sox winks. “How old? Are they of legal age?” This time he is
staring directly at my tits without any pretense.
I grab the ketchup bottle on the next table and dump it on his table. On
the back of his palm. He howls in misery and takes his hand back
immediately.
“Oops, sorry, sir. I didn’t see your hand there.” I delicately arrange all of
the flatware and bottles neatly at the table. And smile even more delicately
at him. I hope he can see the wrath of fire in my kohl-lined eyes. “Just
thought you’d love some extra ketchup to go with your order. Which I’m
still waiting on.” I even lean close to the edge of the table so he can see my
boobs better.
But he is nursing his wounded hand, his thin lips pursed.
He doesn’t give me anymore shit and places his order.
I carry it through to the kitchen and stick it to the board, where the
orders are given. When mine is done, one of the cooks will call the number
on our tablet and I’ll take it out. I have perfected this system over six
months of working here.
My day continues smoothly from there.
I enjoy working at Ma’s Pantry, the occasional pervy customer
notwithstanding. The crowd is usually fun and friendly. And serving food
feels like a real service to the people. And, no, there’s no spitting in the food
at Ma’s Pantry. That shit only happens in the movies.
We might serve stale food sometimes to a particularly problematic
customer or burn the edges of their meat or even drop it on the floor, but no
bodily fluids are present in the food.
The ambience is what you’d expect from a small-town diner. Even ones
frequented by the filthy Manhattan rich, half the year. Cozy booths done in
vinyl, a red-and-white striped awning for those wanting to enjoy the Main
Street thoroughfare. There’s a large breakfast bar with worn leather stools
where the regulars congregate. So much so they carved their names on the
oakwood frame.
The windows are large and roomy, showing the interiors of the diner.
And the interiors are mostly full-length posters of 50s and 60s pinup idols.
I’d looked them up one day out of sheer boredom and found some
fascinating stuff. Especially Rita Hayworth, who looked just like me. With
her boobs and hourglass waist and big thighs. I also love that she’s dark-
haired, unlike Marilyn Monroe.
I wish I’d known about Rita Hayworth back in school. I’d have taunted
the skinny beanpole girls with her when they called me Rounds (for my
rounded chest). So original.
But I didn’t have the mouth on me back then that I do now.

I love the diner once the lunch crowd disperses and it’s just a few old
regulars, playing chess in a booth. Sipping their sun-iced teas to beat the
sun. Mischa and I finally take a real break while the sun dips down the
horizon, bathing the whole town in golden hour.
She grabs a turkey burger, and I settle for fresh apple pie.
Every bone in my body protests as I sink into a booth, guzzling a gallon
liter bottle of water.
Mischa gives me the stink eye. “I still haven’t forgotten our
conversation, Q. I need details.”
“I told you what happened last night. I lied to the mean girl who started
all the rumors that I sleep with college faculty for better grades, making it
impossible for me to attend said college.” I stretch the kinks out of my neck
and shove apple pie down my throat. “Which led to sucking face with a hot
stranger.” And maybe other things because I was too damn drunk. “Then I
bolted in the morning because I realized it was a big mistake. Huge.”
Last night was a mistake. A gigantic one in six-feet neon letters. Shame
courses through me as I remember the abandon with which I’d kissed Noah.
Allowing him to touch me and make me feel things I’d never felt before
because I⁠—
“Did you have to go down to the party last night for your revenge plot?”
Mischa mutters as she munches on her burger.
 “If you’re not the heroine of your own story, who are you?” I shoot back
philosophically.
“This sucks balls,” Mischa mutters.
“What sucks balls, Q Bee?”
I roll my eyes as two of my favorite idiots grab nearby chairs and join
Mischa and me. Mischa immediately shoves her untouched plate of fries
toward the center of the table.
“Hmmmm. Yummy,” Simon Archer moans as he gulps down the pie, his
one weakness.
“Manners, brother. Manners make a man,” Jace Archer, his younger
brother, admonishes as he grabs a handful of Mischa’s fries and stuffs them
in his open mouth.
“Says the clown with a mouthful of fries.” Simon talks around his food.
The Archer brothers work at Nate’s Automative Works, a custom car
shop on Main Street, now that school’s out. Although Simon’s worked there
through his senior year while Jace went to school full-time. They come here
during breaks for free pie, which somehow turned into hanging out with my
bestie and me.
The Archer family began as old money but lost their fortune and
reputation, becoming town pariahs, just like me. And, in a community like
Barrons Bay, the only thing worse than having no money (like Mischa and
me) is to have had money and lose it all in scandal and ruin.
“So, did either of you attend the party last night?” Jace asks, making
hopeful eyes at Mischa. I don’t know if he has a crush on her or it’s
something more, but their connection is special.
Just like Simon calling me Q Bee, short for Queen Bee.
“Of course, she did, boys,” Veronica Washington’s breathy, nasal voice
interrupts our little table. “And I have proof of it too.”
I resist clenching my fist at my side as I slowly stand up to face my
nemesis. She’s in summer attire. A flirty dress floats around her tanned legs
and golden locks arranged to show off her tits. She actually has pore-less
skin.
I hate her for it.
Simon’s hackles rise at the dig at me, but I give him a subtle shake of
my head. I don’t need Simon to fight this battle.
“What are you doing here, Mor—Veronica?” I ask her, civilly. “Don’t
tell me you suddenly have a fondness for pie.”
 “I’ll probably get salmonella if I eat here.” Veronica shudders delicately.
“But I actually came here for you, Queenie.” Her smile is nasty.
“Didn’t know you cared so much about me, Veronica.” But I make to
walk past her, ready to end this stupid feud right now.
I’m done with my break and take my place at the bar. The pre-dinner
crowd will show up any minute.
“Oh, I care about you, Queenie.” She follows me to my station. “You’re
the only thing I think about. But, in the interest of full disclosure, I thought
I’d come and show you this in person.”
“Show me what?”
Veronica’s nasty smile grows wider. She taps her phone. “This.”
It begins as a pixelated video of a couple on the beach, the sun’s just
rising. It’s all very pretty and photogenic. Then, the camera zooms in, and I
hear Veronica’s grating laugh.
“Looks like we caught ourselves a live one, ladies.” Veronica talks in
her shrill voice.
I freeze as the video plays on. My fingers go numb one by one. I know
what I’m about to see. I don’t even breathe. Ice slithers through me, making
my palms clammy.
I’m petrified as I watch Noah touch me. How I look over his shoulder at
my car, then fall against it.
And the same feelings – panic, anxiety, dread – run through me. I
cannot afford another scandal.
The finale is Veronica’s smugly vicious grin as she says more nasty
things about me. Then the camera points back at Noah and the scene of my
hasty, undignified getaway.
My blood runs cold as I hand the phone back to her, keeping my face
expressionless. I am brown so I don’t easily lose color, but I feel myself
losing everything as I process what I just saw.
My identity. My self-worth. What little dignity I have left. If this video
becomes public, I’ll lose my job, my future. And no one in town will hire
me. No one with a working internet connection will hire me
“What…” I lick my dry lips. “What are you going to do with it?”
My nemesis smiles. “What I vowed I’d do to you, Queenie, at the
beginning of the year. Use it to destroy your life.” Her mouth twists at the
end like she’s holding back tears. “Just like you destroyed mine.”
 But I didn’t, I want to scream. I didn’t destroy anyone. I just tried to help
someone only to have it backfire on me and destroy me. But I don’t say it
out loud. No one listens. No one ever did.
My mind races, trying to think of a way to mitigate this disaster.
I come up blank.
I just keep remembering Noah’s hands on my waist in my dream. Warm
and possessive. And the wild look in his eyes when I became unhinged after
I realized it was real. He was real.
And now, everyone will see me naked with a strange man on the beach.
Everyone will assume the worst. Everyone will assume every bad rumor
about me is true. And I will be destroyed.
Destroyed.
A breath escapes past my throat, gets trapped in my lips. “Can I beg you
not to do it?” I ask in a low voice. “On my knees?”
She shrugs. “You can try, Queenie.”
A flood of despair threatens to take me under. I don’t know what to do. I
have no plan. No clever comeback or retort. I’m finished. Over.
I’ll forever be Queenie Madhavan, the girl caught in a porno video.
“This is harassment,” I whisper one last time. “I could go to the cops
and report this.”
“You could,” Veronica checks a notification on her phone. “But who’s
going to believe you, Rumor Girl?” She smiles coldly.
Tears prick my eyes, wanting to spill over and drown me in sorrow.
I didn’t ask for this. For any of this. I was a loving daughter and good
friend. A grade-A student. Ambitious. Studious. I wasn’t supposed to end up
like this. Almost crying on the sticky floor of the dinner where I worked.
I open my mouth to scream, wail, do something when I feel a familiar
pair of arms around my shoulders. A slight mouth presses a kiss to my
sweaty temple. I wasn’t aware I was sweating.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Noah Calvin Dumaine drawls. “I’m so sorry, I’m late.
Practice was heaps exhausting.”
Then he spins me around and pulls me into a tight, sweaty hug. A very
possessive, public embrace.
And he whispers, “I know about the video. And I have a plan to save us
both. Just, trust me, okay?”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘HOLD ME CLOSER’ BY ELTON JOHN, BRITNEY
SPEARS

I AM SPUN OUT, breathless in Noah’s tight and strangely comforting

hold. He still feels the same. All safe and sexy and perfectly built. Even his
scent, manly sweat and spicy cool cologne, feels reassuring. But how can it
be when last night was a mistake and he is dangerous?
I’m wrong. This is just stress hormones making me cling to the first
thing that feels safe.
I immediately step back. Almost, elbowing him in the stomach.
His eyes glitter hectically but Noah gives me a sickly-sweet smile. He is
right to be mad at me. In my haste to get away from him I made it look as
if…as if…
“Queenie, bete. Are you okay?”
I almost groan out loud at my godfather’s concerned tones, calling me
child. Great. I was so preoccupied with the great revenge plot I forgot Rohit
Chachu, my stern godfather, will be in town for the cricket camp he’s
started.
Noah puts a proprietary hand around my waist as he whirls us around.
“Of course, she’s okay, sir. Why wouldn’t she be okay?” His fingers dig
lightly into my waist.
I keep my yelp inside as I look at Rohit Chachu’s thunderous
expression.
“Dumaine told me…” Rohit stops talking and looks at Moronica, who’s
gawking at Noah and me. “Excuse me, miss. Is there a reason you’re
standing here?”
 “Yes.” Noah gives her the same hectic smile he gave me. “You’re not
bothering my girl with that stupid video, are you?”
My eyes widen and my heart beats uncomfortably again. My girl? Did
he just call me my girl?
“Because, you know, videos lie all the time. Especially silent ones,” he
continues quietly. “And I have the De Rossi family’s lawyer, Calvin
Dumaine, on speed dial. He’ll be happy to serve you with a defamation
lawsuit.”
My eyes widen comically. The De Rossi family’s lawyer has the same
two names as Noah.
“You’re Noah Dumaine,” Rohit says slowly. “You’re related to the De
Rossi family?”
Noah nods. “Yes, sir. My father’s been Head Legal Counsel for the De
Rossis for thirty-one years. Our families are very close. And anything harms
one of the De Rossis, harms all of us.” He gives Veronica a shark-like look.
“I’m sure he’ll be very interested to know of this development.”
“I was just showing her the video I took,” Veronica squeaks out. Fear
leaking out of her very pores. Even Veronica knows who the De Rossis are.
“Because it’s pretty funny. How she can’t get away from you fast enough.”
Her smile is plasticky and stretched at the edges.
“That’s because I remembered I’d kept the hot plate on the whole
night,” I answer quickly. “I didn’t want to cause a fire hazard,” I add
weakly at Chachu’s questioning look.
“I didn’t know that,” Veronica whispers.
“No, you just thought you’d have some fun shooting an X-rated video
of my girl and me,” Noah hits back.
Veronica juts her bony chin out. “It’s not illegal to shoot videos, is it?”
“You’re still going to delete the video, aren’t you?” Noah asks politely.
Veronica nods so hard, her ponytail scratches her cheek.
I whoop internally.
“Right the fuck now?” He prompts.
“Ye-yes.” Veronica presses buttons on her phone and shows the screen
to Noah. “There, it’s all done.”
“Awesome. And because I’m a cautious bastard, you can still expect a
call and legal action from my father in…” He looks at his watch. “With the
time difference, it’ll be too late tonight. But I bet I can wake him up for
this.”
 “Look, Noah, we don’t have to—” Veronica panics.
“Actually, I’d like to check if you have any other evidence in there for
myself?” He smiles thinly. “You can never be too sure nowadays, can you?”
Noah extends his hand, and Veronica puts the phone in his hand. “Thanks,
mate.”
He squeezes my waist again and then walks a few feet away.

Rohit Chachu looks at me inscrutably. “You’re dating this boy?” He asks

me quietly.
I don’t answer him. I’m reeling from the events of the last few minutes.
Noah’s rich. Like filthy rich. He called me ‘My Girl.’ He made Veronica
‘My Nemesis’ Washington delete a damaging video with a few words and
that aura of power I did not know he possessed.
And the vein in Rohit’s forehead, which pops when he is angry at a
bowler for sledging, is close to bursting.
“I—”
“I thought you’re on a special intensive study this semester, Queenie.
Not hanging around out-of-town cricket players.”
Noah is a cricket player?!
Will the surprises not stop?
“I didn’t know about the cricket thing, Chachu.” I step closer to him and
hold his hand. He’s the closest thing to family for me, right now. And I am
so glad to see him even if he looks pissed. “You look amazing.” I lie to him
because I want him to stop going purple. “I thought you were coming next
week.”
“Forget about me, Queenie.” He squeezes my hand. “And tell me how
long this thing with Dumaine’s been going on? Is it serious? Because he
said⁠—”
“I said a lot of things a man who’s with a girl like Queenie would say.
All of them true.” Noah shows up noiselessly next to me and this time tries
to put a hand around my shoulder.
But I step away from him and give my godfather-slash-uncle a hug.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Chachu. I missed you so much.”
 Rohit hugs me tight and briefly. And, weirdly, I feel the same sense of
safety and affection from him that I felt in Noah’s hug. Which is impossible
because I don’t like Noah and I just…
“I missed you too, Queenie. And we have to catch up for dinner now
that I’m here but, for right now, I just need to know one thing.”
“What thing?”
“He means if we are for real, Queenie.” Noah turns me to face him and
winks cheekily. But I can see the flat expression in his pitch-black eyes.
“He wants to know if you’re my girl.”
There’s the phrase again. My girl. What in the hell is he talking about?
“Don’t presume to speak for me, Dumaine,” Rohit barks at him. “Did
you sort the situation with the other girl?”
Noah nods briskly. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Veronica and the video won’t
be a problem anymore. She’s deleted it from her phone and her backup
accounts. She’ll also be writing a profound apology to me. For this breach
of privacy.” He squeezes my hand.
“Will she?” I murmur, my head reeling again.
“Yes,” Noah replies.
The relief I feel at the word almost makes me barf again. This time from
an excess of stress.
“And you really are with him?” Rohit emphasizes roughly.
I smile wanly at my uncle. “Define ‘with’, Chachu.”
“Just tell me you’re fine, Queenie. I need to know you’re fine,” Rohit
says quietly. And then goes in for the killer move. “Your parents would
expect me keep an eye on you when they aren’t here.”
“I’m fine, Chachu.” I break free of Noah’s hold and hug my uncle
again.
He’s so fine and handsome in the designer threads, a polished version of
international athlete. I am so proud of him. And I love cricket because
Chachu brought me a little red season ball for my third birthday and spent
hours playing catch with me. He’s been insanely busy with his skyrocketing
career over the years, but he’s always made time for me, especially.
“I really am fine.” I reassure him and watch as some of the skepticism
melts from his face. “I hope…” I bite my lip and look at Noah uncertainly.
“I hope everything’s fine for you too.”
“Everything is fine,” Rohit murmurs. “For now.” He rubs a hand over
the back of his neck. He shoots Noah a hard look. “But none of this means
shit on the pitch, Dumaine. Hope you understand that.”
“So, you’re not kicking me out of the camp then, sir?” Noah asks easily.
But I see the slight trembling of his fingers he hides by tapping them
against his sweatpants.
This matters to him, I realize. This cricket camp is important to him.
“Not yet, no. Not for dating my goddaughter.” Rohit frowns again.
“But, Queenie, when I spoke to the dean and asked about you, he said you
don’t live in the dorms anymore. Is that true?”
Oh shit. My godfather is tight with Thorndon’s authorities, because of
the honorary engineering doctorate they gave him fifteen years ago. Rohit
actually came to Thorndon with my dad and studied for a semester before
he was selected by the Board of Cricket India and never went back. It’s how
I was able to score an interview with the admissions department too.
Because he made a phone call.
“Yeah –”
“About that, sir—” Noah begins slowly. With the same hectic smile that
scares and annoys me.
“What?” Rohit spits out.
“Queenie’s staying with me now, sir.” Noah slides his hand into mine
and squeezes our palms. “We live together.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘ALL THE GOOD GIRLS GO TO HELL’ BY BILLIE
EILISH

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE to do that,” I whisper five minutes after Chachu

leaves. Without punching Noah or killing me. Noah’s gulping down a full
raspberry pie with his left-hand and not even looking at me.
I stash him in the last booth at the very back of the diner, safe from
curious eyes.
“I don’t want to lie to –”
“This pie is incredible. Did you make it?” He licks the spoon clean and
lays it on the table.
“What? No. I didn’t,” I answer impatiently. “Pestroni, the chef…he is
trying a new recipe with wheat flour, lemon, and vinegar to give the dough
the same rise.”
“It’s delicious. And.” He taps the plate contentedly. “Healthy. I could eat
this forever.”
Most of the chatter around the diner is back to normal, but Mischa
keeps shooting me hyper looks I cannot return. And I am so glad Rohit
Chachu did not have a full-on meltdown at my place of work because an
Australian cricket player just casually told him we were cohabiting
together.
“Are you listening to me? You’re not my boyfriend. We can’t—” I grip
the edges of the table.
“Do I have to tip forty percent because you’re my girl and you work
here, you think?” He pulls out his wallet and casually places a hundred on
the table. The full pie costs twenty-dollars.
 “Stop saying that.” I see red. “I’m not your girl. And forty’s too much.
You don’t have to⁠—”
“Whatever you want to say to me, and I assume it’s plenty, judging by
the steam coming out of your ears, I’d like to tell you three things before
you do.” Noah lazily twists the plate.
“What?” I snarl. “What three things?”
“We can’t have a fight here. It’s too public and I’ve had enough public
displays for a decade, haven’t you?” He smiles thinly.
I concede he has a point. “Fine. I have too. But if you think I’m going
anywhere alone with you after last night⁠—”
“Which brings me to my second point.” He holds up two fingers. “What
you’re experiencing right now is an excess of emotions. Which will incline
you to irrational behavior.”
“Oh, you got that right, buddy.” I grunt, while maintaining a pleasant
smile on my face. “I have extremely irrational thoughts right now.”
“I suggest you hold off on acting upon them because point three—”
Noah stands up. Well, he looms, because he is a tall man. Topping me by
more than a head.
When he stands so close to me and doesn’t accommodate for my height,
I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
And his face is absolutely flat. Blank. There’s no funny quirk to his lips;
his eyes are starless. His cheeks are taut with restrained emotion.
Fear thuds in my heart. He is a wealthy fuck boy who could do anything
he wanted, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. It is a disconcerting
realization.
“I don’t say this lightly, Queenie,” he talks softly, quickly, “But I am not
someone to cross. I really am not. You don’t want to find out why, do you?”
His easy, simple question fills me with rage. All the rage I feel at
everyone in the world. So, I smile sweetly, my eyes shooting daggers. “I am
not scared of you, Dumaine. Remember who is my godfather and talk
appropriately to me.”
“I don’t like you,” he says through clenched teeth.
“And I don’t trust you. You took advantage of me last night,” I whisper.
Hurt sneaks through my words, all over again. I was having such a good
time last night. And he spoiled that good time, the memory of it, for me. It
hurts the most.
I blink rapidly. I will not be a teary female. I will not.
 “You spent last night with me. You invited me to kiss you. And,
somehow, I took —” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he
opens them, they are calculative. “Regardless of what you just said, because
of your enemy’s vendetta.” He points at me. “I am now caught on video
with you.”
I hate this even more than the flat expression. Noah thinking is a
dangerous thing.
“So am I,” I hiss back. “And I’ll have to pay tax for it because I’m the
woman who was stupid enough to get caught on video with you.”
“You could thank me for quashing Veronica’s plan, you know?” He
gives me a withering look. “I did save you from immeasurable public
embarrassment.”
“And you could go to fucking hell, Noah.” My eyes glitter manically
too.
“Fair enough,” he agrees readily. “Now are you going to grow a
conscience and tell your godfather the truth?”
“What truth?” I hedge, while I run through my options. I already know I
have less than none. And the one I do have is unacceptable.
“That you dropped out of Thorndon and are currently looking at
homelessness as a real option… that you kissed a guy at a party to make
Veronica look like a fool.” He ticks off my transgressions one by one. “How
would your Chachu react to all this, I wonder?”
“You’re horrible.” Tears fill my eyes, despite my firm resolve. “How do
you know about my housing situation?”
“Your car’s dashboard fell open last night. I got a peek at the eviction
notice. It was not intentional,” he says gruffly.
“But you’re not above using it to blackmail me into what…being your
girl?” I growl. Just saying the phrase makes me dizzy with anger.
“It’s not blackmail. Think of it as coercion, Madhavan,” he chirps. “You
pretend to be my loving girl in front of the town and especially my coaches
and I’ll let you crash at my place for the summer. Once summer is over,
we’ll never see each other again. And I’ll not snitch on you to your
godfather.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say shakily. “He won’t believe you.”
“Are you willing to bet on it, Queenie?” Noah leans close, puts a hand
on the edge of the table and talks right in my ear. “Because I’m betting my
whole future on this camp. And I’ll not stand by and let you take it away
from me.”
To the outside world, we are playing a happy, handsy couple. Only my
heart’s thudding rapidly.
I can’t stop the shudder that comes on at his threatening words. I give
him the most distasteful look I can muster. “Don’t tell me daddy won’t buy
you a spot at another camp?”
“There is no other camp like this,” he responds. “And you’ll never
mention my father again. Ever,” he ends shortly.
“I wish I’d never met you, Dumaine. You’re an asshole.”
“Asshole.” He tastes the word. “As endearments go, it is unique.” He
smiles again, all surface charm and menacing eyes. “I’ll take it.”
“I hate you.”
The smile gets wiped off. “I don’t care,” he says flatly. “I don’t care if
you hate me, Queenie. Just keep to the terms of the agreement and we’ll be
fine.”
“We’re not…I’m not fucking you,” I whisper the words out.
I am never coming near you if I can help it. Even though a damnable
heat ignites in my skin whenever he stands too close to me.
Noah blinks, once. His lashes are long as they drift over his sculpted
cheekbones. “That’s what showerheads and socks are for,” he says easily.
“Just don’t fuck anyone else when you’re with me and we will be fine,
baby.”
“Don’t call me baby,” I say indignantly.
“Sorry, asshole’s already taken.” He winks again, the bastard. “Now,
smile. I’m going to kiss you.”
I hold my breath, glaring mutely. And unable to do a damn thing about
it.
Noah bends and kisses my forehead. His lips leave a trail of heat on my
skin. I hate it so much.
I careen on the edge of a parapet. One where my former, semi-normal
life beckons me and this new normal is one tragic fall away. “I can’t⁠—”
“Don’t say, ‘I can’t do this’, Queenie. I’ve been playing nice with you
so far because you’ve had an extremely shit day. Believe me, so have I.” He
is pure power as he stares me down. “And you don’t want to make it
worse.”
 “What will you do to me that’s not already been done?” I throw
defiantly at him.
Even though he is right. I have learned my lesson when it comes to
going up against powerful people. I don’t have another fight in me.
He pats my hot cheek and shrugs. “Try me and find out.”
“I’m not sharing a room with you. Or a bathroom,” I tack on,
remembering his showerhead comment. “In fact, I don’t want to see you
unless I have to.”
He writes down an address on the bill I rip off the pad and shove at him.
“Done. The cottage is big enough you’ll never have to see me if you
don’t want to. And your room comes with its own bathroom. But in public,
you’re coming to my matches and cheering me like a fucking maniac. Got
it?”
“You’re Australian,” I jeer at him. “I’m not going to cheer for a rival
team player and betray my India.”
“Like a fucking maniac,” Noah repeats. “I won’t be opposed to those
tiny bikinis with my face painted on your…” He drops his eyes to my chest.
I fight the instinct to fold my hands and give him this victory.
“Eyes up here, asshole.” I point at my chin. His gaze is physical as a
touch. I hate it. The reaction I have to this man I now loathe needs to be
studied for future generations.
“Besides.” He licks his lips as if he is tasting me. “Think of how mad
Veronica is going to be when she sees you with me. I’m Noah fucking
Dumaine, you know.”
I step close to him, put my hands on his broad shoulders and kiss him
on the cheek. He sucks in a breath, because it’s the first time I’ve
voluntarily touched him. I resist the urge to dig my fingers into his jacket
and gouge the skin.
“You are the goddamn devil, and I can’t wait for this summer to be over.
Now get out, Dumaine, before I have you thrown out.”
“Hellcat,” he mutters, just for me.
“And don’t you forget it, Noah fucking Dumaine.” I smile one last time
and walk away from him.
How in the world did I ever think this man was a sweet and harmless
male specimen last night? Impaired judgment be damned, he is diabolical.
I fall off the parapet and into straight up insanity because I have to fake
it as his girl.
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOCAL BOY IN THE PHOTOGRAPH’ BY
STEREOPHONICS

The next day

ARES GRUNTS as he lifts the edge of the bedframe in my room and

shoves it against the wall. His tattoo sleeve gleams a ghostly black in the
predawn light.
I dive down and pick up my prize possession, a tiny wooden box with
markings on the head. I rub my thumb against the one shaped like a star
before I place the box carefully on the end table.
Ares brings the bed back into position. Then he puts his hands on his
hips. “I need you to explain to me, like I’m a very small child, why you’re
giving up your room for this chick?”
“What’s there to explain.” Fox competently vacuums the pine-width
floor. “While we were drunk cliff diving, Noah was busy getting…well,
busy. And had the enormous misfortune of being caught on tape. So, he
can’t even deny it, like the politicians do.”
He gives me a small smile, but it does not reach his eyes. Fox is not
happy. I told them last night about the arrangement I made with Queenie on
the spur of the moment. But one that, for practical purposes, solves both of
our reputation ‘problems’.
I curl my palm into a fist as a shot of adrenalin courses through me
when I think of Queenie. Hellcat is the right name for her. How on earth I
thought her pretty and charming is unfathomable. She’s so prickly and
defensive, like a cactus sitting on a porcupine. All thorny and growly.
 And the nerve she has telling me I took advantage of her…
Just thinking about her telling me to fuck off makes my blood pressure
shoot up ten points. And I’m trained to keep cool under difficult conditions.
Ares chuckles richly. “I’m fairly confident politicians will deny even if
they are caught on tape.”
“If you are done making fun of me, can we get on with—” I nod at the
unmade bed. “The show?”
Fox neatly wraps the vacuum cords up and comes to help Ares and me
with the fitted sheet. “Much as it pains me to agree with Ares, he’s right, I
still do not understand why she has to live here. With you. Or rather, take
over your room while you crash on the couch.”
Ares holds the mattress up and I kneel down to fit the damn sheet. “I’d
call it squatting but that’s splitting hairs. She has to live here because
she’s…in a temporary non-housing situation. I offered to help her out with
it, if she pretends to be my loving girlfriend for the summer. I told you this
already, De Rossi. Why are you making me repeat myself?” I grunt the last
words out as the sheet slips out of my hands and Ares almost drops the
mattress on me.
“If it’s about money, then pay her? Isn’t that the more expedient
option?” Fox suggests logically. He easily slides his end on and moves to
the next corner, the bastard.
“Yeah, but what if she takes the money and runs?” Ares argues.
“She’s not the kind of woman to take money for…services,” I grit out,
as I finally put the sheet on. God! This is hard work! “And I need her to be
all lovey-dovey with me. I told you; she’s Coach Devgan’s goddaughter.
He’ll kill my career dead if I fuck around with her.”
“Did you?” Fox stops working and gives me an unblinking stare.
“Did I what?” I stop working too.
“Fuck around with her.”
Ares huffs out a breath. “Fox, maybe⁠—”
“Fuck you, man. How can you even ask me that?”
It’s one thing for Queenie to think badly of me…the evidence does not
look good. But Fox has known me half my life, he can’t think I’d ever do
something like that with a woman.
Hurt sneaks up on me again and knocks against my chest. I want to rub
at the ache there, but I don’t. I just stare him down.
 “Look, I’m just being practical here.” Fox finishes his second corner. “I
need to know how…hostile this Queenie is going to be, if she thinks you
really messed around with her.”
“Queenie’s not your problem. She’s mine,” I say shortly.
And the worst part is I mean it. Queenie is mine. My girl. Even if it is
all for show. Her kissing me before we said hello to each other, to us ending
on that damn video, warped us together in a way that’s highly irregular.
Highly abnormal. Highly…personal.
I don’t like her, I definitely don’t trust her, and she spikes my BP just by
existing in my orbit, but she is my problem, nonetheless.
“And if this is all too much for you, then I’ll be happy to find another
place for Queenie and I.”
“Noah!” Fox begins, shocked.
Ares smooths the sheet over. “Let it go, Fox. Noah’s dead serious about
this chick. So just let it go.” He pats the bed. Then he gets a moony look in
his eyes. “Maybe she’s one of those domestic goddesses who puts on an
apron and cooks four-course meals⁠—”
“She’s not the maid or the cook but another roommate,” I snap out.
“She’s not going to do shit, Ares. And speaking of ladies--” I give them
both a stern look. “You keep your bedroom activities in your rooms or away
from the cottage, okay?”
I do not need Queenie thinking we’re all sexed up man whores.
Ares puts his hands up. “Alright, man. Done.”
“I’m serious about moving out,” I tell both of them. I touch my box for
comfort and warmth and strength. To calm the adrenalin punching my heart
out. “If this is all too much for you, I’m happy to move out.”
“But you bought this place,” Fox says thoughtfully.
“With the last of your salary from the local league,” Ares adds.
I shrug. “It’s just a place. I can live without it. What I can’t live
without,” I emphasize on the last two words. “Is being chucked out of
Triskelion. What I can’t live without is the chance to get selected for the
Australian team.”
I include my best friends, my brothers, in the hardest look I have ever
given them. This confession I never wanted to make. “I can’t live with
being blacklisted by Padric and Aiden and Rohit. I can’t live with never
getting to play this game I love so damn much and sacrificed so much for.”
 Fox rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, rattled. “I need
coffee to deal with this much drama at four fucking am.”
“That’s because we have practice at six am and Queenie’s coming by
with her things later on,” I say to his back. Then I turn to face Ares. “Do
you need coffee too?”
Ares shakes his head. “I’m alright, mate. I just hope you are too.”

I don’t answer him, and we continue packing my stuff up and stashing it in

the spare space on the ground floor. It’s a tiny storage space near the family
room so it can only hold my clothes, four cricket kits and cricket books I try
to read in my downtime. I’m going to have to shower in the guest bathroom
and sleep on the pullout couch.
Hello backache, my old friend.
Fox joins in when I’m done making the room look decent and empty.
He carries the last of my bags down.
“Listen, this is your house,” he begins awkwardly. “I’ll sleep on the
couch and move my stuff to the storeroom. You take my room.”
Ares rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just apologize to him for being a dick
instead of being all noble and self-sacrificing?”
Fox grins, reluctantly.
I chuckle, a miracle considering my foul mood. “I’m not happy about
any of this, dude. But I saw a problem and I found a solution. It was the
right thing to do. And it doesn’t mean you have to give up your room for
me. This is our house, okay?”
I pull him in for a one-armed hug.
“Sorry, man.” Fox hugs me properly, tight and comforting. Like he
always does. He did it when I was twelve and I told him mom’s news.
And because it is Fox, I forgive him instantly.
“So, touching.” Ares wipes a fake tear when we break apart.
Fox and I share a grin. And pull him in for a bear hug. Then we give
him a knuckle sandwich, which he tries to avoid by kicking at us. We stop
horsing around when we hear a loud knock on the double-wide doors.
“Are we expecting company?” Fox tries to peer through the frosted
glass doors.
 I make out a hazy shape on the other side.
“No,” Ares replies. “Practice is in less than two hours. I don’t have time
for company. But you know what I don’t understand, Noah?”
“What?” I ask him as I jog toward the door. I am yet to have more than
a protein shake and my designated cup of coffee, so I’m not pin-sharp right
now. “What don’t you understand?”
“What is so special about this girl, that you disappeared all night with
her and want to help her even after she almost ruined your chances at
camp?”
I give him an impatient look. “It’s not like that.”
I open the door. And find my nose attacked by a piece of paper. The
hand holding the paper belongs to Queenie Madhavan. A frazzled Queenie,
with the rumpled curls to match.
Hooded lids shoot disdain at me. She barks, “For the record, this is a
catastrophically bad idea. And I don’t want to do it. But since I have to, I’m
going to protect myself. So, you’ll sign this agreement before we go any
further, Noah Dumaine.”
My brothers flank me on both sides, always my wall.
Her mean eyes widen. Her jaw drops. “Who—” Her voice shakes a
little. I love that. “Who are they? And why are they here at five in the
morning?”
Fox pulls out the De Rossi Charm and holds out his hand. “I’m Fox.
Fox De Rossi, your new roommate. And I’m so chuffed to meet you.
Welcome to the cottage, Queenie.”
Ares just gives her a narrow-eyed look. Then he looks at me and says,
“You know what? I take back everything I just said.”
I lower the paper from my nose and regard the new bane of my
existence. I smile sweetly. “Hello, roomie. Guess I forgot to mention one or
two things…”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWELVE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LET GO’ BY FROU FROU

I SPEND a restless night in my dorm room, with nothing but my circling

thoughts for company. Trying, and failing, to come up with a solution for
my homelessness problem and my image problem.
What Noah has proposed is a godsend for me, but I don’t want to
consider it at all, regardless of his menacing threats at the diner. I
successfully managed to keep the events of the party from my mind during
the busy day. But the dread of not knowing still lurks under everything, a
shadow monster I don’t know how to deal with.
Nothing happened, Queenie. Noah’s whisper echoes in me.
And I want to believe him. Because the man I’d been with the night
before was a nice guy. A Nice Guy. He smiled easily and often; he winked
too, and he did not have malicious intent writ anywhere on him.
Besides, I was the one who asked him to kiss me. Who agreed to spend
the night with him.
I shudder in remembered humiliation.
Half of his anger is justified. Because if I hadn’t left him in a hurry, the
video would not have this kind of impact. But now…questions linger on
everyone’s mind. Mine too!
But if he knew what I’d been through…
That’s another reason I don’t want to live with him. He’s a guy. And
guys are…guys. Right? How do I protect myself from someone’s basic
nature?
The answer comes to me from a book I read awhile back. In it, the
female character makes the male character sign a fake dating contract with
the terms clearly spelled out. That is what I need to do, if I’m seriously
considering going through with this lunacy.
On and on, my thoughts circle through the night. Even after I write the
damn contract. And pack up my things because of the big, bold PLEASE
VACATE notice pasted on my dorm room door. Even after I lie on the
clunky mattress and stare at my girl boss anthem poster – Be the heroine of
your own story.
Mischa’s dinner video call with me was full of dire predictions of
ending up a news article headline and a lovely offer of moving in with her
family. But the Bhargavs are five people crammed into a tiny three-room
cottage on the other end of town. They don’t have space for me, even if
their hearts are the biggest.
Finally, at around four am, I’ve had enough of my own misery and
confusion. If I am moving, I don’t want to procrastinate anymore. And I
want to surprise Noah ‘Asshole’ Dumaine into a heart attack, fingers
crossed, by showing up unannounced.
I lug a pathetically small number of bags and boxes to my car. Secure
them in the trunk and backseat and drive off toward 4 Clanbray Avenue, one
of the most expensive neighborhoods in Barrons Bay.
My parents’ split-ranch suburban in Pennington is a lovely home. The
best. It always smells of cinnamon and laddus. And maintenance was done
by my parents, my sister and me. It is nothing like million-dollar mansions
that make up most of the real estate in Barrons Bay. I pass through Main
Street and some of the lower-end neighborhoods before Clanbray Avenue
comes into view.
The asphalt feels smoother here. Lizzie glides like a butterfly on it. I
wonder at the kind of money Noah’s family has that they can afford to rent
this place for their son.
This cul-de-sac only has eight houses. Although calling them houses is
an injustice. They are gated communities. With tall fences, wild gardens
with intoxicating scents and…in the distant, the thundering roar of the
ocean.
I come to a screeching halt at number four’s sidewalk. It’s relatively smaller
than the others. The gate is a normal-size instead of the twenty-feet spiked
terrors on the other homes.
It’s a short squat structure made of red brick and sandstone. Three floors
of windows float with white curtains in the early morning breeze. The
garden is fairly small with rose bushes and daisies abounding everywhere.
But, somehow, it works. Maybe because of the sweet and feminine
garden or the tiny gazebo on one side with climbing vine all over it.
I love it.
But it is not a cottage.
Which is good, because it means Noah was telling the truth when he
said we won’t have to see each other at all.
I punch in the access code to the gate, also on Noah’s bill, and I drive to
the portico. I want to stop and pluck one of the daisies to tuck over my ear.
But I don’t. Daisies are cute and I cannot afford to be cute right now.
From there it’s a short walk to the massive, double-wide front doors,
almost three times my height. I grab the agreement I created last night from
the car and knock on the door.
My heart pounds painfully in my chest as I wait anxiously for the door
to open. This is not the worst idea I’ve had this year. But it’s close enough I
consider tearing the agreement and calling my parents to spill the whole
sorry mess to them.
Depend on them to dig me out of this mess I created for myself.
Really, Queenie? You’re giving up and letting everyone win? A hated
voice whispers in my ears.
I tilt my chin up. And shake my head. Fuck. No.
I’m doing this. Bad idea or no.
The door opens quickly, and I smell Noah – a familiar scent of sweat
and musk and man. And, before I have time to change my mind, I thrust the
paper at his face.
I even give him the Queen Bee-est look I can manage. All disdain and
bated rage. “For the record, this is a catastrophically bad idea,” I begin
haughtily. “And I don’t want to do it. But since I have to, I’m going to
protect myself. So, you’ll sign this agreement before we go any further,
Noah Dumaine.”
That’s when I notice the two huge dude bros on either side of Noah.
 One of them is tanned and green-eyed with a hand full of tattoos, the
other is a beautiful golden boy with stunning grey eyes.
All three of them are sweating.
My heartbeat picks up speed. My pulse echoes in my ears. My eyes
widen as I take in the three of them, flanking the door. Blocking it.
My jaw drops even as Grey Eyes extends a hand and mouths some
words at me. I can’t hear them over the tinny ringing in my ears. Every
single warning Mischa gave me rings loud and clear as a bell.
Murder Statistic. I’m going to be a murder statistic.
The other guy stares narrow-eyed at me. Then he looks at Noah and
murmurs something I can’t hear.
Then, the man I loathe lowers the paper and gives me a smile that’s pure
evil.
“Hello, roomie. Guess I forgot to mention one or two things.” He is
gleeful, quietly so.
I appreciate the check mate move, even as it hurts me.
But I am Queenie Madhavan. And I never let anyone get the last word
on me.
My smile is blade sharp as I tighten the sloppy bun on the top of my
head. Noah’s pitch-black eyes track the movement and lower to my chest.
I want to flush, lower my eyes. Instead, I stare defiantly at him.
“Awesome, roomie.” My blade-sharp smile includes the two giants. I
indicate them to let me in. Grey Eyes moves to the side. “You can sign the
contract too.”
Then I breeze past them into my new home.

It’s not mission impossible to keep my jaw from dropping but it’s close. The
Cottage is a proper millionaire’s mansion. With soaring walls, exposed
wooden beams on the ceilings and Afghan throws on four black leather
couches (yep, four) in the cosmically large family room. The fireplace in
the middle is authentic stone with a black marble mantlepiece.
I resist the urge to pick up the poker to defend myself.
Instead, I put my shaking fingers in my jacket pockets and twirl in
place.
 I spy the foaming, thrashing waves from one of the many bay windows
in the room. “Lovely view.”
“It’s lovely, yes,” the other giant rumbles.
Grey Eyes shoves him hard. And he gives him the finger.
Noah steps in front of both of them and walks toward me. “Quit
clowning, you guys. Please.”
“Don’t stop on my account.” I grin at the tattooed giant. “If you want to
shove him back, go for just under the boobs? It hurts a lot more.”
“I’m a guy, I don’t have boobs.”
I shrug. “I study anatomy. We all have boobs. Some of us get to show
them off.” I thrust my chest out for five seconds. Like magnets, three sets of
eyes go there.
My pulse speeds up at Noah’s look of anger and impatience and
reluctant desire.
I stand upright and point at my nose. “Now that you’ve been introduced
to the girls, let’s never look at them again, okay?”
Grey Eyes smiles and inclines his head, Mr. Tattoo shakes his head. But
I see a smile on him too. Only Noah purses his lips, as if he’s witnessed
something unpleasant.
It might not be a wise move, but the only way to deal with three
testosterone-fueled men is to bring them down a peg or two. By talking
their language and making it yours.
“You want me to sign this contract?” Noah peruses it.
“Yes. And him.” I nod at Grey Eyes. “And him too.” Point at Mr. Tattoo.
“I’m Ares and Mr. Boobs is Fox.” Ares plucks the paper from Noah’s
hands and scans it. He whoops when he reads it. “You won’t cook or clean
or pick up after anyone but yourself. And you want a red danger sign posted
on your door.”
Fox takes a peek too and grins as he points lower down the contract.
“No touching, unless explicitly permitted. Not even to save the female
roommate from deadly death. Wow. That’s some serious commitment to
dying, Queenie.”
“I’m not signing this,” Noah says flatly.
“Then I’m not faking it with you.” I fold my trembling arms. Match him
look for flat look.
Ares laughs so loud at the retort, Fox winces.
 Noah only watches me. Just watches me without a word. “If I put my
mind to it, you’d not be faking anything, Madhavan,” he murmurs a
moment later.
I lose my train of thought watching his perfect lips move.
But then Fox puts a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “We’ll give you two some
space to figure this out. Ares and I are going up to work out before practice
begins.”
Fox shoots me a cautious smile from behind Noah. “Welcome to the
cottage, Queenie. I’ll sign the contract after Noah does. I promise you,
you’re absolutely safe with us. Okay?”
I blink. He sounds so sincere and earnest. Just like Noah before he
turned into the fucking devil. Am I making a mistake here, being so tart
with him? Then Noah jerks his head, and Fox drags Ares out of the family
room.
Leaving me alone with my fake boyfriend slash future roommate.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘DANGEROUS WOMAN’ BY ARIANA GRANDE

“I MEAN IT, Dumaine. If you’re not signing it --” Relief squiggles through
me at the idea of ending this farce before it begins. Maybe leaving town is
not a bad idea. Everyone does it one time or another…
“I have a few conditions of my own… to add to the contract.” Noah
drops down on one of the couches and stretches his legs. He locks his bare
ankles together.
His basketball shorts ride up at the movement.
I resolutely keep my eyes on the slight dip in his chin (did he have one
before?) and avoid looking at his biceps gleaming with sweat under his
muscle tee.
“Name them.” I remain standing. Even sitting, he’s almost at eye-level.
“You come to all my non-practice matches.”
“Done. I love cricket, you don’t have to twist my arm. I’ll work my
shifts around the matches.”
He adds it to the list with a nearby pen. “We kiss in public whenever we
see each other.”
“On the cheek,” I snap.
“On the lips,” he retorts. “A quick peck will do. I’d prefer if you went
on your toes, but I am willing to meet you halfway.”
“Fine. But no tongue,” I add mulishly. The idea of mashing lips with
Noah…is loathsome. It’s loathsome, I tell myself.
“No tongue,” he repeats as he scratches on the paper. He looks up and
says, “You’ll attend team events with me. If there are any.”
“I’m not going to put on a short dress and heels for you, Noah.”
 “Come naked, for all I care, Queenie.”
I growl at his crude words. “You’re vile. I hope your friends know that.”
“And under no circumstances will you tell Coach Devgan or anyone
else about this arrangement.”
“Your friends know,” I point out nastily.
“I trust them with my life.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“That’s a shame,” he murmurs. “It must be a lonely life indeed if you
don’t trust anyone.”
“It keeps me safe.” I turn to look out the window to the backyard
brimming with shrubs and flowers. “My best friend, Mischa…I told her.
And…” I swallow as a terrible thought strikes me. “If Rohit Chachu tells
my parents, you’ll have to play the devoted boyfriend. I won’t have my
parents hurt by this, Noah.”
“I won’t let you down, Queenie.”
I look at him steadily over my shoulder. “Then can you swear to me
nothing happened the other night I didn’t want?”
“I swear.” Noah puts the paper down. “I swear, Queenie. Nothing
happened between us.”
Relief spreads in my chest, weakens me. I want to slump on the couch
and collapse into wax. But I know better. I’ve seen better. Words cannot be
trusted.
I just sit down on the other end of the couch. “Why was my tee shirt
back to front, then?” Stupid, omnipresent tears sparkle on my lashes.
“You—” Noah shakes his head and sighs. A lock of his hair falls
forward. He pushes it back impatiently. “I am okay with whatever you want
me to do. Regardless of what’s happened between us, I don’t…” Now, he
swallows. “I’m not a bad guy.” He sounds desolate. Nothing like an
asshole.
“You made Veronica Washington shit bricks.” I smile weakly and banish
the tears. “You’re definitely a little bad. Especially because you used your
power for good.”
“Happy to help.” He signs his name on the contract.
And I feel silly. Like this is pointless. “Wait.”
Noah stops mid-signature.
“About rent…”
“No rent,” he says shortly and finishes signing.
 “Is your dad paying the rent here, then?” I am genuinely surprised and a
little bit intrigued by the Dumaines.
“We own the place. There’s no rent. Or utilities. You can buy your own
food or share ours…” He grins. His first easy movement since the first
night. “But we eat a lot of protein.”
“Eww. No.” I shudder. “I’ll buy my veggies. There’s protein in veggies
too, Dumaine.”
“But you’re not cooking them for us, are you?” Noah finishes signing
the agreement. “I could have this drawn up properly and filed too, if you
want.”
I take the paper from him and sign under his scrawl. It’s a bold
signature. Nothing coy about Noah Dumaine, fast-talking Aussie cricket
player with a menacing side.
“On this matter, I trust you. The one thing I know about the filthy rich?”
I dot the I over my name. “You guys can be trusted with agreements.”
“I’ll see about getting you a spare key. But for now.” He grabs his own
set and takes the key out. “Use mine.”
“What about you?” I take it gingerly from him. It’s still warm from his
thigh pocket. “Don’t you need it?”
“I’ll get Ares or Fox’s. Don’t worry about it.” He gets up and walks
away. Then stops and says, “I know you don’t believe me, Queenie. But
you’re safe with me. I…yeah. Okay. I have to get ready for training now.”
Weirdly and just like with his hugs, I feel safe. Protected and cared for.
Which is illogical because he is the reason I’m in this mess in the first
place.
I hurry up to keep pace with his long strides, down a long corridor.
“Yeah?” He stops at a tiny door.
“This camp…what’s so great about it? Is it just the chance to be
coached by Rohit Chachu?”
“And Padric Alastair and Aiden Gilcrest.” His lips twitch. “I thought
your uncle would have given you all the details by now.”
“I am just a fan, Noah. And family. But this is fantastic.” I put my hand
on his bicep. It immediately clenches but I don’t care. Just hearing about the
legends puts a fizz in my blood. “They’re great. Both of them. The best of
the best. This camp sounds like a big deal.”
“And at the end of it, they’re going to call a National Selection Board
official to come watch us play so one of us has a chance to get selected to
play internationally for our country.”
“Oh!”
I now immediately and specifically understand why this camp is so
special and unlike any other. Getting to play internationally is a dream few
can fulfil. And the three legends running this camp can definitely make it
happen for a new player.
I nod softly. “I promise you; I’ll not mess this up for you, Noah.”
Noah searches my eyes for a long second. Then he nods too. “Sorry, I
can’t give you a tour of the house. Your room’s on the top floor, next to the
gym. And then it’s the roof. I’ll see you in the night. What time’s your shift
end?”
“I’m not going to work today —”
“Good, I’ll see you at home then.”
He shuts the door in my face before I can tell him he won’t.

I stare at the contract for a few minutes after Noah disappears, slumped on
the couch. I’m exhausted from the jumble of feelings. Truth be told, I’ve
been running on emotion for far longer than I can admit.
I don’t even know when my eyes drift shut, and I fall asleep.
I wake up with a start to a heavy weight on my shoulders. A scream
forms in my throat, before I realize it’s just the throw from one of the
couches. There’s a plate of cookies and a glass of orange juice on the coffee
table near me. I am starving so I snatch a cookie and inhale half of it before
I spy the signed roommate contract under the orange juice.
Fox and Ares have signed it too, true to their word.
I trace Noah’s name above mine. There’s another note next to the
contract.

The orange juice and cookies are a welcome

home gift. The kitchen’s next to the living room.
 Coffee’s there. Hope you get settled in just
fine. – ND.

I crumple the note in my fist because it is so sweet and thoughtful, and

Noah is supposed to be an asshole. Then I smooth it out and tuck it in my
jacket. I go into the massive kitchen – with red doors and copper pans and
gleaming appliances – and make myself a fresh pot of coffee. A small
vegetable garden grows right outside, now overrun with weeds.
Then, I wander through the rest of the cottage. There is a formal dining
room with a curved table which comfortably seats twenty. The kitchen also
has a breakfast bar with remnants of the boys’ breakfast.
I debate with myself, then I do a quick wipe-down of the surface. Ants
are an everyone problem.
I take my large coffee mug shaped like a penguin and check out the mud
room. It’s larger than my dorm room.
I go back to the family room and check out the door Noah disappeared
into. It’s locked. I decide against invading his privacy, so I take the stairs
and go to the next floor. It has two oak doors, identical. One of them is open
and looks like a tornado hit the room. Clothes and sports equipment occupy
every single surface, so I can’t even see any furniture.
But the view from the balcony deck is precious. I am tempted to brave
the mess and check out the view up close, but I close the door and go
further up.
The next floor has only one door and a massive open plan gym. A
professional set up that takes up more than half the space. I almost gasp at
some of the torture equipment set up in the room, including a boxing ring.
A jacuzzi is tucked in the corner in full view of the gymming area which…
ewww…germs. But the gym is definitely an athlete’s heaven.
I correctly guess my room’s next to this gym. I open the door and gasp
out loud.
Directly across is a set of French doors leading to a beautiful deck and a
stunning view of the Bay and the cliffs. I almost leap across the room to get
to the view. I breathe lungfulls of air and experience a moment of true
peace, true bliss.
 It’s worth it to live with Noah Dumaine just to experience the drama of
the cliffs and the water. Dashing and crashing over the rocks in an eternal,
ethereal dance.
I step back still admiring the view. Then I turn around to take in my new
room.
It’s pretty, ridiculously so. The entrance has a slim, ceiling-tall unit,
hiding the queen-size bed on the other side. It’s freshly made up and fluffed
with pillows.
The help here must be prompt, to provide such service.
There is not much in the way of furniture otherwise, just a functional
desk and chair I intend to use as my vanity. The mirror shines in the spotless
cream bathroom and the carpet is squishy as I walk on it. True. Bliss.
I touch all the expensive surfaces; they even feel different.
And I again wonder at Noah’s family net worth that they can afford this
place for their son’s training camp. Some people have all the luck in the
world.
The bathroom is a delight with curtained windows fluttering in the
morning breeze and let in natural light. The fittings are gold-plated with a
sunken bathtub. The shower cubicle is all glassed-in marble and extremely
glamorous. And I’m pretty sure, those shower jets are for professional
athletes and billionaires. I turn one on just to check the water pressure and
almost end up getting drenched.
I did not expect the cottage to be so friendly and charming…and so
sweetly female in its touches.
I bring my stuff to the foyer before my stomach grumbles. I make
instant noodles in the classy microwave and eat it standing up before
moving my things up.
With my stomach full, I carry my clothes bags to my room and dump
them on the floor. The bed lulls me too. So, I close my eyes for a moment
and lie down on the comfy mattress.
Just for a moment…

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MAYHEM’ BY CASSYETTE

IT’S late evening when I wake up again to a full dark house. I shiver to
myself and, grabbing my keys, drive to the diner for dinner. The moon is
full out by the time I drive back to the cottage. I park behind the boys’ Jeep.
Noah’s standing next to the hood in grey sweatpants. They have a little
cut to show off his named sneakers. Legs crossed at the ankle; his heavy
cricket kit bag casually slung in one hand. His other hand’s in his jacket
pocket. From a distance he looks polished, perfect…a worthy advertisement
for cricket player. With his broad shoulders and solid looks and wavy hair…
I’d develop a crush on this man if I saw him hit a century on TV.
“I thought you were gone.” He looks at me over the roof of the Jeep.
“I did go. To get dinner.” I hold up the takeout bags I’m carrying with
my backpack.
Noah stares at the cartons of pies and sandwiches and soups. “What is
this?”
“It’s dinner. A welcome home gift from me to you. All of you.” It was
an impulse decision I decided to go with, once it hit me. After all, they left
cookies and juice for me which I demolished after my shower.
“Full of surprises,” Noah murmurs. Then he holds out his hand and
takes the food from me.
I open the door while Noah struggles with the food. I take some of the
cartons from him and we enter together.
I stop in shock because my boxes are gone.
“We’ve been robbed!” I whisper-yell.
“What?”
 “My stuff!” I wail and gesture at the floor where all the boxes and bags
were piled. “I’d kept it here. It’s all gone now. This neighborhood is not
safe!”
Noah chuckles. “Stop being so dramatic, Queenie. Your stuff is all there.
I came home early from practice and almost broke an ankle on one of your
boxes. So, I decided to put it all in your room before someone else fractured
a body part.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
“You—you carried my stuff up two flights of stairs and put them in my
room?” I ask weakly.
Noah nods. “Love the music collection. The DVDs…why do all women
like those sappy romantic comedies? They’re so unrealistic.” He wrinkles
his nose.
“They give us hope and a standard for men to act on,” I protest
automatically. “There’s nothing unrealistic about true love, okay?”
Suddenly, he’s a shade too close. So close, I can feel the blast of his
body heat, right against mine. His eyes are so dark, so velvety, as his lips
form words. “Is that right?”
My stomach drops from the proximity.
“Are you back, Noah?” Ares yells from inside. “Get your arse in the
kitchen and help season this meat, please. De Rossi is trying to kill us with
the paprika.”
“Stop the domestic murder, boys,” Noah calls out lazily. “For tonight
we feast on…” He checks the cartons. “Key lime pie and summer salad
and…” He looks at the cartons in my hands.
“Cream of fresh mushroom soup and lemon chicken with rice,” I add.
He repeats what I just said. Twin cheers sound from the kitchen.
“I’ll get this to the kitchen and then take the world’s longest shower.
Moving is exhausting. My legs are killing me,” I babble to cover up my
nervousness and this sudden melt in my spine.
“Leave this with me. I’ll cart it to the kitchen, okay?”
I dump the food on the foyer table and dash upstairs. Glad to escape
Noah Dumaine and his changeable moods.
I sit on the bed for a few minutes and get my breathing under control
before I root through the boxes and bags, neatly lined up by the door (God,
he’d cutely organized everything!) and extract fresh clothes.
 I don’t own cute baby doll pajamas like Elle Woods. I’m more a boxers
and torn tees kind of girl. But I am also aware I now live with three adult
men. And parading around in my boxers is not a smart move.
So, I pick old leggings with holes and a loose t-shirt that slides off the
shoulder. The tee’s loose enough I can forego the bra I strap on every day
for work. Now, bras…bras are the devil’s invention. They are instruments
of torture and backpain. And I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.
I play one of my CDs – Fink’s new EP with Looking Too Closely on it.
In the bathroom, I look longingly at the bathtub but hop into the shower.
The water pressure is insanely good and hot. I carefully bundle my hair out
of the way and enjoy a hot shower with my special bath gel.
Then, I wrap my towel around my dripping body and walk out to get
dressed.
“Hey…fuck!”
Noah almost drops the things he’s holding when he sees me in the
towel.

I grip the fabric tightly and swallow the scream in. “What are you doing
here?”
He holds up the stuff he carries. “I wanted to give you this linseed
ointment for your leg pain. It’s what we use when we have muscle cramps.
It’s really effective.”
“Oh… that’s…thank you.” I take the ointment from him, keeping a tight
hold on the towel. Extremely aware of how completely exposed I am. My
knees shake under the towel and water pools in the valley between my
breasts. My shaky hair bun chooses this moment to slide down so my hair’s
kind of framing my face.
Noah manfully keeps his eyes trained on mine. But a muscle ticks in his
cheek.
The heat from his gaze singes me anyway. I feel it on the tops of my
shoulders, which are rounded because I’m hunched in front. The tips of my
breasts, which are suddenly heavy and poking through the towel… because
of the air differential.
And not because Noah’s in the room with me. Alone.
 I curl my toes into the carpet to gain some traction and friction. It helps
to ground me in this moment…away from his magnetic pull.
I resist the urge to swallow and betray my discomfort. “This is very nice
of you. All of this…” I cast a look at the boxes. “You’ve been amazing to
me, Noah. Thank you so much for all the help.”
“It’s no problem, Queenie. And…” He rubs a hand over his face. “For
what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the mess I got you in. With the video and
everything.”
I take a tentative step toward him and the towel slides down half a
centimeter.
His devil black eyes laser in on the skin revealed. I lick my lips quickly
before he looks up. I am a cauldron of confusion and unruly, untimely
desire. I keep seeing two Noahs – the guy who coerced me into this
arrangement and the one who’s been nothing but decent and done
everything to make this arrangement comfortable for me.
I don’t know which Noah to trust. To believe. To want.
“That wasn’t about you, at all. Moronica has it in for me, actually. She’s
the Joker to my Batman,” I murmur helplessly.
“Moronica?” His lips quirk up. He even makes my swear word sound
sexy. Damn his Aussie accent. “That’s cute.”
“It’s vindictive,” I correct him. Unable to look away from him.
“Vindictive can be cute too, Hellcat.”
I laugh, breathless. “I’m not a hellcat.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
“You fight like one, desi girl.”
“Only when I’m provoked, Aussie boy.”
He steps toward me. And because he’s exponentially taller, it brings us
almost within touching distance. “I want⁠—”
I grab the other thing from his limp hand. “What’s this?”
“That’s a jersey,” his reply is gruff. Almost guttural. “My jersey. With
my name on it.” He opens it and shows the DUMAINE stenciled on the
back of the jersey.
“This is…” I swallow. “This is a match jersey.”
“Yeah, it’s what I wore when I made my international debut for
Australia.”
Noah plays for the Australian team? How come I’ve never seen him? Is
he a player I don’t know about?
 “It was just the one game, and I never stepped foot on the grounds,” he
continues. “So, it’s not a playing jersey.”
“Okay…Why did you give it to me?” I am confused why he brought it
for me. I already have all my clothes with me.
“You can wear this when you come for my first match on Saturday.”
“You want me to wear a jersey with your name on it to a match you’re
playing?”
Noah nods.
“But that would mean…” I can’t say the words out loud. Even as I think
the words in my head.
“The world knows you’re mine. And Moronica won’t fuck with what’s
mine again.”
My chest goes concave at the soft words, even as my brain immediately
protests against it. “That’s barbaric. Caveman-behavior. I don’t want to do
it.”
“You signed a contract, Queenie.”
“But these weren’t the terms we agreed to.”
“So, I’m amending them,” he says simply.
“It’s not fair,” I snap at him.
His eyes dip to my legs and travel up. Slow, excruciatingly slow. It’s
almost like he’s touching me…slow, excruciatingly slow.
I’m immobile as he looks at me with heat and intent in his expressive
eyes.
He blows out a single breath through hollow cheeks before going
expressionless. “None of this is fair, Madhavan. So, let’s just make the best
of it, okay?”
“I’m not your property, Dumaine,” I snarl at him, tightening the hold
around my towel so hard I feel red welts around the skin.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re not. You see.” He places the jersey
on my shoulder without touching any part of me. “If you were, you’d have
been out of this towel and on that bed the moment I saw you come out of
the bathroom.”
“Get out!” I point at the door with shaking fingers. “Now!”
Noah smiles, slow and knowing and so sexy my nostrils flare with rage.
It has to be rage.
It can’t be want. I don’t want Noah Dumaine, he’s the enemy. And he
plays for the one team I can’t stand.
 I hate him.
“Okay. I’ll get out.” He walks to the door and says over his shoulder.
“But next time you’re in the shower, lock the door, Hellcat. You don’t want
me getting any ideas about your tits, right?”
The door shuts with a thud as his wretched jersey hits it.
Just when I let my guard down around Nice Noah, The Asshole makes
an appearance and reminds me why I cannot trust him.
At all.
This is just a game to him. Another sport he plays.
And I’m going to win this one, no matter what it takes.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘FIRE’ BY BARNS COURTNEY

I TOUCH the handle of my favorite bat, a willow from one of the oldest
companies in the world. It’s signed by Aiden’s older brother Joe Gilcrest,
one of my personal idols.
My fingers tremble. For the first time in eight months, five days and,
eleven hours I’m going to pick it up and play cricket. Professionally. And
the coaches are going to see the playing twenty-two perform for the first
time.
Nerves eat up my insides like acid. I take a deep, centering breath.
Remember my old coach’s advice.
It’s just about the ball, Noah. See the ball coming. And keep your bat
ready to swing at it. That’s all you have to do. It’s not brain surgery.
“Alright, then,” I murmur to myself.
“Bet you’re excited, brah,” Martin Van Joost, the South African pacer
from the opposing team tells me. I’ve seen him during net practice. His
fastest ball clocked at ninety-eight miles an hour. Just a fucking blur of red
and speed.
Scary when it’s coming straight for your face.
“Excited?” I repeat.
“Captain of the Barrons Bay Challengers.” He nods at the tiny C on the
pink and black jersey of the kit I’m wearing. “You’ve not been captain in
six years, yeah?” He spits the words out with the gum he’s chewing
incessantly.
It’s seven years but who’s counting.
 “It’s a big responsibility.” And I’m shit in my pants scared I’m going to
fuck this up. I have forgotten to play the game. That my stance is wrong, I’ll
make the wrong call as captain. Doubts plague me along with the nerves.
“Indeed, it is.” Martin smiles and pockets the ball, nods at me. “See you
out on the field, brah.”
His eyes are mean, hard glints of power and confidence.
They are familiar to me. I’ve faced down many bowlers who want to
take me out – either my wicket or my body – when they see me down the
field, in front of the stumps. Martin can try too.
The nerves settle a bit, and I start jogging in place. And move the bat up
and about.
A few of my teammates pour in and I am caught up in the euphoria of
pre-match preparation. Everyone’s talking, laughing, trying to release the
tension of playing a match. There are lots of fart jokes and the music is
energetic, barn-burning hip-hop.
I assess the team as we josh with each other. The batting order is decent,
since I’m opening for the team. Best to get the nerves over with. We have
depth till the eighth wicket. And the bowling attack is evenly spread
between fast bowlers and spinners.
Ares is my secret weapon, the pacer who gets the ball to swing when he
really puts his mind to it. Fox is the best keeper with miraculous reflex
timings.
I huddle with my best mates, my brothers an hour later. “Waited forever
to huddle with the two of you idiots before a match,” I grumble.
Ares shakes his head and Fox murmurs something under his breath.
“I’ll do a formal speech in a minute, but I want to say…” I hesitate. “I
am so fucking psyched to play my first match in almost a year with the both
of you. Let’s win it, okay?”
“This dog wants to hunt,” Ares quips.
One of the batters, a Caribbean giant named Marshall Gaines echoes
Ares sentiment. Then the Indian pacer – Amanpreet Khurana – picks it up.
And yells it to the ceiling. Everyone follows suit. And soon the room is
filled with chants of This dog wants to hunt!
I grin like a lunatic. Match adrenalin, which psychologists have said
resembles the adrenalin experienced by soldiers during war, pours through
me. Suffusing me with superhuman strength and an invincible mindset. I
love it. I missed it.
 This is what I’m born to do.
I go to pick up my bat when Fox saunters over. “Listen, before you head
out, our new roommate wants to see you. She’s in the tunnel. She just texted
me.”
Why did she text you? I keep the flicker of anger off my face. Anger I
have no business feeling.
“She said she tried calling you, but your phone’s switched off,” Fox
continues quickly.
Right. Yeah. I didn’t want any distractions while I prepped for the
match. And I’d driven to the ground at first light, because I wanted to walk
the outfield. Get to know the pitch as intimately as I could.
“What does she want?”
Fox shrugs. “Fucked if I know. Do you want me to tell her you can’t
make it?”
Yes. Yes, I don’t want to see her. I’m surprised she showed up,
considering how completely unforgivably rude I was to her on Monday.
Blindsided by her luscious curves barely hidden by a towel. It’s still no
defense for how I behaved.
“Alright,” I say. “We still have ten minutes before coach comes in. I’ll
check what she wants.”
Fox snickers. “Maybe she wants to complain about the protein shake
mix again.”
I snicker along with him. Oh yeah, the second day of Queenie moving
in – she’d wandered into the kitchen. And shrieked when she found protein
shake in the coffee she put in the filter. Her first task had been to label the
coffee and protein mix with Sharpies.
It was hilarious. And kind of sweet.
I’ve kept my word and stayed away from her. Practicing, even during
the first thunderstorm. She’s settled down okay because she blasts her girl
rock music every night till midnight before she goes to sleep.
Thank God she’s on the top floor or the foundation would shake.
Ares digs it and dances along with the songs when he’s home. Which is
not often.
And, our refrigerator’s now full of leftover pies, courtesy the diner. Ares
wolfs them down before me. Which makes me mad. And hungry.
All in all, it’s a weird living arrangement which works.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
 I discard my batting gloves and place them next to my bat. Then I walk
out of the changing room and take a hard left. The tunnel is situated under
the bleachers, the stands where the spectators sit. But, of course, this is
small town America. No one’s interested in cricket here.
The stands are completely empty.

Queenie’s leaning against the end of the tunnel. She’s highlighted by the
sun shining bright on her side. Her hair’s piled on her head.
She’s wearing the jersey I gave her over her waitress denim skirt and
neon green sneakers. The top’s yellow and green and a riot of colors against
her dusky skin.
Something snakes into my blood, making it run a degree hotter than it
already was. I don’t want to call it possessive satisfaction.
“What’s up?” I ask as I near her. “Fox said you wanted to meet me.”
She looks me up and down, her braid sliding over her shoulder. I resist
the urge to fidget with my pants’ waistband. “Pink suits you, Aussie Boy,”
she murmurs finally. “Much better than yellow and green.”
My cheeks warm at her offhand compliment. “Did you just call me here
to insult me?”
“No. I actually wanted to wish you luck before the big game, you jerk,”
she snaps back. And pushes away from the wall. “It’s what jock girlfriends
do, right?”
I am tempted to make a funny about what exactly jock girlfriends do but
I don’t want to argue with my fake girlfriend right before my match.
“That’s…bloody nice of you, Queenie. Thanks.” I finger the edge of the
jersey sleeve. “You wore it.”
“I keep my word.” She juts her pugnacious chin out. Her curls are tied
up in a ball on the top of her head, so they spill over her ears. She’s only
slicked on gloss over her lips. The no-makeup look works on Queenie.
She looks mad and hot… and like a jock girlfriend.
“Where are you sitting?”
“Wherever I want.” She smirks. “There’s no one in the stands, Noah.”
“The best seat’s on the ground. Row B6. Sit there, then,” I instruct her.
“You’ll follow the action up close and personal.”
 “You know Rohit Chachu’s coaching Pennington. I’m betraying him by
supporting you.”
“It’s for true love. Your Chachu will understand.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re playing a cricket match in
Connecticut. This is unreal.”
“I’m going to win a cricket match in Connecticut, desi girl,” I correct
her loftily. “And I’m very fucking real.”
“Good luck, Noah,” she says again, after a small pause. “I hope you do.
Win. That is.”
“You know it’s tradition to kiss the captain for luck right before he goes
out to play,” I say lazily, leaning a hand beside her shoulder.
She flicks my chin and blows me a kiss. “That’s the only kiss you’re
getting, captain. Anything else comes from your teammates.”
I grin, unashamed. At least, she’s not looking at me like she wants to
drink my blood with her bare hands. I’ll take this nicer Queenie. “I had to
ask.”
She slides out from near me and walks away.
And I notice the embellishments she’s done to the jersey with my name
on it.
Before, DUMAINE #22 was written in dark green against the sunny
yellow of the rest of the uniform. Now, my name is sparkling and sequined
in orange, green, white, and blue. The colors of the Indian tricolor. I know it
as well as I know the Aussie national flag.
“What the fuck, Hellcat?” I yell at her. “Did you just sequin my name in
the Indian flag colors?”
She shrugs and blows me another kiss from the other end of the tunnel.
“I can betray my Chachu, Dumaine. But not my country. Not for the enemy.
I might wear an Aussie jersey that says Dumaine but I’m still a number one
India fan!” She makes a heart shape with her fingers. “Team Blue for life,
roomie.”
I don’t know whether to be mad or impressed. So, I just shake my head.
I will deal with her once I win this match.
My chest feels funny seeing Queenie wear my jersey, even if it is
bedazzled in India colors. I’ve never had a serious girl. All of my
adolescence and early twenties were spent in perfecting my game. And all
my hookups were just that. Hookups. Casual. Nothing I wanted to pursue
after a few days or weeks.
 So, this…this is new. Watching someone with my name on their back…
it’s pride and possession and this need to not let them down. To make them
proud of me. To make her proud of me.
Even if she supports my rival team and made it clear on the jersey.
Game on, Hellcat, I think to myself as I enter the changing room and
find Coach Alastair in the middle of his pep talk.
Game on.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘THE GIRL WHO FELL TO EARTH’ BY GAZ COOMBES

STRANGELY AND I cannot dissect it – when Noah leaned over me and

tried to intimidate me, I did not feel threatened. In fact, it felt an awful lot
like flirting. Considering, how unsettled I was the morning after our ‘date’,
this makes no sense to me.
But the body does not lie.
I’m missing some crucial information about what’s happened between
Noah and me. But I’ll be damned if I ask him for it. He’s way too smug
already.
I settle in the middle of row B6, all alone. And stop giving myself a
headache before the match.
Aussie Boy’s right, these are primo seats, with a great view of the pitch,
right from the bowler’s end so I can watch the batsmen do their thing. I
wanted to bring Mischa along but she’s not a huge cricket fan and…
I sigh and munch on the popcorn I’d bought at the concessions stand for
twenty freaking dollars.
Mischa is currently mad at me for moving without telling her. And for
agreeing to this insane fake dating thing and…in general for treating her
like an NBF. Non-best friend, her words not mine. So, she’s only
communicating via texts and calls. We aren’t even chatting much anymore.
It sucks.
I hit speed dial number 2 and wait for her to pick up.
“What?” Mischa growls.
“I’m sorry. And I miss you. Will you ever forgive me?” I am instantly
contrite. I also apologize for the seventy-ninth time to her. I’ve kept count
because I’m anal.
“It’s not about that,” she says softly.
“Then what is it about?”
This last week, I’ve made a show of being strong and not giving a fuck
about the sly glances the college crowd throws me when they see me at the
diner or when I shop at the Grocery Mart. Even the disapproval in Rohit
Chachu’s eye was bearable only because Noah behaved like a devoted
boyfriend at dinner.
But this is my best friend, heck, my only friend. And I can’t believe
she’s genuinely moved on from our friendship. Even if I have behaved like
an NBF.
My younger sister, Jo, is off at art camp in Los Angeles, learning
Cubism and Impressionism from an Important Artist in a fedora and a
tweed jacket. She likes emails and staying off the grid, so she hasn’t yelled
at me for my poor life choices so far. It’s just a matter of time, though.
“Mischa, please,” I whisper shakily. “I’m sorry. I really am. You can be
as mad at me as you want, but don’t shut me out anymore. I can’t take it.”
She sighs, audibly, over the phone. “Where are you?” she asks shortly.
“At the football ground. Noah’s match is about to begin.”
“I—Fine. My shift’s not till four pm. I’ll be there in fifteen. And you’re
buying the popcorn.”
“The biggest tub in the universe,” I promise her.

Texting Mischa the details of the seats, I hurry out of the seat and back to
concessions to finagle Diego, the boy working the stand, for an extra-large
tub with salted and caramel – Mischa’s favorites.
By the time I come back to the seat, juggling the popcorn and my bag,
the toss is underway.
I blink when I see Noah’s tall and stalwart physique in the pink and
black uniform. The colors suit him so well, bringing out the black of his
obsidian eyes and highlighting the curve of his jaw, for some reason.
From this far, I drink him in. In ways I haven’t allowed myself since the
moment I met him. He’s undeniably physical…like all athletes are. With
their muscles and their presence. But Noah’s not a textbook jock bro. He
does not give off those markers, either in his behavior or physiologically.
He doesn’t smirk, unless it is to make a point. He never intimidates,
unless provoked. And he most definitely does not make claims he can’t
fulfil.
I caved and Googled Noah and found a replay of the under-19 World
Cup final online, the year he was captain. And some of his shot choices
were breathtaking. If I did not loathe the man, I’d have a huge crush on him
– just for the way he lofted the bat for a boundary. And held the stance for
follow through.
But I do loathe him.
He’s the reason I’m wearing a bedazzled jersey with the Indian flag
sequined on Dumaine. And living with him. And faking it as his girlfriend.
And enduring the curious looks of the diner folks when he comes to pick
me up sometimes, where I dutifully peck his lips, and he grabs my waist for
a second. Simon and Jace want to throw down with him, once they found
out I was dating him.
On the other hand, I’m comfortable in the cottage. The shower always
runs hot. And it’s big enough to keep my hair out of the spray. The bed’s
soft as a cloud so I sleep insanely well, after spending hours on my feet
every day.
And the kitchen is functional and pretty, once I figured out where
everything was.
All in all, it’s an ideal living situation. Because not for a single moment
do I feel threatened or overwhelmed by my roommates. They are dude bros
who swear and shout, especially Ares, when they’re at home. Either one of
them is working out, or making protein shakes or someone is playing video
games on the massive TV unit.
Typical college boys’ stuff. Nothing untoward or unseemly.
Noah’s actually not been around this last week. Apart from the jersey
encounter. Today was the longest I’ve spoken to him in days. And we
bickered today too.
If this was one of the romcoms I’m obsessed with, I’d say we were
meant to be. But we are not.
Because he just pushes my buttons by existing, by smirking in that
devilish way he has sometimes. If he just never spoke I might⁠—
“Whose murder are you plotting now?” Mischa slides into the seat next to
me. “And give me that.” She snatches the large tub and scoops popcorn in
unceremoniously.
She’s in shorts and an off the shoulder white sweatshirt, doing effortless
summer cool without trying. And she has lipstick and mascara on, like the
fashion diva she is.
“Give me a hug.” I crush her tight to my side. And squeeze the life out
of her. “Don’t ever leave me alone like that, Mischa Bhargav.” I talk inside
her hair.
She hugs me back just as fiercely. “Don’t make me, then.”
We break apart when the umpire blows a whistle and the match starts.
The Pennington Knights – it says so on their jersey fronts – spread out
on the field. This means, Barrons Bay Challengers, Noah’s team, is batting
first.
Fox De Rossi, my third roommate is the captain of the opposing team.
He claps and sends fielders into position. He takes first slip – the position
right next to the batter, for an easy catch.
“Is …” Mischa leans forward, shading her eyes with her hand. “That’s
Fox De Rossi,” she says quietly.
“Yeah. He’s Noah’s friend. They actually live together in the cottage
while they attend camp. I’ll introduce you to him and Ares after the match.”
I squeeze her knee.
She stills a little before giving me a hard look. “Alright, I’m here now.
And I want to know every last thing. Start talking.”
“Alright.” I take a deep breath and plunge in.
Her eyes grow rounder and rounder as I tell her about the contract Noah
and the boys signed. And our argument over his jersey and how comfortable
I am in the cottage, except for the excess of protein shakes and deo.
“Are you—” she says faintly. Shakes her head. “You’re serious about all
this? You’re really okay living in his home?”
I nod and munch on the popcorn. Wish for water, which I forgot to bring
in my haste. “Yep. Not like I have a choice.”
“And now you’re here, at his games⁠—”
“Matches,” I correct her.
“Matches, wearing his jersey?”
 “And cheering like a fucking maniac,” I say morosely.
“And Ares and F-Fox,” she stumbles over his name. “They’re okay with
this bizarre arrangement? They don’t mind having a woman stay in their
home, invading their privacy?”
I watch the opening batter walk to the field. I sit up straighter when one
of them looks in my direction and nods.
Shit, that’s Noah. He’s opening for his team.
Talk about leading from the front.
I clap hard like a fucking maniac, as the batters bounce and walk toward
the pitch.
“Fox is the sweetest, Meesh. He actually asked me for veggie
preferences day before yesterday because he was out shopping. And wanted
to get me some.” In fact, the boys cleared a whole shelf in the refrigerator
so I could store my veggies. And suggested I chuck anything I didn’t like to
make room for my spices and groceries.
They also, very sweetly, asked me to make extra of whatever I’m
cooking so they could ‘taste’ it.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And Ares?” I laugh as I think about the goofball Ares. “When
Ares came to know I was shown that horrible video, he offered to teach me
kickboxing so I can bash Moronica’s face in, next time I see her.”
Mischa chuckles. “That’s sweet of him. Teaching you violence to solve
your problems.”
“Self-defense, Mischa. It’s self-defense.”
Noah takes up position in front of the wicketkeeper. He leans against the
bat. Ready to face the ball.
“And there’s no constant parade of girls in and out of the house?”
I chuckle. “Absolutely not. Fox is married to the weights machine and
Ares spends hours perfecting his wrist action. They’re serious athletes.”
This much I’ve concluded in the last week. “I don’t think they know the P
of partying. They really are the sweetest, Mischa.”
“And this Noah…is he sweet or⁠—”
I think about the linseed ointment he gave me the day I moved in. How
it really helps with sore muscles, especially after a hot shower. Or the
disappointed face he makes after the other two demolish all the pies. And
how he tacked on a gym schedule on the door, so I know when to expect the
three of them on my floor. So, I’m prepared.
 He's unexpectedly thoughtful, when he’s not driving me intentionally
crazy.
“I’m withholding judgment on Dumaine.”
“I see.” Mischa shoves in more popcorn and looks at the field. “And
you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I emphasize. “Physically and mentally and emotionally.”
What about sexually, Queenie? My face heats up at the random thought.
“Stop worrying about me and just…” I nod at the players. “Enjoy the
game, okay?”
“So, this is like a test match? Five days of endless cricket?”
I shake my head. “I think they’re playing fifty-overs today.”
“Ugh.” Mischa shudders. “Three hundred times watching a ball fly. So
boring.”
“Technically, it’s six hundred times. And⁠—”
The bowler does his runup from a few yards away, gathering steam with
each step. He reaches the umpire and the stumps on the non-batter’s side
and throws the ball.
Noah ducks as it wooshes over his head. A perfect bouncer.
“Did you see that?” I shake my fist at the bowler. “That’s a no-ball.”
A few of the fielders turn to look at me, the crazy woman shouting in
the stands.
Mischa pulls me back to the seat and shushes me. “You’re going to get
us thrown out of an empty stadium, Queenie. Shut up,” she mutters angrily.
“But that ball was way too fast.”
Noah cricks his neck and squares his shoulders for position again.
“I don’t get how you enjoy this game,” Mischa crunches her way
through the tub. “It’s not like they are in shorts or something so we can
enjoy their tight abs and sweaty naked knees.”
“That’s gross but accurate.” I laugh and throw popcorn at her.
She throws some back at me.
The pacer bowls the next ball a little slower. Noah connects with it and
runs for two runs on the board. His long legs eat up the pitch with effortless
ease. He’s kind of awesome and sexy to watch. Heat slides into my stomach
when I see him take the stand again.
I dismiss it quickly.
“Are you sure about living with these men?” Mischa asks quietly. Hand
on my arm. “Seriously. You have to use your words.”
 I give her a sidearm hug. “I’m excellent, Mischa. I live like a
millionaire in the most exclusive neighborhood in this town. And, after six
months of being a pariah, no one bothers me anymore. Finally. I’m more
than okay. I’m excellent.”
I turn my attention back to the match. The pacer does his long run up
again and thunders up the pitch to the batter.
I know instinctively, this one is going to be fast.
I can sense it in the way Noah hunches over the bat, just a little more.
But, at the last moment, and I feel like it happens in slow motion, he
straightens. Holds the bat a few inches higher up in the air.
This time, when the speeding ball comes at him, he does not duck. He
meets it head-on.
This time, he swings his bat and connects with the ball. Right in the
middle of the fleshy part of the willow. THWACK! The crack is almost
audible.
I hold my breath and watch the ball sail…sail…sail over the
wicketkeeper’s head, over the fielder at mid-off, who jumps to catch it. It
goes right over the deep square leg fielder who’s running beneath the streak
of red.
The fielder steps over the boundary line, just as the ball grazes his hand.
“And it’s a SIX!” The commentator booms out.
I’m genuinely so proud of Noah in that moment. As if he really is my
boyfriend. As if we are really together. My heart’s ready to pound out of my
ribcage.
The shot was classic. Stunning. Textbook-perfect and yet stylish. I love
it so much.
I look at Mischa and scream. “Six!”
She screams too with me. We even do a little dance. The Pennington
fielders glare at us – two of the scraggly spectators behaving like maniacs.
Fox waves at me and shakes his head. I give him a thumbs down.
And then…then my heart stops because Noah finishes running between
the wickets. And looks unerringly at me, on row B6. He spots me because
his gaze lasers me, my skin. Tracking down my flushed face, my parted
lips… my tits pushing against the stupid Aussie jersey.
Then he nods. Once. In my direction. And adjusts his helmet before
taking up position again, for the next ball.
I collapse into the seat while Mischa’s mouth drops open.
 She begins in an accusing tone. “I thought you said it was all fake
between you too.”
“It is.” I fill my mouth with popcorn, and my parched throat is even
more in need of a drink. Or Noah’s eminently lickable lips –Shut UP,
Queenie. “It’s all fake.”
“That look wasn’t fake,” she says flatly. “That was not fake, Queenie.”
“Oh yeah?” I look at the match with full concentration. And will my
pulse to stop jumping out of my skin.
“That was hot. With a capital H. If he wanted everyone to know you’re
now…”
His, the word whispers in my head. I’m his.
Mischa shakes her head. “I need water. I need air. This is too much for a
cricket match,” she grumbles.
I don’t argue with her.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘FAME WON’T LOVE YOU (FEAT. PARIS HILTON) BY
SIA

“CALL me back when you see this, Noah – Your dad.” The email is
appended by the one I sent my father’s office detailing the Veronica
situation seeking legal advice and protection for me and the girl in the
video.
I expected a simple consider it done reply email. Not a summons from
my paternal figure.
I stare at my dad’s reply for the fifth time. It’s simple, no-nonsense,
autocratic even. The sad part is I’m not even mad about the tone of the
message. Just pathetically glad he responded to me at all.
It’s close to two am and I’m still buzzed from post-match adrenalin. It’s
the only reason I can think of for me to open the caller app and dial my
father’s number.
Sydney’s half a day ahead of the States, so I figure he is at an important
business lunch or at a lunch negotiation. Meaning he won’t answer my call.
But, to my surprise and discomfort, he answers on the second ring.
“What is the meaning of this email?” Dad demands, with no preamble.
I turn on the couch and settle deeper in the sheets. The couch is not
made for my size or weight. My legs stick out of the damn thing every night
when I stretch full body. And if I hadn’t given my word to Queenie, I’d be
begging her to let me sleep on the fucking floor of my former bedroom.
But it’s important that Queenie trusts me. Call it delusion or whatever.
“Hello to you too, father. How is Sydney?” My heart knocks out of my
chest, but I keep my voice neutral.
 “Sydney’s as it has ever been. I—excuse me,” Dad says. Then he puts
my call on hold, and I listen to the automated lady. I almost decide to end
the call when he comes back. “Sorry about that. I’ve asked my assistant to
hold calls till we talk about this. What the fuck happened, Noah?”
Life happened, Dad. When you were busy being a workaholic absentee
father who thought to fix my life by giving me a mother I did not want, my
bad choices happened.
“I detailed the situation in the email.” I swallow my hurtful, resentful
words down and go straight to business. “Right down to the altercation I
had with Veronica, the perpetrator of the video, at the diner.”
“This Veronica woman…she has video evidence of you assaulting a
half-naked woman who ran away from you?” Dad sounds tired.
Disbelieving. Sad.
“I did not assault anybody,” I grit out. “But yes, the woman…Queenie
Madhavan was half-naked. And she …proceeded to exit the location in a
hasty manner.”
“You’re not a lawyer, Noah. Talk like a normal person.”
I’m not remotely normal, Dad.
“Right. Sorry. So, yeah, she left in a hurry,” I admit. “But it was because
of a different thing. Not because I misbehaved with her.”
“And this Veronica sent this video to the coaches at Triskelion?”
“Yeah, they saw it. She has a problem with my girl…” I sit up and run a
shaking hand down my hair. Making it stick in all directions. “Dad, you
have to believe me. The video’s caused a lot of damage for me and Queenie.
Especially her.”
“She’s really your girlfriend? You’re not just saying that to save your
sorry arse?” Dad demands doubtfully.
I nod aggressively. “She absolutely is, Dad. She’s the best part about
this town.” The lie trips off my lips effortlessly. So much so I could think
it’s the truth.
“And you’re not…” Dad hesitates. “Back in the weeds again?” It’s his
code for the time I spiraled out of control and lost out on the career of a
lifetime. Because I was weak and reckless.
“Very much in the garden, dad. No weeds,” I assure him quietly.
I even look out the window and make out the dark, scary outlines of the
bushes growing by the windows. One of the main reasons I bought the
cottage is because of the garden.
 Mum told me once – If you’re ever in a position to buy a house, Noah,
baby, get one with a view. A house takes a lot of work. But the view makes it
worth it.
I swallow a lump when I remember her gentle words. The touch of her
hand on my hair, tousling it. Me frowning and scrunching up my nose and
whingeing, “Don’t do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it, son.”
Don’t call me son. You’ve not earned it.
I let out a shaky breath. I am a grown man. Almost twenty-four. I don’t
want or need a father or a family to make my way in the world. And I am
doing everything I can to make it happen, including allowing a bewitching,
infuriating, curvy virago to occupy my bed.
“Thanks, Dad. Now, can you help me or not? Can I sue her for every
penny she has?”
“You say she has deleted the video, already?”
“Yes. From her email too.”
“And sent an apology too?”
“Yes.” Although she point-blank refused to apologize to Queenie, when
I pressed her on it. She really does not like Queenie. And I can’t be fucked
to find out why.
“Then, the only thing you need is a cease and desist, to deter her from
further distributing the offensive video. And a stern warning with the
consequences of what would happen should she proceed to do so anyway.”
“Great. You think you can handle it for me?”
“I can’t do it personally. Australian defamation laws work differently
than American ones. But I’ll talk to the De Rossi American counsel and
make it happen. Give me twenty-four hours,” Dad murmurs.
“Awesome, that’s brilliant. Thank you. I really appreciate the help.” I
hesitate and plunge on. “You can bill me for the services. I know your
time’s valuable.”
“If you want to pay me for this, please, come home.”
“I don’t have a home, Dad,” I say woodenly. “You live on a Bondi
Beach penthouse with your wife and daughter. It’s not the same thing.”
Each word pricks my heart the way it did the last time I said them when I
was seventeen and about to be captain of the under-19 World Cup squad.
He wanted me to try out only after finishing high school. I could not
wait to leave home.
 Dad sighs. And says nothing. Then, “So, how’s the camp going? Are
you in anymore trouble I should know about?”
I grin. “Actually, I played my first match today. Scored a six off the first
over. It was pretty awesome to see.”
“At least you’re not screwing it up this time.”
I blink. A familiar pang of…pain goes through. The one I experience
because I expect praise and affection and get practical facts. I should be
used to it by now but…
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say shortly. “I’m not screwing it up this time.”
No matter what it takes.
“So, Bel and I are actually planning to come to Barrons⁠—”
“Actually, I have to go, Dad,” I cut short whatever his next words are.
“But thanks for the help. I’ll let you know when the papers come through.
Thanks so much. Cheers.”

I hang up on him before he can say another word.

I feel like shit. Like day old shit left to dry out in the sun. It’s always
this way when I try and reach out to my dad.
He’s great with making a problem go away – translation, don’t bother
me with it if money will do the talking. And, unfortunately, almost all
problems will go away with enough money.
But it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had a hug from my dad. And
heard him tell me he’s proud of me.
I slide back down to bed and stare at the ceiling. Then I punch my
pillow and will myself to sleep. Because the alternative is continue feeling
like shit for being rude to my father… or feeling like a dick because I have
clear visions of walking into Queenie’s bedroom and making her re-enact
the towel scene.
Queenie is luscious and curvy and the human equivalent of a sugar rush.
I want to inhale her until I stop craving her.
The line of thinking does not help so I decide to get in a brisk HIIT
workout. Exhaustion should help with the lack of sleep.
I check out my basketball shorts and sleep shirt. They’ll do for gear. I
shove off the bed and hunt for my shoes. Find them and start toward the
gym. I don’t bother with the lights because I don’t want to wake my
roomies up.
I am still pulling on my shoes halfway up the stairs when I collide
against a warm handful of woman.
I automatically grab her middle.
Queenie squeals.
“What are you doing?” She’s breathless. A small, dark shape. Enticing
and seductive.
I caress her rippling back, reflexively. She presses against me. Her chest
and tummy, with its curves and valleys, mash into mine, our bare legs touch
each other.
Do not get hard, man. Do not get hard, I beg myself.
She pushes against my chest.
“You do that again and we’ll both fall,” I warn her and get a mouthful of
her hair. It smells of lilies and honey. Sexy.
“Irritating man,” she spits out. But she still holds onto me, her grip
slightly less death-like than a second ago.
My caress turns slow. Calming. Her skin’s sleep warm and all sorts of
inviting.
She’s not just interesting or hot. Something about her specifically makes
me forget everything else – my broken relationship with my father, my
emotional dysfunction, my desperation to be great at camp. It’s like her
superpower.
“Frustrating woman,” I say idly. Just to rile her.
“Ugh!” I can hear the eye roll and foot stamp in her growl. “What are
you doing, Noah?” Queenie grits out.
“I’m going to the gym. For a workout.”
“At two thirty in the morning?” She’s incredulous.
I shrug. “There’s no right time to get the body moving.”
She sucks in a breath, which pushes her magnificent tits in direct
contact with my abs. I angle my pelvis a discreet inch away. This puts my
hand in direct contact with her tits.
God. I am a masochist.
I check out the shape of the white thing she’s holding. “Which book is
this?”
“City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare.”
 I smile. “Sounds intense.” I smile wider. “And ashy.” I trace the book
with my pinkie closest to the book. “And why are you reading at two thirty
in the morning?”
Queenie shrugs. “There’s no right time to read. And Jace and Clary
were just about to—” She pauses abruptly.
“About to what?” I feel her waist. It’s delicious and cuppable. There’s
no other way to describe it.
“Look, just let me get my water. You can go hike up your testosterone
on the free weights,” the Hellcat bites.
I chuckle. “I am not lifting weights tonight. My arms are dead. I’ll run a
couple miles on the treadmill.” Maybe five. Maybe ten. Maybe I’ll collapse
on the treadmill because I finally got to hold Queenie Madhavan for more
than ten seconds. And now her shape is imprinted on my skin.
“If you’re tired you should sleep, dummy.” Her concern is shrouded in
harsh words.
“So says the doctor?” I tease her. I slide my hand an inch away. Give
her the slightest breathing room.
Queenie sighs. “We need lights here on the stairs if this is to be a regular
occurrence.”
“Maybe I’ll just bell you, like the Hellcat you are.”
I wait for her tart comeback.
Instead, she laughs, her teeth ghostly white in the darkness. It’s her
sunshine laugh. The one I’ve waited ages to hear again. “Good one. I’ll let
you have that one.”
The laugh rumbles through her belly and into me. Warm and husky and
precious. I want to hold it. Hold her.
“I’m going to go get some water. You go on up to the gym. Okay?” She
rushes through the words.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, okay.”
She sidesteps me and the loss of her hits me like a trail of pixie dust.
“Goodnight, Aussie boy,” Queenie says softly.
“Goodnight, desi girl.”
It’s a near thing but I don’t watch her descend the stairs, clutching her
book to her chest. That would make me a lovesick Romeo and I’m not.
I’m not, I tell myself.
I run eleven miles on the treadmill instead of ten.
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘ROZ ROZ’ BY THE YELLOW DIARY

“SO, LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” my younger sister, Jyotsana, ‘Jo’

begins in a dangerously low tone, on Friday. She holds a miter saw in her
large, gloved hands while she talks to me on video chat. “On top of taking a
six-month break in your senior year and ruining the image of the perfect
elder daughter, you don’t call, or text or freaking email me… for two
weeks.”
She brings the saw closer. “And when you finally do it’s to inform me,
you’re living with three guys, one of whom is your boyfriend. Who you got
caught in a porn video with. Filmed by Moronica Pissington. Did I get
everything?”
“When you list all the events together it makes me look like I’m –” I
protest immediately.
“Crazy?” Jo rolls her finger over her temple. “Insane? Out of that
brilliant mind Amma-Appa so generously gave you? What in the fuck are
you thinking, Queenie?”
I clench the shirt I hold tight. It’s a flannel thing which hangs loosely on
my curves, not accentuating them but not hiding them either. “I’m not
crazy, Jo. I’m…” Desperate. Spiraling. Lost. “Making the best of a bad
situation.” I give her a mournful look. “The dorm kicked me out officially.”
“Why?” Jo asks blankly. “You’re still on the student roster. You’re
doing a special intensive course, right?” She saws the wooden block in front
of her. “Advanced Bone-breaking or whatever.”
“It’s Advanced Bone Identifying Studies with an anthropological
aspect,” I correct her.
 Jo snorts. “Whatever that means.”
“We study bones from ancient civilizations and examine them for past
bone diseases and how modern medicine has evolved since then.”
“Snooze,” she mutters. “Anyway, since you’re doing the course, they
have no reason to kick you out. Especially since you’re going back in the
fall, after your break’s over.”
I flamed out of the course six weeks ago, after I sat in on two classes.
Because everyone, including the professor, just kept staring at me, like I had
a giant neon ‘L for Liar’ tattooed on my forehead.
It was horrible and I cried in the ladies’ room for twenty minutes before
walking out. Vowing to never return.
I don’t tell her any of it. She’ll call Amma-Appa on me in a heartbeat.
I hold the shirt up and check myself in the bathroom mirror. “Does this
make me look fat?”
“Not if you tie it at the waist. It’ll highlight your waist and draw
attention from the ladies like you always want.” Jo points at my ample
chest. “Which, I don’t understand.”
I growl. “We’re not discussing my anatomy, Jo.”
My sister’s a free-spirited artist. Genius and brilliant. But she has no
brain-mouth filter. Her fashion sense is on-point, though. She’s in stylish
coveralls that work on her lithe frame. My sister takes after my dad in the
height department. I am more like my Amma, a chubby dumpling. With
curves and curls to match.
“We should be discussing that fine man you somehow managed to
snag.” My sister snickers. “You can’t see it through the protective glasses
but I’m winking at you.”
I shake my head. Tie the shirt at my waist in a giant knot. And damn if it
doesn’t instantly make my curves pop. How weird is that.
“I googled him, by the way. Noah Dumaine. He knows how to play
cricket. Too bad he’s Australian.” Jo cuts the wood along with her words.
“How does your crush, Virat, feel about this development?”
I shake my head, amused. “Virat doesn’t know I exist. And he’s not my
crush. He’s just…the best.” I sigh and think about the GOAT Indian batter.
His panache, his style, his aggression, and his skills. “He just makes cricket
memorable for me, you know. Personal.”
“Does the Aussie make it personal?”
 “I—” I lick my lips. “When I watch him play, I don’t remember who he
is, Jo,” I say finally. “He’s just incredible to watch. Besides, he plays for the
Barrons Bay Challengers,” I add firmly. “This town. So, your point is
pointless.”
“Ooh! You’re literally sleeping with the enemy,” Jo teases me.
I throw tissues at her. “I’m sleeping under the enemy’s roof. There’s a
big difference there. Huge,” I stress. Although my body warms at the
remembered body-to-body contact with Noah last night. His long arms were
sure and confident around me, drawing circles around my back and melting
my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
He’d been sexy and ghost-like and dammit…hot. Even if he is the devil,
irritating me for kicks.
“Semantics.” Jo waves sawdust all around the screen. “So, you’re
choosing an outfit for what?”
“The victory party for the game the Challengers won,” I say proudly.
“Noah invited me —” More like commanded me, but that is semantics.
“And I want to wear something appropriate and not…”
“All black?” Jo asks dryly.
“Yeah. Not all black.”
“So, does this mean I can report back to our parents your goth babe
phase is over, and we are back to regularly scheduled programming?” She
sounds so hopeful. She even removes her glasses and eyes me square over
the screen. Her eyes are like mine, golden brown and almond-shaped, but
her face is lean with no cheek fat. So, everything just looks sexier on her.
I don’t envy my sister, I’ve loved her since she was born…but genetics
are a bitch, sometimes.
My heart breaks from the heft of her words. At the pleading look on her
face.
Jo touches the screen. “Amma cried to me the other day. She thinks
you’re purposely throwing your future away because they were too hard on
you growing up.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s not like that. It’s not about Amma or Appa
or anybody else.”
But it is. Because, as an Indian, even if I moved to America before I
turned one, I am my parents’ symbol. Of hope. And pride. And success.
The full weight of my parents’ love, pressure, and expectations settles
on my shoulders, an iron ball I’m forced to carry. Because I can’t tell them
the truth – I’m broken now and the things I wanted before no longer mean
anything to me.
I’m lost.
And this new Queenie…she’s distracted by a golden boy Aussie
cricketer who looks damn fine in batter pads and basketball shorts. And
what she wants is nothing like her parents want for her.
“I know that,” my little sister says fiercely. “If it was up to me, I’d take
out a full-page ad and tell everyone the fucking truth about what happened
on Halloween. But you swore me to secrecy and⁠—”
“Jyotsna, no!” I gasp, shocked. “You cannot. You absolutely cannot do
that.”
“I won’t but you should,” she grumbles.
“I wouldn’t have done any of this if you were in town and keeping me
from making terrible choices,” I tease her to distract her.
“I’d have pushed you into Noah Dumaine’s arms if he makes you want
to wear color,” Jo says softly.
“I’m not doing this for him,” I say indignantly. “It’s just time for a
change. Black is so last season.”
The truth is, I don’t want to be Queenie Winehouse and stand out at
another party. I did it last time and it ended with me making out with a
stranger who turned into my fake boyfriend and off-limits roommate.
No. Thank you.
“If you say so, sis,” Jo murmurs. She shoves her glasses back on. “And
wear those flared shorts I got you before I left for my internship. They’ll go
perfectly with this shirt.”
I give her a mock salute. “Aye, aye captain.” Then I sigh and blow her a
kiss. “I miss you, kuttils.” It’s her childhood pet name, meaning little girl.
“Ditch your art and come back home.”
Jo snorts. “Our parents rented our home to that nice boho couple from
Vermont. We don’t have a childhood home anymore, Queenie.”
“For an artist, you’re way too practical.”
“For a scientist, you’re way too not,” she shoots back. “Sorry.” She
shrugs. “Doctor. I meant doctor. Future doctor.”
I blink as ‘scientist’ pings in my chest. Sparking a little light. “Practical
is my middle name. Shut up.”
Jo laughs. “Sure, I will!”
 We talk for a few more minutes, then I end the call. But Jo’s words
circle in my head as I shower and get ready for yet another summer party.
This time to celebrate my fake boyfriend’s team victory.
And I don’t dread it as much as I should.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘TONIGHT’ BY ZAYN

“DIVING CATCH,” Fox grumbles again. And shoots Ares a poisonous

glare, the next night. “You took a fucking dive to catch that last ball when
you don’t reach across the dinner table for the salt, you arsehole.”
Ares buffs his nails. “My hands are precious. I’m saving my wrist from
unnecessary action.”
Fox growls and ducks his head to headbutt Ares. But it’s actually my
girlfriend…fake girlfriend, Queenie, who taps him on the shoulder and
stops him.
He huffs out a breath and gives her an impatient look. “What?”
She leans up and whispers something in his ear. Fox grins at her and
then turns a cool look at Ares. “Congrats, mate,” he says sincerely. “I’m
sorry if I haven’t appreciated your match winning move. It was world-
class.”
Ares’ mouth drops open. “What was that?” He is bewildered. Then he
turns accusingly to Queenie. “What the fuck did you tell him? Why is he
congratulating me now?”
She squeezes his hand. “Just tell him thanks, will you? And stop trying
to rile him up.”
Ares shakes his head. “I don’t like you taking his side against mine,
Queenie.”
My fake girlfriend laughs. “I’m not. I am on both your sides.”
“Actually, you’re on my side, remember?” I lightly touch her rounded
waist. She stiffens up. If I look at her face, the laughter would have faded.
Yep. She’s okay with being touchy-feely with my best friends but not me.
Her actual fake boyfriend. I’d feel jealous if it wasn’t beneath me.
So there.
The smile she sticks on her face is entirely unconvincing. “One hundred
percent on your side,” Queenie repeats robotically.
“He needs you on his side. He gave you his jersey, right?” Ares gives
me a cool look.
“Yes, he did.” My fake girlfriend smiles.
“He’s never given a jersey to a girl before,” Ares snickers and gives me
a good-natured shove with his elbow. “I don’t recall Noah even being
interested in chicks before you came along.”
Fox grabs Ares before I go for him.
“Why would you give me a jersey, then?” Queenie asks, frowning.
I shrug, discomfited and a little sweaty. “I don’t know. It seemed like
the thing to do…to convince the coaches I was serious about you.” I rub a
hand down my face. “And maybe I thought it’d be good for my morale to
see one person cheering just for me in this strange town.”
Her frown dissipates as she dissects my uncomfortably honest
statement. Someone calls out Ares’ name, so he gives her a sweet smile and
bounds up the stairs of the mansion on Prewett Drive, where the victory
party is being held. It belongs to one of the boys on the team whose uncle
owns a bank on Wall Street.
The place is completely lit up, with raucous, techno music pumping
from the inside. Designed to shatter eardrums and get girls out of their
clothes in equal time.
A girl in a leopard print bikini shows up with two frothy drinks and eye
fucks Fox. “Hey, captain,” she breathes. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
“You know what, love?” Fox turns on the De Rossi charm and accepts
the drink. “I am.” He clinks glasses with the girl, who puts a hand on his
arm.
He gives me a shrug and Queenie a smile as the girl leads him to
somewhere private.
“How is it he’s the losing captain and he got offered a drink?” I muse
out loud.
“Because he’s like way more handsome than you, obviously,” Queenie
says absently, tugging her khaki shorts down her thighs. Her short nails
sparkle witch black in the spotlights.
 I wonder how they’d look on my back, my abs. Running over my thighs.
I shake my head to dispel these stupid thoughts.
“What?” She demands. “Objectively speaking, Fox is pretty. That
combination of grey eyes and blonde hair is stunning. You’re more…” I
resist the urge to squirm under her clinical look. “Ruggedly handsome.”
“Maybe you should fake date Fox if you think so.” I don’t sound
jealous. I am not jealous. Jealousy would mean real feelings and none of
this is real.
“I can’t.” She tugs at her shorts again and adjusts the tie holding her
shirt together below the waist. “I signed a contract with a different
cricketer.” She even gives me a tiny smile. “I even have the jersey to prove
it.”
“Hey!” I look around, mindful of where we are. “Can you just…?” I
make a locking motion at my lips.
“Right.” Queenie nods unconvincingly.
“You know?” I begin thoughtfully. And step closer to her because a
drunk arsehole brushes against her. “I just won a grueling fifty-over match
with a team that did not begin well.” The swell of pride and satisfaction and
relief at the win washes through me again. “And I’m ruggedly handsome.
Any other girl would consider me a catch.”
She doesn’t disappoint me with her comeback. “You’re a jock who’s
aware of the power he holds over others. I do not consider that a catch
because it’s typical alpha male—What?” Queenie snaps. “What are you
staring at?”
“Why do you keep fidgeting with the shorts, Queenie? Is everything
okay?”
She glares at me with spitfire eyes. Someone shoulders me and I move
closer to her.
“Will you talk to me?” I ask quietly. And look at her. Just look at her.
Her curls are arranged to fall over her shoulders, tied over her crown. A
wing-type liner elongates her eyes. And she’s slicked on a luscious pink
over her lips as if I need directions to notice them. And want to lick and bite
them…
She sighs. Of course, my gaze slides over to her chest. Her very defined
chest in the checkered shirt knotted at her waist.
Focus, Dumaine.
“I…I don’t usually wear these kinds of clothes,” she admits gruffly.
 “These kinds—” I hold the laugh in. Because she looks genuinely
uncomfortable. “Why’s that?”
“Because when one of the stick figure plastic girls see me, they make
fun of my thighs and boobs, okay?” she almost snarls the words out. “My
nickname in middle school was Rounds.”
I will not stare at her thighs and boobs. I will not stare at her delicious
thighs and sexy, sexy boobs…
“Rounds?” I repeat.
Queenie nods. “Yeah.” And squeezes the skin around her thigh. “You
know. Round-shaped? It wasn’t original but it stuck.” She doesn’t say it, but
I know it hurt. Words like these always hurt.
I can’t help it. I reach out and stop an inch from her thigh. “May I?”
“Noah--” She sounds so uncertain. I love hearing my name on her lips.
I touch her warm skin, let out a breath. “Those girls would kill to be
you, Queenie. That’s why they made fun of you.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” she’s doubtful. “It just seemed like I don’t
conform to the acceptable standard of traditional beauty, and I’m punished
for it.”
I bring her close by the edge of her shorts. “My words might mean
nothing, but you are…gorgeous, Queenie.” I put a hand around her round
waist. Those plastic girls were dumb. Holding Queenie is like holding
warmth and heart and heat. It’s perfect and addictive.
This close, I can smell the sugar and vanilla on her.
“You’re gorgeous and wicked smart, Hellcat.” I brush a curl to the back
of her ear.
Awareness replaces the doubt and vulnerability in her expressive eyes.
Her lips part slightly. I could bend down slightly and kiss the fuck out of
her. And maybe she won’t knee me in the nuts. It’d be worth it even if she
did.
She doesn’t look away from me.
“Queenie!” A quietly sexy female voice says from behind.
Queenie steps back. And the spell between us is broken. Again.
“Hey, Meesh.” She waves and tugs her friend forward, hugging her by
the waist. “You made it.”
I turn around and place my tee shirt over the front of my board shorts. I
only have a semi, but it’s not the best impression to be aroused when
meeting the best friend.
 I take a leaf out of the De Rossi charm book and clasp Mischa’s hand in
mine. Then I bend and kiss the tips, accommodating for her petite height.
Mischa’s all quiet beauty, like a moon stuck behind the clouds with her
pin straight hair and demure sky-blue dress falling below the knees, but her
light brown eyes are wary.
“Hi, Mischa!” I infuse Nice and Charming into my voice. “It’s so nice
to finally meet you. Queenie’s told me a lot about you.”
“Likewise, Noah.” She extracts her hand, simply assessing me. She is
not nice or charmed.
“I love this dress. Is this why you didn’t let me borrow it?” Queenie
hugs Mischa tightly. “Because you wanted to wear it yourself?”
Mischa steps back. “Were you going to kiss him right now?”
Queenie hisses. “Mischa, stop it.”
Mischa skewers me with a shrewd look. “Were you, Dumaine?”
I decide to go with the truth. “Actually, I was. Queenie’s feeling
doubtful about this stunning outfit she’s wearing because the plastic girls
might make fun of her.” I shrug. “And I wanted to prove her wrong.”
Queenie shoots me a fulminating glare.
Mischa is expressionless. Then she cracks the widest smile. It ups her
beauty from quiet to luminous. And she tucks her hand in my elbow. “You
pass, Noah. You’ll do.” She jerks a nod toward a stunned Queenie. “Now
take good care of my best friend, okay?”
I hold my other arm out to my fake girlfriend who’s entertaining very
real murderous thoughts about me. “I’ll try my best, Mischa. If she will let
me.”
Mischa laughs and looks over me and tells Queenie, “Looks like you
found your match, Q.”
I enter the party feeling like the winning team captain, after all.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘NADIR’ BY TENDER

I DID NOT EXPECT Mischa to capitulate so quickly to Noah’s silliness.

But the man has a way about him. It’s undeniable and…authentic. Holding
onto the image of the other Noah, The Asshole who threatened and
manipulated to get his way is not easy when Mischa laughs in delight at
Noah’s quip about the song choice.
I absolutely don’t feel jealous when Mischa lays her head on Noah’s
shoulder and smiles goofily at him. Having her approval is important.
Crucial, even. Mischa trusts men even less than me since freshman year.
She still won’t tell me why.
The one time I pushed her about it, she cried for two hours straight. So,
I stopped asking.
“I’m going to get you two drinks, while you grab us seats. Any
preferences?” Noah sweeps his gaze around the packed room.
“I’ll stick to juice. If it’s not spiked,” Mischa answers.
“I’ll take something brown. I have the late lunch shift tomorrow.”
Noah nods and lopes toward the bar. He’s stopped no less than three
times on the way to the drinks station. He high-fives people and talks easily
to them. He even talks to a Pennington Knights’ fielder, dipping his head
close as if they’re discussing something vital.
“So, that scene in the lawn,” Mischa begins in an undertone. “It wasn’t
staged?”
We find seats on an overstuffed couch. Two couples tongue each other
hard next to us, almost dry humping.
 “This whole relationship is staged, Meesh.” I push one of the couples in
the back, make space for Noah. “What else can I say?”
My feet tap to the music. It’s now mellow alt rock instead of the head-
pounding techno. I love it.
“Because to the casual bystander, it looked like you’re into the guy.
Like…” She raises her hands and wiggles them. “Into the guy.”
“That’s good. It’s the mission.” And I absolutely one hundred percent
believe that is all it is. Because that is all it is.
Mischa’s head bops to the music, even as she scans the room. “What if
you really are into the guy? Have you considered the possibility?”
I roll my eyes, even as my pulse pounds heavily. Just for a quick
second. I remember the softly-voiced ‘Come here’ he’d murmured right
before he’d kissed me so hard, I blacked out.
“There’s no possibility of it, at all, Mischa,” I assure her. “Because even
if I liked the guy for a few hours, that Queenie and Noah stopped existing
the second we became internet fodder.”
She sighs, loud and clear. “I just—” she begins anxiously.
“Queenie!” Veronica Washington chirps nervously, pulling me up
unceremoniously. “I’m so glad you came tonight. Love the outfit.” She
bends down in her six-inch Perspex heels to airkiss me, smelling of Juicy
Chemistry and vodka. Her dress is all slips and knots with her tits almost
falling out of the neckline. And her hair’s piled precariously on top of her
head.
She looks very…fuckable, I think, sourly.
“Veronica,” I say shortly, resisting the impulse to gag.
Mischa just folds her hands and looks coolly at her.
“You’re still not mad about the other night, are you?” She talks loudly
in my ear. “Because I was just trying to help, you know.”
“We know what you were trying to do, Veronica. And it wasn’t help,”
Mischa says before I can say something clever.
Veronica gives her a drunk smile. “Hey! The librarian is here tonight.
School really must be off.”
Mischa sucks in a shocked breath, hurt sliding into her eyes.
“Watch what you say around her.” I ball my fists. “You are⁠—”
“Leaving,” Noah says quickly. Almost plowing through her to get to
me. “She’s just leaving. Before the cease and desist order my lawyer sent
her father’s lawyer turns into a restraining order. Isn’t that right, Veronica?”
He smiles pleasantly, although his eyes are completely obsidian. And his
lips are a thin line. And he puts a boyfriend-like hand around my waist.
Making us a unit.
I’m messed in the head because I find it equal parts hot and offensive.
Especially because he stares straight at Veronica and does not even
remotely look like he wants to fuck her.
“Ye-yes, of course. I’m so sorry to intrude,” Veronica mumbles. She
aims a vague smile at Mischa and me. “You two have a great time. So glad
we talked. Bye, you guys.” The crowd swallows her and her Juicy perfume.
I wrinkle my nose. “If she sprays anymore of the Cherry perfume, she’ll
be dunked into a martini.” But inside, where my romantic heart still beats
underneath the inch-thick layer of mascara and cynicism, I feel warm.
Cared for.
Her apology soothed so many hurts I didn’t know existed. Especially,
because it was given willingly.
“Please.” Noah hands us the drinks and squeezes next to me on the
couch. “No one’s going to drink Blondie. Credit us with more brains,
please?”
Mischa laughs and clinks glasses with me. “I’ll drink to that.” She
downs her juice in one go.
I raise a brow at Noah’s empty hand. “You didn’t get your beer.”
“I’d prefer to keep a clear head tonight,” he replies.

“Still taking it one day at a time, Dumaine?” Rohit Chachu asks,

materializing in front of us. He’s in sweats too, and is even wearing a
Triskelion Cricket Training ball cap. It’s very cute and sporty.
“Every damn day, sir,” Noah says deferentially. He tries to get up, but
Chachu shakes his head.
Noah’s hand clenches against my thigh. I cover his tense hand with
mine.
“You played an excellent game yesterday.” Rohit tips his head. “You
even managed to get Sandoval to dive for a catch.”
“Just doing what a good captain would do, sir.”
“I want to see more of that,” Chachu tells him. Then he beckons me up.
 Mischa and I spring up to hug him tight. He pats us both briefly and
then regards us somberly. “You will behave, won’t you? No more
incidents.”
“No incidents,” I agree.
Mischa draws a circle around us. “This is an incident-free zone,
Chachu.”
Noah laughs. And then clams up when Rohit looks up at him. “Would
you like something to drink, sir?”
“No, no. I’m about to make a hasty exit. This music is—” Rohit
shudders. “Inexplicable to me.”
“Sir.” Noah inclines his head.
“Did you really send the Washington girl a cease and desist?” Chachu
asks, curiously.
Noah nods. “Of course, sir. The video is a clear case of defamation, and
the De Rossis take that kind of thing seriously. I also sent Veronica
Washington a personal letter along with the cease and desist. She cannot say
or do anything to Queenie which can be considered defamatory by the
courts.”
I turn surprised eyes to him. “You did that? You didn’t have to do that.”
Now I know why Veronica was pleasant to me just now. Why did he not
tell me what he’d done? I can fight my own battles. He didn’t have to
remove the threat of Veronica. That’s excessive…isn’t it?
Noah nods again and shrugs. “It’s the least I could do. She won’t bother
us anymore.”
“Us?” Chachu bites off. “So, you’re still dating Queenie, then?”
Noah immediately ducks his head, a little contritely.
I feel bad for him. It must not be easy having the coach who held your
fate in his hands be antagonistic to you for who you’re dating.
So, I slide my hand around Noah’s taut waist and scooch us an inch
closer. I lay my head on his shoulder and give my uncle, what I hope is, a
sappy smile. “Best. Boyfriend. Ever, Chachu.” I kiss his chest and hear the
rapid thud-thud of his heart.
Good, he’s affected. It will show on his face, his reflexes. It will make
this charade seem real.
“Now, unless you want to groove to Taylor Swift with me, Chachu,
please—” I make a parting motion with my hands. “It’s my day off and
we’re celebrating Noah’s match win.”
 I even reach up and kiss my fake boyfriend’s cheek, keeping one eye on
Chachu, who’s turning an interesting shade of purple.
Noah jerks me off him and smiles tight-lipped smile at his coach.
I enjoy watching him squirm too. It’s payback for the ways he
constantly unsettles me.
“I’ll be seeing you at practice tomorrow, Noah,” Chachu says in a
clipped tone. He nods at Mischa. Who hands her glass to me but talks to
Chachu. “Can you give me a lift to the library, Chachu? I need to get some
extra reading done.” She airkisses me and whispers, “Behave yourself.”
And then floats off with my uncle.
I watch them go with a sense of detachment. Because I know I should
want to go but I’m so warm and squishy next to my fake boyfriend.

“We can leave in ten too,” Noah says a moment later. “I just needed to
make an appearance here for the players.”
“Oh.”
He gives me an enigmatic look. “Thanks, for protecting me from your
Chachu. He’s a scary man.”
“But you didn’t have to protect me from Veronica, Noah. I can take care
of myself.”
“Didn’t you hear your BFF, Hellcat?” He grins cheekily. “It’s my job to
take care of you.”
I badly want to roll my eyes, but it’s a juvenile gesture and I’m an adult
now.
A Challengers player crashes onto the seat next to Noah. So, he almost
lands on me. Sorry, he mouths and tries to elbow the guy and get us some
space. “Maybe you could just sit on my lap?”
I shrug. It is a party, after all.
So, I perch half on Noah’s lap as I finish my drink off. It tastes perfect.
Rum and Coke mixed with a twist of lime, exactly the way I like it. He
remembered my drink preference from the other night. That feels perfect
too. As does his hard thigh over my wiggling knees.
Then, I ask him, “What did Chachu mean when he said, ‘Still taking it
one day at a time’?”
 He does a double take from where he’s high-fiving yet another team
player. Who also includes me in the high-five. My hand stings from the
force of the slap but I keep my wince in.
“You heard that?”
I shrug. “I’m observant, Aussie Boy.”
He looks around us and then his ruggedly handsome jaw hardens. Not in
an angry way, more like he’s determined. He lowers his voice, so I have to
lean up to hear him, “Your uncle’s aware I was in an accident last year and
broke some bones. I got addicted to pills while I was in the hospital because
the morphine wouldn’t cut it.”
“What did you break?” I ask thinly.
“My femur.” Noah indicates his thigh. “And my collarbone.” He shrugs.
“It was a bad three-car pileup. A friend didn’t survive.”
“Oh…” I don’t know how else to respond. I’m just aware of how close
we are. Legs and arms and breaths tangled in a sea of people, while he tells
me his secrets.
“The Cricket Board of Australia did not know I was in bad shape till the
day of my debut. They did a spot test, and my blood showed traces of
oxycodone… and about a quart of vodka.”
I put a hand on his arm. I’m shocked beyond words. Both at the grim
words and his empty tone. “I’m –”
“Don’t,” Noah barks out. “Don’t say you’re sorry. I was stupid and
reckless. Took the idiot’s way out. This was all my fault. I was given a one-
year ban by the Board, and my father sent me to a monastery-like rehab
facility. I came straight to America once I got out. No one here knows why I
don’t play international cricket.”
He casts another look around the room. So still, as if bracing against the
backlash already. “The Board’s not going to call me up again unless I prove
to them; I’m worth it.”
So many pieces fall into place. I’m very shaken by the picture of Noah
Calvin Dumaine that emerges. It’s nothing like I imagined it would be.
Because underneath his autocratic manner and his rich boy exterior,
Noah’s just like me. On his last chance of making something of himself. On
his own terms.
“You asked me why I was so desperate to be here. Why I coerced you
into being my fake girlfriend. Why I can’t quit camp.” He turns toward me.
 I suck in a breath at the blank look on his face. It hides a volcano of
emotions.
“This is why,” he says grimly. “If I don’t make it in this camp, my
career as a cricketer is finished.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘REACH OUT FOR THE SKY’ BY LIBERATI

A FEW DAYS LATER, I am still thinking about the colossal puppet that
made me open my mouth and spew my secrets to my roommate. What’s
worse? I can’t even blame liquor for my loose lips.
It was all voluntary. Maybe it had something to do with the doe-eyed
look she’d just given me while defending me to her uncle. Maybe I just
really needed to get it off my chest to someone other than my brothers.
Whatever the reason, the damage was done.
I turn into the gates of the cottage after the long drive I took to clear my
head. This time, I somehow ended up on Thorndon University grounds, in
Pennington, a good hour away.
I checked out the goth castle-like structures with twisted spires and
gabled windows. Busy students walked around with cabin luggage
wheelies, talking earnestly to each other about game theory and how robots
are going to take over the world. These people are smart, with a capital S.
Queenie Madhavan used to study here, on a scholarship. Making her
double-smart. Because I looked up the admittance rates for TU and the
scholarships handed out every year. It’s, like, five a year. Out of a potential
two-thousand student intake.
She’s ridiculously brainy. And she would have the world at her
fingertips after she graduated as a med student, like she’d told me on our ill-
fated date.
So, I cannot reconcile her intelligence with the cute yellow Ma’s Pantry
apron hanging in the mud room after she’s washed it.
 Why would someone so smart just give up this brilliant future and work
for minimum wages picking up empty plates? It doesn’t make sense.
And I need it to make sense.
Because, if I am being sensible, then I won’t think of Queenie’s warm
weight resting against me, as she called me the best boyfriend ever to her
uncle. I won’t recall the way her dark eyes glowed with unshed tears after I
told her my worst secret. And I definitely won’t obsess over our almost kiss
at the mansion’s lawns before Mischa interrupted us.
I crashed at a teammate’s house the last couple of nights, because I
wanted some distance and perspective. And, also, because Evan is a master
of the cover drive, and I thought getting pointers from him might help me
with nailing the shot.
No such luck.
I just woke up with raging hard-ons and the memory of Queenie’s
curves pressed against mine on a windy beach, my hands wandering over
her with abandon and possession.
I shake my head as I park the Jeep on the driveway behind Queenie’s
car. I frown. She shouldn’t be home for hours yet, since she’s on the late
shift. I make it a point to pick her up or send one of my mates for her when
she’s working late. She texted me once whingeing about it, but I shut it
down fast.
We might be in a safe small town, but I take care of what’s mine.
Somehow, she’s become mine.
I consider texting her, but it’s weird. She’s home at the same time as me.
Something I’ve carefully, conscientiously avoided in the last two weeks.
Why invite trouble when trouble already lived with me. I’m not stupid
and reckless anymore. Cautious is my middle name.
I pocket my keys and jog up the steps. The door’s closed. Which is new.
The door’s mostly open, till we shut it at night.
And I hear swearing from the family room. So, I veer straight instead of
taking the stairs and checking in on Queenie.

Fox and Ares are holding half the pullout couch cushions in their hands.
Tugging at it like they’re playing a fucking game. The stuffing’s fallen out
and litters around the floor.
“What in the ever-loving fuck, dude?” I address Fox.
Fox shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Talk to him.” He throws stuffing at Ares.
“We were playing catch. Because dickhead wanted to try a new technique
for late-release and get more swing on his yorker.”
“How did throwing a ball end up with you destroying my bed?” I
survey the carnage.
“Because dickhead here,” Ares stresses and tugs at the cushion again.
“Jumped way too high to catch the ball. And I told him he was going to
crash on the couch, but he didn’t listen.”
I turn disbelieving eyes to Fox. “You fell on the couch and broke it?”
“Actually, I was going to fall on the coffee table and Ares very kindly
decided to bloody tackle me to divert the trajectory of the fall,” Fox says
sheepishly. Rubbing his neck. “And we both fell on the couch. While it was
still out, by the way. And the mattress kind of…fell through the floor.”
I check out the mattress stuck in a V shape through a hole on the
wooden frame.
“Good god.” I don’t have any other words.
“We’re both okay, by the way,” Ares volunteers. “Thanks for asking.
The mattress saved our butt.” He snickers at his pathetic joke.
“But why are you playing inside the damn house?”
“Practicing Noah. God, we are professionals,” Fox corrects me stiffly.
“Yes, why are you practicing inside the house?”
Ares looks at Fox who nods slightly. Then he answers, “Because we
wanted to be inside, in case Queenie needed our help.”
“Queenie?” I ask blankly.
“Yeah.” Fox nods. “She’s not doing great.”
“She’s on her period,” Ares adds helpfully. “And she yelled at me for
five minutes straight when I asked her about the pie she brought home. Said
it’s just for you. I am now forbidden from eating it.”
My gut warms at the words. At Queenie caring enough about me to save
a pie just for me. All my protective instincts rise up at hearing Queenie is in
pain.
“She’s mean when she is PMSing,” Fox mutters. He looks up at the
ceiling when angry alt rock blasts through the house. He winces. “Very
mean.”
 “Clean this shit up,” I instruct them. “I’ll go deal with the mean
woman.”
“You’re still using the sleeping bag tonight, mate,” Ares calls out.
“Clean the mess up, mate,” I call back.
I dump my bag in my storage closet and practically run up the stairs. I
pause outside her room, my former room. I haven’t come upstairs, except
for working out (when she’s not at home), because I didn’t want any more
accidental towel sightings.
I might be a cautious man now but that has limits.
I knock on the door. Once. Twice. Then very loudly a third time. I hear
nothing back.
“Queenie? I’m coming in. I hope you’re decent.” I cross my fingers and
enter her room.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOOKING TOO CLOSELY’ BY FINK

FOR A SECOND, I consider throwing my pillow at Noah when he knocks.

But everything aches, from the tips of my fingertips to my back. So, I just
stay curled up in the fetal position, hugging my pillow for comfort while
Linkin Park blasts through the room.
In the end, it doesn’t even matter, I sniffle to myself.
I close my eyes against the harsh glare of the light Noah switches on. I
hear him sigh. Then, he does the sweetest thing ever and kneels down
beside the bed.
“Hey, desi girl, I heard you yelled at Ares for being a pie thief.”
I laugh weakly. “I didn’t call him a pie thief. He’s lying.”
“That’s not what he told me.” His deep voice burrows inside my skin.
Warming me up with the liquidness of his accent, especially how ‘tohld’
rolls off his tongue.
“Definitely lying.” I open my eyes. “I thought you were at practice.”
“Practice ended in the arvo,” he answers. Then elaborates with, “The
afternoon. I was out for a drive.”
“Right.”
He looks freshly showered, with a hint of the beard to come. His nose is
a slash of shadow. His eyes are so dark, so patiently focused on mine. It
takes no effort to remember this man charmed me into going to a secondary
location after a few hours. And I loved it.
“Why are you curled up in bed, Hellcat?”
I sigh and consider asking him to fuck off. But he’s here and I feel so
low already. “I’m on my period. The cramps are bad. And I hate the world
right now because my uterus is exploding.”
To his immense credit, he does not flinch at the U-word.
“Your back’s paining? Or your abdomen and pelvis?” he asks clinically.
“Everything hurts.”
“You take meds for the pain?”
I nod. “The student health nurse started me on something for the
cramps. But they…” I sniffle. “They’re worse because I carry weight
around my middle and thighs. At least it’s what the nurse said. Very
judgmentally.”
“The ignoramus,” he murmurs. “Weight is not the only important factor
when it comes to menstrual cycles. Any medical professional knows that.”
I sniffle again, touched by his instant defense. “That’s what I told her.
Then she gave me the pills.”
Noah stares at me a long moment. “I’m going to touch you now, okay?
Don’t bite me.”
I chuckle weakly. “You’re not that dangerous.”
He touches my forehead and then moves his fingers down, to the back
of my neck. His callused fingers give a quick squeeze. “Why isn’t your BFF
here? Mischa.”
I try and not melt into him. “She’s on a trip to Disneyland with her mom
and her siblings. They’ve planned it for two years.”
He continues massaging my neck as I talk.
“Too bad, I guess you’re stuck with me then.”
“Too bad,” I murmur. Feeling five percent better than I did a minute
ago.
“A warm bath will help with the cramps,” Noah says briskly. “As will a
hot water bag. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”
“I can’t get out of bed to go buy chocolate, Noah.”
“You’re not bathing on the bed, Queenie.” He touches my cheek briefly
and stands up in a fluid motion. “Take a nap. I’ll be right back.”
I snuggle into the pillow and breathe through the cramps attacking my
midsection. The pills help a little but, once every few months, it’s bad. This
is one of those months.
I hear him puttering around in the bathroom and, again, it doesn’t freak
me out. Or make me feel unsafe. The juxtaposition of what Noah did to me
and who he is, is beginning to give me a migraine, so I shut my brain off.
And just live in the moment.
Noah comes out in a minute or two, shaking his wet hair. “The bath’s filling
up. You have a good hot soak and then come downstairs, okay? All this
prison blackness is probably making the pain worse.” He winces when
Chester Bennington screeches particularly loud in One Step Closer. “The
angry rock is no help.”
“You sound like you know a lot about caretaking. Running a bath. And
talking about pain management,” I tease him.
He looks out the window when he says, “I used to do all of this for my
mum when the chemo rounds got bad. I was twelve and she got sick.” He
slides his dark gaze to me and answers my unasked question. “Cervical
cancer. Took her out within eight months.”
I sit up from the shock, the pillows and cover falling from me. “I’m so
sorry.”
He shakes his head, as if to clear it of the memories. “It was a long time
ago.”
“Come here,” I order him shakily.
Noah walks slowly on soundless footsteps. He’s in board shorts again,
so I notice the delineated calf muscles and hair on his legs.
He is solid, like a tree. And I’m tired of thinking he is the asshole – not
to be trusted. He’s just trying to do his best, like me.
We have that much in common. It’s enough.
He pauses at the edge of the bed.
I point at the seat next to me. “Sit.”
He sits. A carefully blank expression on his PGSOFS face.
My heart breaks for what he’s gone through at such a young age. And to
watch his mother, the person he loved most, fade away…
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “For what happened to your mom. It’s horrible.
I’m going to touch you now, okay?” I don’t wait for his consent. I just scoot
closer to him and put my arms around his neck and shoulders.
He is still and unyielding, exactly like a tree.
I hold him tighter. And tighter still. The muscle groups on his back
move with a huge breath. “I’m sorry you had to take care of your mom.
Where was…was your dad not there? Your siblings?”
“Dad used to work a lot,” Noah talks slowly. “And once he realized she
couldn’t be saved, he basically lived at the office.” Now I know why he was
so closed off about his dad.
“And your siblings?”
“Only child.” He puts one arm around my waist and holds it lightly.
“Mum started getting sick when I was three and was diagnosed for the first
time a few years later.”
“Oh, Noah.” I run my hand into his hair. “You shouldn’t have had to do
so much on your own. It’s too much for a child.”
Noah grips my arm. Tight, clawing into my skin. “It was my mum. My
mum.”
Tears prick my eyes and roll down slowly. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so
very sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either.” He looks up at me. “It’s not your fault either,
Noah,” I repeat again.
So many storms go through his lovely eyes, emotions running riot,
turning the iris and pupil almost the same color. His gaze bores into mine,
digging hooks into my skin, my heart, right into my bones. “I⁠—”
I put my finger on his lips. “It’s not. It never was.”
Noah speaks in a low voice “I know it’s not my fault.”
“But you feel it anyway,” I finish for him.
His stare is enervating. Weakening me with the depth of the things I see
in him. Longing and guilt and yearning.
The same yearning I feel around him no matter how much I deny
myself. It exists, like a sure thing, just waiting to be acknowledged and felt.
Made real.
I lick my extremely dry lips.
He leans in and hugs me tight. Crushing me against his hold, his large
hand brushing through my messy hair, sifting through it to find my skull.
His breaths fan my sweaty neck and stir the hair there. It’s unbearably
moving.
I make soothing motions over his back and hold him as much as I can.
Our hearts in sync, our bodies so close we are almost one.
“Thank you,” Noah whispers. “For saying what you did. Only Fox and
Ares know about it.”
My heart knocks uncomfortably. Noah’s sharing confidences and deep
truths about himself. Being vulnerable with me. That’s not an asshole move.
Is it?
 “I mean every word,” I say at least.
We lift our heads slowly. Our faces are so close, a hairsbreadth apart
from each other. His nostrils flare and his obsidian gaze dips down to my
mouth.
I lean forward, lips parted, heart pounding, wanting more, wanting so
much more, but⁠—
“Noah, Fox wants to know if we’re having pizza tonight,” Ares yells as
he blitzes in through the door.
I jerk back like a puppet on strings. Noah stays sitting where he is, a
million questions in his eyes. But his hand fists around the covers, tanned
knuckles turning white.
“Are you better now?” Ares asks uncertainly.
“She’ll be fine,” Noah answers for me. “She’s going for a bath. And
we’ll have pizza for dinner, if Queenie wants it.”
I nod. “Pizza sounds like heaven,” I confess.
But I’m looking at Noah’s lips when I say it. At the shoulders carrying a
terrible burden since he was a child. At the heart hiding a mountain of
feeling in it.
“Great!” Ares looks at Noah again, nods awkwardly and leaves.

A cramp shoots up my back, and I suck in a breath to ward it off.

“Alright, then, time for a bath.” Noah scoops me up, like I weigh
nothing.
I shriek and hold his neck in a death grip. “What are you doing? You’ll
drop me!”
“In the bathtub, yes. Not before.” He slides off the bed and starts
walking toward the bathroom.
“I’m too heavy,” I say breathlessly. “Put me down.” My thighs wiggle
and my middle bulges in this angle. Everything jostles when he lopes
toward the bathroom.
He stops right outside the bathroom. “If you ever refer to yourself like
that again, you and I are going to have a problem.”
“I’m just stating facts,” I say stubbornly, even though my heart speeds
up at his words.
 Why is he being so incredibly gentle with me?
His hands hold me impersonally. Confidently. His rapidly beating heart
knocks against my chest. It’s the sensation of all of him, pressed to all of
me. So close and so unreachable…
His response is dry. “Your facts are based on a weighing scale and the
judgment of other people. They aren’t who you really are, desi girl. You
know this, you’re a medical student.”
“Former medical student,” I protest automatically.
“Stop. Arguing.” Noah bites each word off.
I sigh. And drop my head on his bicep. “Stop being so nice to me. It’s
confusing. I thought we didn’t like each other and didn’t trust each other.”
“I live to confuse you, Hellcat. Now are we clear?” He uses a stern
voice but some of the sorrow is fading from his eyes.
I nod, reluctantly. “We’re clear.”
“Good. You can soak in there for twenty minutes. Ten for the shower.
Be out in thirty or I’ll barge in again.”
“I thought you were going to get in the bath with me,” I grumble.
I’m secretly touched at the no-nonsense way he’s just taking charge and
doing what needs to be done. This man has caregiver written all over his
bones. It’s the sexiest thing ever. Even more than his six-pack and firm
delts.
“You don’t want that. Not tonight,” he says simply.
Noah puts me down gently on the edge of the seat. I’m very aware of
how close he is…of his taut midriff inches away.
“You’re implying like I might want it some other night.”
“It depends on you,” he says simply again. “Whatever you want, goes.”
Then he nods and leaves before I can think of a suitable retort.
I watch his sexy, squeezable butt move in the shorts and I don’t say
anything. But when I shed my clothes and get into the pleasant-smelling
bath with Taylor Swift drifting in through the speakers, I acknowledge the
simple truth.
My hate for Noah’s manipulation is fast fading. And, whether I like it or
even understand it, I trust him. I always did.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. It is simple fact.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘STITCHES (MTV UNPLUGGED) BY SHAWN MENDES

I FINISH my soak and shower in twenty-five minutes and wander

downstairs in my comfiest sweatshirt and pjs, after moisturizing everything
twice. There are actual holes in my cotton pants, but I don’t care. I feel a
million times better than I did before the bath.
My mouth drops open in unattractive shock at seeing Ares vacuum
feathers and stuffing from the floor. Fox is stacking blankets and pillows on
the floor where one of the couches used to be. It’s now pushed against the
corner, disturbing the beauty and flow of the family room.
“What happened here?”
Ares shrugs and grunts. Fox grunts as he fluffs up the pillows. “We
broke Noah’s bed because we were practicing indoors.”
“You broke—” I shake my head. This doesn’t make sense. So, I try for
another topic. “Why are you cleaning up?” I direct this question at Ares.
“Isn’t the staff supposed to do it?”
“What staff?” Ares unwinds the vacuum wire. “We’re the staff here.
There’s no one else.”
I digest this information in silence. So, these rich boys are actually
keeping their own house. They are cooking and cleaning up after
themselves, instead of depending on other people. Just like me.
Dammit. Point one to the rich boys.
“Then, why wasn’t I told of my share of chores?” I demand.
Fox sits on the bed. “You’re our guest. We’re not going to make you do
chores, Queenie.”
“I’m not a guest, I live here. With you,” I protest automatically.
 “You’re here because Noah messed up badly. Nothing else.” Ares kicks
at the vacuum in frustration. “Does anyone know how to remove the dirt
bag from this blasted thing?” He growls.
I groan and stalk toward him. “Here, give me that.” I depress the bag
remover button and hold it in the other hand when it drops.
Ares squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”
I grin softly at him. “You’re welcome, mate.” I try for his accent but fail
hard. Then I sigh. “Listen, we’re going to do an equitable distribution of
chores. Because I am not a guest, okay?”
“Talk to Noah about it.”
“Is he like your cult leader or something?” I hand the bag to Ares who
drops it into the trash bag which holds up the remains of the couch pillows.
Ares begins slowly, “It’s because he’s always had a thi⁠—”
“He is the most responsible of all of us,” Fox interrupts him firmly.
“And taking care is his middle name. Besides,” Fox adds carelessly. “It’s
Noah’s house. He owns it. So, if Noah says it’s okay then we distribute
chores equitably.”
I sit down on the mattress abruptly, when my knees give way.
Noah owns this million-dollar mansion, not his family! What in the
world am I doing here? What is he doing with me?
Just then, the object of my confusion strides in, hidden behind a
mountain of delivery boxes.
“Pizza’s here,” Noah announces. “So’s chocolate and wine. And I
picked up paneer pakoras for Queenie.” He gives me a tiny smile. “You
love them, don’t you?”
My heart knocks once. He got me all my comfort food and wine, and he
owns this mansion he casually calls the cottage. “You…you remember I
love cottage cheese?”
Noah shrugs as he offloads some of the food to Ares. “I texted Mischa
just to confirm it. We had raw banana plantain fritters that night, didn’t
we?”
My face warms at his words. I’d loved hanging out with him. Loved
watching his pretty face. He was entertaining and funny and not at all full of
himself. Three qualities that are anti-jock.
Who is Noah Dumaine, really?
“Thank you.” I drop my eyes and worry the mattress. I can’t look him in
the eye. My instinct to yell at him for taking care of me is warring with my
gooey heart because he’s gone to so much trouble for me. The woman he
doesn’t like or trust. The woman he told his secrets to.
Hot tears fill my eyes again. I chalk it up to period hormones.
“Today’s cheat day.” Ares sniffs at the opened pizza box. “So much
cheating.”
I laugh. “Yep, all the cheating in the world.”

I help the boys set up the food on the table and grab flatware – wine glasses
and Delft dishes – for the junk food. Then I curl up in a chair with two
slices of farmer’s special with extra cheese and an entire plate of delicious
paneer pakoras, as my roommates settle around me.
To my inner surprise, Noah chooses the chair next to me. His shoulder
brushes mine, when he settles in.
“Queenie was saying she wants to do more chores around the house.”
Ares talks with a mouthful of pizza.
Noah glares at him while Fox laughs out loud. I choke on my mouthful
of wine.
“I said equitable distribution,” I grit out. “Stop exaggerating, Ares.”
Noah laughs too. And I’m…enchanted. He is boyishly, ridiculously
handsome. Even his eyes laugh. I take a quick sip of wine. The hate I
nursed in my bones for Noah is slowly dissolving, so the attraction I always
feel toward him – like a freaking magnet seeking polarity – is back. In full
force.
This is such a bad idea. Bad. Bad. Idea.
“You don’t have to—” Noah begins.
“I’m living rent-free as your roommate, people. I won’t be a freeloader
too,” I say firmly.
“But—” Noah says again.
“Butt out, Noah.” Fox smiles warmly at me as he cuts his pizza with a
knife and fork and spears a bite of pakora down. “Just bring home pies
every day. I need my healthy sugar fix.” He hits me with a puppy dog look
– all cute and hopeless.
I smile. “Alright. I’ll get pie for you and Ares. But.” I give them a stern
look. “Noah gets first share, okay? To make up for all the pie thieving.”
 Ares face drops but he nods. “Fine.”
“And I’ll do the vacuuming three times a week,” I add generously, “For
the general areas of the house. Your rooms are your responsibility.”
“Done.” Fox bumps fists with me. “Done.” Ares high fives me.
Noah just shakes his head and scarfs down pizza.
“About breakfast…” Ares begins plaintively, cartoon hearts in his
chocolate brown eyes.
“And—” I sigh and give into the inevitable. “I’ll make breakfast and
coffee thrice a week. But that is it.”
“Queenie, you absolutely do not have to feed these arses.” Noah glares
at his friends. Looking like The Asshole again, only this time defending me.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it hot.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.” I give him a small smile.
“Consider it a small thank you for letting me crash here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Fox and Ares raise their glasses. “To equitable distribution of chores,”
Fox says. “To delicious coffee,” Ares intones. Noah gives in and raises his
Coke bottle and says, “To Queenie, our best roommate yet.”
I try and hold his gaze when he toasts me but even my toes tingle from
the deep words. They drink a toast to me after clinking glasses.
I just let all the good vibes wash over me and take my mind off the
cramps.
When I ask them about alcohol and carbs impairing their ability to play,
they give me a rundown of how bodies break down fat and calories in the
gym with different equipment and exercises. It’s fascinating and dinner flies
by in no time, with my roommates.

The next night too, they treat me to a junk food feast. But this time, I shoo
them out of the kitchen and take over cleaning up after dinner.
I’m humming a Miami Vice soundtrack song, something about pennies
in my pocket, when Noah strides back in. “Do you want any help?”
I laugh and flick water at him. “I’m fine, Noah. You don’t have to
always take care of me.”
 “Why not?” He straddles the chair and sits on it backward. “What’s
wrong with taking care of the people in my life?”
I want to say something about how being his sick mom’s caregiver has
influenced how he views people-to-people interaction, but I shrug and
continue drying the five-figure dishes we just ate burgers from. “Nothing’s
wrong with it,” I answer finally.
I dry a wine glass and ask him the one question buzzing in my head
since yesterday. “So, you own this place?”
Noah shrugs. “Yeah. I do. When I turned twenty-one, I received a trust
fund from mum’s lawyer. She’d been saving up for me since before I was
born. It was –” He names a seven-figure amount. “Anyway that, combined
with the money I got from playing the city league before I washed out,
helped me buy this place.”
“Wow,” I manage. “That’s…incredibly adult of you. Congratulations,
Noah. I am very impressed with you.” And I am. He is now turning into the
man I was attracted to from minute one. Kind and generous and amazing
and hot.
Worse, he is the kind of person I want to become. Responsible, adult,
and sure of himself.
“It’s just money, Queenie.” But the tips of his ears turn pink.
“Says someone who’s never had to worry about it in his life, I bet,” I
retort dryly.
Noah looks at his hands. “There are some things even money cannot
buy, you know?”
I bite my lip. He’s talking about his mom’s cancer. And I am an
insensitive ass for bringing it up.
“I know.” And I do know. All the money in the world couldn’t change
what happened to me in January.
“Your cramps?” He changes subjects deftly. “Are they bad now?”
I shake my head, allowing him the change. “No, they’re almost gone.”
My lips twitch in contentment. “Turns out I just needed ten thousand
calories and three Australian cricketers telling me about the benefits of
rowing for ninety minutes every day.”
“That’s good.”
“Although…” I dry the last plate and slide it into the rack. Take a sip of
the excellent Bordeaux.
“Yes?” He turns patient eyes on me.
 The squishy feeling doubles. I choose something money cannot buy.
Time. “I sometimes watch a movie to take my mind off the pain.”
“Practice is at ten tomorrow. We could do movie night, yeah,” Noah
says casually.
My heart thuds fast as I watch him over the rim of the glass. “Just the
two of us?” I can’t help but remember the last time we watched a movie.
Just the two of us. And the fucking kiss I cannot recall.
“If it’s got guns and explosions, Fox and Ares are in.” Noah stands up
from the chair and doesn’t look at me. But the tips of his ears are a cute
cherry red, now.
“Well—” I trail off slowly. “This one might work.”
Ten minutes later, when the theme to Mission Impossible 2 begins
playing on the giant TV screen, Noah gives me a look. “Freaking Tom
Cruise?” he mutters. “You like to watch Tom Cruise when you want to
forget about your cramps.”
“Actually.” I filch a handful of popcorn from Fox’s bowl, sprawled on
the ground. Engrossed in the film. “I like to watch his shampoo commercial
hair move about as he kicks ass and takes names.”
“His hair?”
I nod and lean in and talk in an undertone to Noah. “He’s got the perfect
straight hair in this movie. I love-hate it because I want it so much.”
Noah stuffs popcorn in his mouth.
I think he won’t reply when he says a moment later, “I love-hate your
hair then.” In a very matter of fact tone.
I slink deeper into the couch and pretend to watch Tom scale Dead
Horse Point with his bare hands. But inside, I am reeling from the idea that
Noah loves my hair. My unruly, curly, difficult to manage hair.
What’s worse? I can’t stop imagining him touching it. Touching me…

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MOTH TO A FLAME’ BY SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA,
THE WEEKND

“HEY…HEY.” A gentle shake wakes me up from a restful sleep.

“Wha-wha?” I gurgle nonsense as I blink rapidly.
The television casts a ghostly light on Noah as he leans over me. I blink
again because he looks like a figment of my imagination. A lock of hair
falls on his forehead.
I brush it back without thought. His skin’s warm, a little sweaty. The air-
conditioning’s at twenty degrees.
He blinks too. “The movie,” he whispers gruffly. “It’s over. You can go
to bed. In your room.”
His teeth glow pearly white in the chiaroscuro light. Half black, half
white, blended in shades of grey. Just slightly out of focus. Forbidden and
tempting.
“Bed?” I can’t stop looking at the scruff on his lean jaw. Wondering
whether it’d feel springy or on the pads of my fingertips.
“Bed. Room,” Noah answers.
I blow out a breath. Instantly, helplessly imagining him and me on a
bed. He’s warm and comforting and solid as he--
“Dammit, I’m an arse.” He slides his hands under my shoulders and
legs and lifts me up with zero effort.
I am folded against him, on his lap. His very active lap. “Noah! What
are you doing? Put me down!” I hiss. Mindful of the dark and our
roommates snoring on the mattress, just a few feet away from us.
 “You’re in pain, right? So, I thought I’d make it easy for you to go to
bed.”
I try to get off him and almost knee his nuts in the process.
He howls soundlessly. And clenches me harder in place. His calloused
fingers are tight against my inner thighs.
I feel his touch deep inside, a few inches higher. Heat starts building up
in me. Sure and inexorable like his heartbeat.
Oh god. No!
“Why did you do that?” Noah grits out.
“I was trying to get off. You don’t have to carry me to bed. I’m not a
child,” I snap back.
“I’m aware,” he says quietly. “I’m very aware you’re not a child.”
The indignant retort on my lips comes out in a heavy breath. Our chests
brush. Like they did the night we’d dashed on the stairs. Everything’s the
same. The lights are off, we can’t see each other clearly.
It’s all touch and feel. And it’s merciless.
“That was…heroic of you.” I’m unable to stand the silence building
between us. It’s hot and stifling. Like drowning in the summer air.
“Heroes usually get a kiss for being heroic,” he points out. His hand is
loose around my back, my thighs.
I’m semi-sprawled over him, the blanket a chaste wall between us.
“Like Ethan Hunt?” I tease him.
It’s two in the morning. It does not count if I tease Noah Dumaine at
two in the morning.
“Like Ethan fucking Hunt,” he murmurs.
I don’t think about it. I don’t even listen to my speeding heartbeat. I just
lean in and locate the vicinity of his lips. Then I quickly fix my mouth to
his. He breathes me in. I end the kiss. “There. A kiss worthy of a hero,” I
murmur. “Are you satisfied?”
The heat inside spirals higher. My hormones are messing me up.
“Not even close, Hellcat.”
His hand shoots up and grabs my hair, my skull. The grip is not tough or
rough. It’s…male. I can’t move my head even if I want to. And I don’t want
to.
“This is how heroes like to be kissed.” He kisses the corner of my lips.
I blow out a trembling breath and clench my fingers.
 “I’m going to kiss you now. My tongue in your mouth. Sucking you and
everything, Queenie,” Noah whispers against the edge of my lips.
Each word is a graphic picture. I close my eyes, hoping to repel them.
They run like a film on the backs of my eyes. I love it.
I drag a ragged breath out.
“If you want it too, tell me yes. Say the word and I’ll kiss you like I’ve
been dying to.”
“You own this house, Noah,” I say weakly. But my hands are inching up
over his arms, creeping over his shoulders. He shudders. “You’re like rich.
You keep this house by yourself. You’re a fucking talented cricketer.”
“I’m fucking demented with wanting you,” he admits against my lips.
“Absofuckingdemented, Queenie.”
“Yes, but⁠—”
I scoot closer to Noah when Ares makes a sound. I brush against his
cock. His very active cock. Wet floods my insides, slicking my core.
Making me lose my common sense.
“You want me to sell the house so I can kiss you?” He moves his hand
an inch up my right thigh.
I want to jump from the sensation, I settle for squeezing my legs against
his thighs. He flexes them for me.
Fuck. That’s hot too.
“N-no,” I mutter. Why would he say something so grandly untrue? He’s
so dramatic. “No, I just…”
“Yes or no?” His words are seductive. Safe. Arousing. “One word. One
syllable. Say it and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want your money,” I tell him firmly. “I don’t care about your
money, I mean,” I amend.
“I’m aware.” Noah chuckles against my mouth. “You fought over five-
dollar beer with me at the beach party. I know you don’t care about my
money.” He bites my lip.
A moan strangles my throat.
“You’re hot for my body,” he whispers.
“I’m not that shallow,” I hiss. It ends in a moan because his hand inches
higher. And higher.
And I let him, by letting my thighs fall open. Giving him tacit access.
“Too bad.” He rears forward and whispers in my ears. “I have killer
abs.”
 That does it. I grip the back of his neck and his shoulder. “This better be
one hell of a kiss,” I mock-grumble to him, ducking my head.
His sexy, male chuckle echoes through my erogenous zones. My tits,
my core, my navel where it sticks like an anchor.
“Practice makes perfect, sweetheart.”
Then Noah kisses me.
Just leans in and kisses me, capturing my mouth against his. Devouring
me whole. I whimper at the tight, dominating action. He arches my back
and bends me backward as he kisses me hard. His lips on mine, swallowing
and caressing.
His hold is inescapable, possessive.
I grab him tight, grasping handfuls of his tee shirt and hair. Kiss him
back. I come forward again and his hand brushes against my butt. He cups
it.
I squirm against him. Moaning again.
“You’re loud, Hellcat,” he whispers. Then he licks my lips. “I fucking
love it.”
I shudder in his arms like a weak, weak woman.
Fox turns in his sleep. Ares emits a little snore.
I almost plaster myself against Noah. Fear and anticipation turn my
bones liquid. Desire dances in the air like an invisible perfume. Heady and
intoxicating.
“We can’t⁠—”
“We absolutely can.” He kisses the side of my jaw, without taking his
lips off my skin. His sexy, sexy, lips. “We definitely are.”
“But your friends…”
“Be quiet, then,” Noah orders.
My eyes fly open at the rough words. “I⁠—”
“Less talking, more kissing.” He rubs his jaw against my cheek. And I
tremble because it’s springy and rough. A delicious combination. “I’m
going to lift your shirt, okay?”
“Ye-yes!” I sigh and pull my hands up.
“I’m not taking it off.” Noah kisses the side of my neck, sucking at the
pulse. “My roommates are here.”
“But you said⁠—”
“I just want to feel you. Remind myself what you feel like,” he
confesses in a low, tortured tone.
 “I want it too,” I admit shakily. “Can I—?” I lick my lips. “I want to feel
you too.” I kiss his neck. It smells of sweat and musk and a scent that’s
uniquely Noah. Sandalwood and willow.
“I thought you’d never ask.” The words are a growl.
He puts his hand on my tummy and caresses it. I try to suck my stomach
in. Self-conscious of the rolls of fat there.
“Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me, Queenie. Please.”
Noah kisses me again. As he touches my midriff, as he strokes it with his
long, calloused fingers, inching closer to my tits with every pass.
“I...” I sigh out.
I caress his back, running my hands up and down the bumps and ridges
of his spine. I press closer to him so we’re a mess of hands and legs and
misting breaths. Our kisses are short punctuations, frenzied and chaotic and
wet. Each time he kisses me I want to lean in and go closer. So close, I find
what’s inside of him. The real heart of him.
Each time he kisses me, short and deep, I lose a part of myself. Dying in
his arms just from a kiss.
“Do you know?” He kisses me hard. “How many times?” He kisses me
again. “I’ve stopped myself?” He kisses me a third time. “From doing
this?” He sucks my bottom lip.
“I tried not to.” I gush in my panties. “I tried to hate you.”
I squeeze my thighs again. Because the pressure’s building inside. And
so’s the pleasure…brushing against his cock. I’m almost riding him. It’s
pleasure times ten when he touches me too.
“Did it work?”
In answer, I open my mouth and seek out his tongue. It’s like a signal to
him. His hand shoots up over my tee shirt and cups my breast. I exhale in a
full body shudder. He clenches his hand over my butt and brings me almost
on top of his erection.
Then he sucks my tongue. Squeezing it and turning it and chasing it
with his, ending with him laving the roof of my mouth with his tongue. His
kiss makes me hollow and filled at the same time. My breath sobs out.
“Shhh.” Noah brushes one thumb over my nipple.
I shudder again. And kiss him harder to keep my moans in. Chasing him
back, tasting him – pizza and sleep and popcorn – needing more. Needing
whatever he can give.
 He brushes his thumb again and I kiss him harder. He sweeps his other
hand over my tee shirt, clasps my back. My tee shirt falls over his hand so
it’s a double sensation of fabric and man. Soft and hard at the same time.
I rock against him, in overwhelm.
His kiss turns gentle, questing. Plying me with safety and desire. I can
feel each strand of his springy scruffy beard. The soft lines of his lush lips.
It heightens my arousal. Spirals it into orbit.
“Faster,” I whisper. “I want fast⁠—”
He kisses me again. Fast and hard. I slump over him, giving him all my
weight, my core in full contact with his cock. I ride it, helpless to do
otherwise, gripping his shoulder and neck like a lifeline.
And all the time he sucks on my tongue, rubs his palm over my nipple,
my breast. And runs his other hand up and down my back. Longer and
longer sweeps with each pass.
I’m slicked with sweat, wet. Inside and out. The ridge of his arousal
creates the most delicious friction against me. Makes me forget the
discomfort of my period. It’s all sensitive skin and sensation.
Hot and heat.
I whisper hot, embarrassed words in his ears. Only half-aware of his
friends sleeping near us. “Noah, I’m close.”
“Let go, Queenie.” He cups my breast between his fingers, so my nipple
pokes against the fabric. He brushes his thumb over it, then twists it once. I
shudder helplessly. So, he does it over and over again. His other hand
shoots down my back and clenches against my butt. Firm and possessive.
“Let go,” he whispers against my tongue.
“I…I—” I can’t help myself anymore.
I kiss him like a woman possessed, as my orgasm climbs up my toes,
my fingers. I press my fingers into his shoulders, his back. Sinking into
them. Into him. My heart is lost against the beats between my legs. Insistent
and needy. And here.
Noah pinches my nipple… and I topple into overdrive. The climax
shoots out, gushing and trembling. I clench my thighs and my pussy
contracts over his cock. He growls low in his chest and grabs me hard.
“More,” he says against my throat. Sucking me hard, arching my back.
I’m half-hanging off the couch. Almost hovering over Fox and Ares. It
adds to my climax, the intensity and the need. I hold him tighter and move
against him. Powerless and in control at the same time.
 His cock jerks against my clit and I come so hard, I see colors behind
my closed eyes. A universe of sparkling, glittery colors. A few seconds later,
he follows too.
I’m breathing hard. Sweaty and trembling. So is he.
I brush a hand over his hair. It’s mucked up and sweaty too.
He kisses the side of my chin. “You’re magnificent, desi girl.”
I choke out a weak laugh. “Thank you?”
“How was the kiss?” He kisses lips again.
I pretend to consider the question, while still experiencing aftershocks
of the best orgasm I’ve ever had. Scooched over his semi-erection. All wet
and messy between us.
“You said it already.” I kiss his neck and suck on it. Giving him a hickey
too. Then I soothe it with my tongue. “Practice makes perfect.” I wink in
the darkness.
Noah laughs, a sinful sound in the still of the night. “You win, Hellcat.”
He kisses the smile on my lips. “You win.”
As I lay in bed ten minutes and a very cold shower later, I put a hand to
my thudding heart.
I crossed a line tonight. And it felt so damn good.
I go to sleep dreaming of Noah’s hand on my butt as he made me come
and his sinful laugh…

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘FOR THE FIRST TIME’ BY THE SCRIPT

MY PERIOD ENDS two days later. So, as per the terms of the renegotiated
roommate agreement I wake up thirty minutes earlier than usual, wear a
robe over my pjs before wandering down to make coffee and breakfast. I
don’t know when or how I developed a soft spot for the three goofs I’m
living with, but I’m happy to cook for them.
Maybe it is a way to tilt the balance of scales in my favor after knowing
the net worth of the three men. Maybe Ares really has superior pleading
skills.
Either way, I rummage through the cupboards and find Colombian fresh
roast, pour the appropriate spoonfuls in the percolator and let it to brew. I
check the fridge and find the makings of a cheesy omelet. To give it a desi
tadka flavor (Indian spicy seasoning) I add green chilies and chop onions at
seven in the morning.
Finally, the eggs are broken and stirred and whisked with the tiniest
splash of milk and the veggies are added in. I have a special trick I once
saw Pestroni use to make eggs that I want to try for the cheese.
I sip my coffee and pour the batter in the buttered cast iron pan. And
even hum a little Coldplay.
It’s amazing what a little sexual release can do to the human body, even
two days later. Even with the uterus explosion happening simultaneously.
I can’t get over how Noah felt beneath me. Moving me, moving around
me. All hot and solid and male and just…God, like a goddamn dream.
But more than that (only slightly more) are all the facets of Noah
Dumaine I’ve uncovered. Like a jigsaw coming together with the pieces
turned face up.
Some are rounded. Like the evident skill and passion with which he
plays cricket. Each move practiced and smooth, water wearing over a stone
till it shines. The competence with which he manages his friends’ lives,
thoughtful to a freaking fault. His easy smiles and patient hugs.
Even his faded basketball shorts look like haute couture. Although that’s
probably more genetics and his bone structure, coupled with the
unconscious decisions he makes while choosing outfits.
It's a fascinating thing to discover. How financial security changes the
way we even wear clothes.
I wish I could devote time to writing a paper on the way the brain makes
these kinds of decisions and the way patterns emerge from it. There are no
long-term applications for this research, save maybe for fashion houses like
Barrons Bay’s House of Niamh – they’re always looking for smarter ways
to appeal to their customers.
I shake my head and flip the bubbling omelet on the other side so it’s a
fluffy golden brown. Then, I grab the cheese block and grater I’d kept to the
side and start laying it on the hot omelet.
The cheese melts right into the egg and sticks to it, forming the perfect
cloudy-white covering in a chemical reaction that works every time.
Pestroni was right, this is divine!
I go back to fitting the jigsaw of Noah Calvin Dumaine while I make
more omelets.
There are edges to him too. His recovery from addiction, for instance.
Which cost him a spot in the Australian cricket team. He seems so stoic
about it, accepting full responsibility for his fuckup and quietly paying the
price.
Which brings me to the second edge. Our weird fake arrangement.
Playing the doting boyfriend to my adoring girlfriend. He’s
uncomplainingly into the role, with no reservations.
It is a huge deal to him, being at Triskelion. Playing cricket for the
Barrons Bay Challengers. And the price to pay for both is to fake it with
me. The girl he was caught half-naked with.
After knowing all these things about him, I completely understand why
he pushed me so hard that night at the diner. Why we were at loggerheads
for all these days. Why I hated him, and he didn’t seem to like me.
 Unknowingly, I held his future in my hands. Same as he held my future
in his.
It’s not a comfortable feeling, at all.
His mom’s passing is a hard edge. Unhealed and serrated, an open
wound, which occasionally bleeds. He’s not a closed off man in terms of his
emotions, but I’ve never seen such vulnerability in Noah like when he
hugged me.
I don’t think I want to.
Having someone be so transparent is no comfort to me. Especially
because I am still unable to untangle all of my own feelings.
I deliberately shake off my melancholy and stack the omelets in a hot
pot. So, it remains heated for my roomies when they show up.
It amazes me that this kitchen is owned by someone only a couple of
years older than me. Sure, he had a financial leg up from his parents and
works in sport which is incredibly rewarding if all the stars align for you…
but, I can’t help the twinge of envy I feel anyway.
I was homeless and without any options, a few weeks ago. And the man
who kissed me senseless and made me come just from touching me owns
the house I’m living in.
The power imbalance adds a hard edge to the jigsaw too.
I search for the bread knife in the cutlery drawer, after finishing with the
eggs when a hand wraps around my waist and butt.
I almost jump out of my skin.

“Hmmm. I could get used to this view.” Noah sounds unfairly sexy; all deep
voice and sleepy vowels. It’s horrible how my womb clenches anyway.
He drops a kiss on my shoulder before I can straighten up.
“I almost stabbed you with this long, pointy thing, buddy.” I brandish
the knife at him.
“Worth it, in my opinion,” he says with a straight face.
I shake my head and elbow him in the ribs.
He howls and moves a few steps back. “You’re militant in the am,” he
observes.
 I glare at him over my shoulder. “I’m making breakfast for three
athletes who put food away like they’re in a famine.”
“And we are very grateful to you for doing so.” Noah blows me a kiss.
“Queenie, love.”
I stifle the smile threatening to break out on my kiss-stung lips. It’s hard
to stay mad at someone who is sheepishly nice to you even when you
brandish a knife at them, you know?
“Yesterday it was Hellcat and now it’s Queenie, love?” I butter the
breads and stick them in the popup toaster.
“Don’t forget desi girl.” He opens the hot pot and inhales the aroma.
“Fuck. Did you add cheese to the eggs?”
I nod. “Cheese is protein. So, I don’t want to hear any complaints.”
His response is quick and gratifying. “None from me, Chef.”
I give him a once over while my stupid pulse skips a beat. His hair
sticks to his neck with sweat. His dark eyes are without shadows in the
early morning light, and there’s no stubble on his jaw. I’m a little
disappointed at the loss.
He’s in workout gear, so he’s probably back from his run.
Oh yeah, Noah runs ten miles every alternate day on top of all the
gymming, twelve hours of practice and matches he plays. He is the
consummate athlete.
“This heat is sticky.”
He whips the bottom half of his running shirt and wipes his face.
Treating me to a vision of perfectly chiseled, tanned abs, leading to Adonis
Dimples. They’re so delicious I go cross-eyed trying to admire them. His
happy trail is not too thick, taking over his abdomen but hiding the good
stuff from me.
“Do I smell eggs?” Fox bounds into the kitchen, shaking his head like a
wet dog. He stops and sniffs the air, again like a canine. “And coffee!”
Fox beams at me. “You’re a…” He frowns. “Are you okay? Your eyes
are glazed.”
I give him a sickly smile. “I’m fine.” Get back to working the bread.
“Please, exit the kitchen before you shower your germs on the food.”
“Yes, Fox. Fuck off so I can kiss Queenie alone,” Noah says in the same
prim tone.
I gasp and whirl around with my knife.
Fox grins. “I’ll be back in five.”
 Noah takes a step toward me, the light in his eyes going obsidian. With
desire and unslaked lust. “Make that ten.”
“In that case, let me just…” Fox snatches the coffee carafe and exits the
kitchen while giving me a thumbs up.
“You—Fox—” I say weakly. “What must he think?” I mutter.
“About damn time, probably,” Noah says matter-of-factly. “Now, am I
kissing you or not, desi girl?”
It undoes me how he asks for consent every single time. Never taking it
for granted. Never making me feel unsafe or unheard.
The jigsaw of Noah Dumaine emerges in a crystal-clear picture. Of a
charming, insanely hot man who looks at me like I matter. Like he wants to
devour me.
I go up on my toes and kiss his jaw. “Good morning.”
“Nice try.” He holds me in place by cupping my head and threading his
hand through my fat plait. “Your fucking hair.”
His eyes search mine. All deep and endless. I see myself, in my fluffy
robe and puffy face, reflected in them. I see myself as beautiful.
“You maintain it then if you love it so much.” I try for a little levity
when something clenches in the region of my heart.
“Tell me how.” He bends down and brushes his lips over mine. “Good
morning, Queenie.”
I sigh and my grip on the knife loosens. “Good morning, Noah.”
I kiss him back, slow and sweet. Taking my time with it. The knife
clatters to the floor when he sweeps me off my feet and hikes me on his
waist. My robe falls open and I gasp-moan.
Noah doesn’t stop kissing me. Taking soft pulls of my lips, filling me
with heat and his scent. His strength. His very essence.
I curl my nails in his skull and kiss him back. Unable to stop now I’ve
got a taste.
“You taste like sugar and coffee, Hellcat.” He kisses the side of my
cheek, my jaw. “Delicious.”
“You’re insane.” I tilt my neck to give him access. “Keep talking. No
teeth, please.”
He gentles his kisses immediately. “I was up half the night.” He talks
around my skin. “Replaying your groans and moans in my head. We should
do it again.”
 “No!” I squeal. At his raised head I temper it with, “I meant. Let’s take
it slow. You have to admit we’ve been back asswards from minute one.”
“I’ll refrain from making a terrible joke about arses. But…” He presses
a wet kiss on my collarbone. “Fine. We’ll take it slow.” He raises his eyes to
the ceiling. Dramatically. “And hope I survive it.”
“Is sex so important to you?” I ask softly. My heart thuds against my
flushed chest.
He’s a healthy, vital man. And a sportsman to boot. Women must throw
themselves at him. How can I ever compete?
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” Noah answers dryly.
I’m a little deflated at his response. “Oh.” I try to get down from his
very aroused body.
Noah keeps me in place and tips my chin up. “Yes, sex is important to
me. And sex with you is pretty much all I’ve dreamed of since I saw you.
But…” He hesitates.
“We take it at my pace?” I ask him quietly.
He shakes his head. “It’s not just sex with you I want. I want…” He
sighs and slides me down his legs. But holds me in a loose embrace. “I want
morning kisses. And movie nights. You watch me win matches. I want
heaps of things, Queenie.”
My heart picks up speed again. For a different purpose now.
“Will you let me have these things with you?” His deep voice resonates
through my skin and my bones, resides in my heart.
I blink at the earnestness of his question. At the way he phrases it. As if
what I want is more important than what he does.
Why couldn’t more men be like him?
“We could try,” I answer delicately.
“Try’s all I ask for.”
Noah folds me in his arms and pushes me into his chest in a sweet,
sweet hug.
I go on my toes and hold him back. Imprinting this moment in my mind.
And if there is a tiny seed of logic saying, What happens when summer is
over and you have to go back, I squash it and focus on this romantic
morning moment.
After breakfast – which my roomies all gush and sigh over – Fox goes for
his ocean swim while Ares and Noah ride to the camp. Fox says he’ll join
them after.
Before the hour is up, I get a text from Noah. It’s a shirtless pic of him
with the words, “Just for you.”
I smile stupidly for no reason at all.
After a brisk shower, I tackle something I’ve put off for the last two
months. I look at the printout for a transfer request from pre-med to
neuroscience.
Once I dropped out, I finally got to take a few classes just for fun. Like
the Bone Studies course I’d told Jo and my parents about. But what
interested me most involved the mind and the brain.
The brain is the physical organ that makes life…well, life. But it’s the
mind that makes it worth living. From all the texts I’d read and the classes
I’ve audited, neuroscience helps understand both. Excavate both. And
further research on both.
I’m fascinated by it.
I’ve always been a bloodless, logical woman. I assumed it was because
I was going to be a doctor. Like my parents are and wanted me to be.
But the rush I get from researching new theories, or thinking of archaic
hypothesis – like the Noah choosing outfits one – is unmatched. I do fine in
my med classes, I maintain my 4.0 GPA. But they do not make me happy.
Thinking and academia makes me happy.
I bite my lip as I look at the papers I’d filled out in a fit of despair and
defiance. And then never submitted to the admissions department.
If I had, my spot in the dorms would be safe and I could have gone on
with my life.
Because I’m over twenty-one and still going to school in the STEM
stream, I don’t need parental permission to request a transfer of my
scholarship to the new program. But I do have to tell my parents.
Except, how do I?
Jo’s a free-spirited artist. The farthest thing from a doctor. They’re well-
meaning and liberal in their own way. But the expectation, unsaid and ever-
present, is I’ll follow in their steps. I am just a semester away from joining
med school anyway.
A point of immense pride for them. And me too, if I’m being honest.
 But pride does not make me happy, does it? Pride won’t let me find joy
and meaning and a steady paycheck for the next forty years. Only making
the right choice for me, will.
Right?
I shove the papers back.
I’m momentarily inspired by Noah’s adult commitment to his choices.
And the simple, uncomplaining way he just does everything.
But only for a moment. I’m not built like him. I mull. I worry things
over. I tear them apart. I think through every possibility. And then I make a
decision.
And this decision is big. Like, life-changing, impacting-the-
Madhavans’-lives big. I don’t want to make it right this minute.
My phone buzzes. It’s my alarm to go meet Mischa at the diner. I’m off
work today but I promised to help her out with an essay or two she has due
for her summer reading courses.
Besides, I am on summer break. Having a summer romance with the hot
cricket captain, I think to myself with a little smile.
I can put off thinking about the future for a few more weeks. This
moment is to be lived.
I almost believe my own reason.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘DON’T I HOLD YOU’ BY WHEAT

WE PLAY video games that night. As in, I watch Noah scream obscenities
at Ares while Fox just provides murmured instructions to me, so I don’t get
blown up in some death-by-sword game. I get blown up anyway because
I’m laughing so hard.
Once everyone retires for the night, Noah kisses me goodnight while
Ares pretends to puke on his shoes. Noah pushes his face away with one
hand while kissing me with the other.
I hide my face in his chest because he won’t let me go.
The next night, they have a match to prep for. So, I wisely keep to my
room and Noah sneaks in to kiss me goodnight again. My toes curl each
time he tips my face up and kisses my nose first before the good stuff. It’s
cute and sweet and so him.
The next match – a five-day test match – ends in a draw. Noah’s
exhausted each night, and staying back with the coaches to watch the day’s
match tapes. Taking notes and prepping strategies.
It’s awe-inspiring. And makes me infinitely proud, when I cheer for him
every time he makes runs, or the one time he dives, and gets a set batter out.
I send fresh pies for my boys, as I think of them, to the locker room. For
their lunch breaks.
We’ve been kissing breathlessly for more than week and finding no time
for more.
And each night, Noah sleeps on a mattress on of the floor of the house
he owns.
Each night, my resolve to keep my distance from him erodes bit by bit.
 I have never met a man who keeps his word like Noah Calvin Dumaine.
We do movie night again a week later. I fall asleep curled up next to
Noah before the movie’s over. Fox’s choice is a rockstar documentary.
I’m woken up by Noah’s lips on mine.
“Time for bed, love,” he whispers.
I linger over his mouth for a moment. It’s tasty and delicious. All mine.
I sigh against his lips and run my fingers over his hair. He clenches his
fingers over my midriff.
“You’re tempting me no end, woman.”
“I’m just doing my job.” I bite his lower lip slightly.
We sit up after a minute of necking. It’s all very teenage hormones.
And, like he does every night, he takes my hand and leads me up the
stairs.
I’m ahead of Noah, half-asleep but wholly aware of the man walking
with me. It strikes me for the first time that I think of Fox and Ares as boys
and Noah as a man. A gentleman. A gentle man. Obviously, he was angry
the night we ‘negotiated’ our weird arrangement, but he is not an asshole.
He’s no saint either with his hard edges and unhealed wounds.
I have had to recalibrate who he is. In my head.
I spy the makeshift mattress and mound of pillows in the family room.
Noah’s new bed.
A gamut of emotions runs through me. As do scenes from the last week.
Noah carrying me to the bathroom. Noah holding me so tight as he told me
something so intensely personal and meaningful. Noah kneeling in front of
me, careful of my personal space.
Noah kissing me, making me come so hard. Noah hugging me. Noah
telling me, he wants things with me.
I make a decision then. It’s easy but oh-so-complicated.
I stop at the foot of the stairs. “Don’t sleep on the mattress.”
“Do you suggest I sleep standing up?”
I peek at him, a little rumpled and grumpy from sitting in one position.
“I meant, we can share the bed. My bed. The bed in my room,” I ramble on.
He stills, uncertainty sliding into his pretty eyes.
“Just, do it, okay?” I snap out. Already aware of how complicated this
could become. How easily it could change everything between us. “Before I
change my mind.”
 “Fine.” He nods shortly. “I’m too exhausted to argue with you, Hellcat.
I’ll change and come.”

I bound up the stairs and straighten the room a bit before he shows up. I am
not a slob, but I don’t want Noah seeing my home bra (the one with fraying
straps and a blobby color) or my textbooks with question doodles on them.
I also climb quickly into bed before he comes and pull the sheet to my
neck. It’s too hot so I push it down. That brings my tits into view. I don’t
want him thinking this is a seduction thing so…
I look at the pillows I threw on the floor. I pick them up and start piling
them in the middle of the bed, like soldiers.
I’m almost finished when Noah knocks and enters the room.
“We’re not having sex, and I still think I should go back to the
mattress.” He talks from under the tee shirt.
“Stop arguing.” I get a mouthwatering glimpse of his stomach and abs
and the Adonis Dimples I’m obsessed with. I can’t help imagining running
my fingers over those V-shaped muscles on his hips. They are so taut and
firm and I’m only human.
He pulls the shirt down over his sweatpants. “Are you okay? Your
mouth’s open.”
“I’m fine, I—” I stop mid-sentence and stare at him again.
“What? What is it?” he demands.
“Your tee shirt—” I lick my lips. “You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Am I?” Noah looks down, frowning. “Shit. I always do this,” he
mutters, almost to himself. He pulls the tee off by the neck and gives me his
back as he wears it again.
I don’t do the decent thing and turn around. I shamelessly ogle the
striated muscles of his back and his vertebra shifting with the movement.
Even as my logical mind throws me back to our catastrophic morning
after. I was in my tee shirt, worn backwards. Exactly like this…
I gather one of the pillows to myself and ask him quietly, “What
happened between us…that night at the drive-in? Just tell me the truth,
please.” My voice shakes at the end.
 He tugs the tee shirt on and replies gruffly, “You were super drunk and
almost passed out before I ended the kiss. Then you had the bright idea of
swimming in the ocean.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. It knocks my heart off-kilter. “You took
off your clothes and jumped into the water. I followed you, tried to keep
you from drowning. I couldn’t dry you, no towels, so I made you wear your
shirt. Your pants were too sandy so⁠—”
“So, nothing happened between us?” I ask, because I need to hear the
words.
He sits on the edge of the bed. And places his large, capable hand on the
wall of pillows. “Nothing ever happened between us, Queenie.”
I lie down and pull the sheets up over me.
Noah sits and watches me for a long moment and then picks up a pillow.
He places it in the center with utmost care. “Good idea with the wall of
pillows.” The mattress dips with his height.
I instantly go hot and cold from his proximity. In my bed. Right next to
me. This man who just has to kiss me to make me lose my mind. Who does
the nicest things for me, without ever telling me about it. Who’s proved
himself to be a decent man with actions more than his words.
Who I can’t help but trust. But trust demands action too.
I clench the sheets tight and talk to the ceiling. Because I can’t bring
myself to face him. “Last year, on Halloween, my roommate came back to
the dorm. She wouldn’t stop crying. Her shirt was on backwards and she
had scratch marks on her neck.”
“Queenie—” he exhales.
I take a shaky breath before continuing. “I forced her to go to the
student health center with me. The nurse examined her where Dolly, my
roommate, admitted she was assaulted. Sexually.”
“Fucking hell,” Noah swears.
A tear runs down my eye to my hairline. “She wouldn’t tell me or the
nurse who did this to her. But a month later, she dropped out of college and
went back home to Montana. When⁠—”
My voice breaks before I swallow the ball of tears down and finish my
confession in broken pauses. “Before I woke up that morning, I thought I
was dreaming. When we…fooled around. It’s why I was so uninhibited.
Then, when I woke up…and you…were naked and I saw my tee shirt was
on backwards…. I was thrown back to what happened to Dolly. So, I
freaked out on you, Noah.”
I slide up and eye him over the wall of pillows. He’s in shock. His eyes
are wide, and it looks like he’s not even breathing.
I offer him my hand. He doesn’t take it. “I’m sorry. I thought…It
doesn’t matter what I thought. I was just in a bad place, Noah. And you
were not to blame for it.”
“Did they catch the motherfucker who touched her?” His voice is so
quiet. Almost murderously quiet. His eyes are obsidian.
I shake my head. “No. No, it never came to that.”
“Fucking hell!” The words are quiet, heartfelt.
I shrug. “Now you know, why I am the way I am.” Prickly and mouthy
and untrusting.
I lie down on my side of the bed when Noah says my name.
I turn toward him, even though the pillows hide him. “Yes?”
“Do you want me to hug you?”
I nod so hard, my plait flies into my mouth. I dislodge it and take two
pillows away from the wall. I slide into his arms. They fit around me like I
was always meant for them.
“I’m so sorry you went through that, love.”
“I didn’t go through anything, Dolly did.” I sniffle.
He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry anyway.”
“I—” I try and put into words things I’d repressed for months now.
“After the Dolly thing, sex is not…not that it was before. I’ve only done it a
few times with guys in their dorm rooms. And I just…” I stumble over my
words. “One of them said, my arms are too fat, and he would get smothered
between my thighs.”
Noah growls in his chest.
I raise my head up to look at him. “I don’t…” I swallow. “I don’t want
to disappoint you too.” I tell him my shameful fear.
He sighs. And rubs a comforting hand on my back. “Will you give me
the idiot’s address? I’d like to introduce his mouth to my fist.”
I giggle between my tears. “That’s funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” And, strangely, after telling him and watching his
dramatic reaction, I do feel okay. Not so broken. So… destroyed.
 “Do you promise to tell me the second you feel unsafe or uncomfortable
with me?”
“I promise,” I answer solemnly.
Noah kisses my temple. “You’re brave and impossibly perfect. And I
don’t know what I did to deserve you.” His next words are almost guttural.
“Thank you for trusting me with yourself anyway.”
A second tear runs down my nose. Both at what he said and how he said
it. Noah is a gentleman. Period. I don’t ask myself why I’m so relieved.
I sniff loudly. “Goodnight, Aussie boy,” I whisper. And close my eyes
before the tears drown me and I get attacked by the past.
I think I imagine his whispered, “Goodnight, pretty desi girl.”
But it echoes in my head as I drift off to sleep. With my Aussie boy and
a wall of pillows separating us.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘KEEP ON RISING’ BY GOLD BROTHER

“YOU NEED JUST three more runs to get your first century in eighteen
months, Noah.” Kildare Jensen, my partner on the run chase against the
Knights, mutters to me while on a drink break. “One boundary and it’s
done.”
I jog in place holding my bat with both hands. Trying to keep the blood
flowing, my focus from shifting. Jensen drinks steadily because he’s a cool-
headed bloke but I refuse. I don’t want to do a single thing to upset my
momentum.
Call it superstition but these things matter when you’re playing for your
life.
It’s the fourth official ‘match’ of the camp. This is a Twenty-20 match,
where each side gets a hundred and twenty balls or twenty overs to win. It’s
the shortest format of the game and, consequently, the most exciting. Gone
are the days when fans turned up for a test match - five exciting days of red
ball cricket – camped out on the ground and basically lived for the game.
Nowadays, attention spans have shrunk to maybe five hours of high
stakes cricket.
We played another test for the second match. It was an even draw
because the Knights put on a last wicket stand for fifty runs. I blame Ares
for not picking up wickets even if he had a roaring migraine from standing
on the ground for the whole damn day.
But, if I score a hundred freaking runs in twenty-six balls, it’ll officially
make it the fastest hundred in cricket history. Except, it’s not an
international match and won’t count.
 But I would know. Everyone in the field and the scattered audience
would know. The three cricket legends watching us with impassive eyes
would know.
And they matter the most.
Almost unwittingly, my eyes seek out Queenie and her bright yellow
jersey in Row B6. She’s sitting with Mischa and two blokes. They’re
talking fast and furiously among themselves. Sweat drips on my forehead
when I squint against the sun to try and make out who’s sitting with whom.
Jealousy doesn’t prompt me, of course. She can sit with whomever she
wants. We aren’t really ‘dating’ even if I’ve seen how she looks in the
aftermath of intense pleasure. And, just a few days ago, she shared her
deepest secrets and fears with me.

“Three runs,” I murmur to myself, to bring myself back to the game.

As I always do now, I flash back to the night Queenie invited me to her
room and clobbered me with the revelation of her roommate’s trauma.
Now, I completely understand her prickliness, the armor she’s drawn
over her real self. Her bite and sarcasm. Seeing someone close go through
something life-changing is life-changing for you too.
I know because when I saw mum fade day by day, I faded too. The boy
I was, young and confident and faithless, disappeared. Until I became this
Noah.
I now know to be careful. To always take care of the details. To make
good choices. To try and make her proud, because she dreamed of seeing
me play for Australia one day.
We’d watch matches together and she’d instruct me on technique and
highlights in her wispy voice. We would watch matches when her hair
began to fall in clumps. We’d watch reruns in the middle of the night, when
the vomiting and the cramps from chemo gave her insomnia. When she
became too frail to even sit up on the bed to watch TV.
Cricket bonded mum and me, and I’ll always be grateful for it.
Now, I need to make my mark on the sport. For her. For myself. For the
lost, scared boy who had to watch the person he loved most in the world
slowly lose herself.
 I walk back to the pitch and take guard. There’s still two minutes on the
break. Jensen, good sport that he is, also takes up position on the non-
batter’s end.
I have exactly thirty seconds to clear my mind.
But instead, it fills with Queenie. And the wet track of her tears when
she’d leaned over the fucking wall of pillows and offered me her hand the
night I started sleeping in her bed.
I was frozen in place. I didn’t even know if I could touch her, because of
the seriousness of her confession. And, shallow man I am, I was arrested by
how completely Queenie she looked in the moment.
Her bee-black eyes were glossy with tears, the cloud of hair I’m crazy
about piled on top of her head. She was fresh and wholesome, like a
summer fruit. Forbidden fruit.
It contributed to my paralysis.
Yes, I’d been initially annoyed with her for instantly assuming the worst
of me. It faded as I got to know her better. And now, knowing the reason
behind it, I admire her all the more. Even if sleeping in the same bed as her
is giving me the worst case of blue balls in the history of men everywhere.
Call me a masochist because I can’t bring myself to order a replacement
couch. Not just yet.
She wasn’t cowed down by me the night we struck our bargain, and I
pulled my Rich Asshole move on her. She does not let me or Veronica
trample over her pride and self-esteem. She is remarkable in so many ways.
And she’s here, cheering for me. As my fake girlfriend. She lets me
steal touches and kisses until I’m hard just from the memory of it.
So yeah, I want to break the record for fastest century for myself. For
everyone.
Including my fake girlfriend who is more real to me than any girl has
ever been.

The bell rings, to signify break is over. The fielders get back in position.
And Teddy Durham, their captain, talks to the bowler – Martin Van Joost.
Van Joost gives me an assessing look as he tosses the ball from hand to
hand, like a slinky.
 He begins his run up to the pitch. It looks a million miles away but is
sixteen yards. But each step thuds with intention and strength and power. I
focus on his face and not the ball.
The trick to being an excellent batter is the same as gambling. You play
the player, not the hand.
I sense the second he changes his action, converting a simple fast ball
into a yorker. It’s just the slightest tilt of his face toward the wind, the way
his shoulder moves into position because he needs more power to throw the
ball now.
He thunders to the plate, the bowler’s mark, and almost hurls the ball at
my face, coming almost to my position with his follow through.
I instinctively lift my leg and hold the bat halfway up in the air. The ball
comes at me like a blitz, a bullet, the fastest thing to ever come at me. But I
know its trajectory. Because I’m still watching Martin’s face, contorted with
aggression.
“Fucking got you, Skipper,” he snarls quietly. Sledging me. Hoping I’d
make a mistake.
I know when I have to breathe. When I have to pull my shoulders in and
grip the bat tighter. The ball connects to the middle of my bat, and I swing it
away. Away and away.
Right over the heads of the first and second slips, toward the fielder
placed farthest to the boundary line.
But I’m a student of physics. An object that’s hit with a force equal to or
greater than its own is only going to gather speed.
The ball loses gravity in the last few seconds and peters to the ground,
still rolling with great speed toward the thick boundary line.
I start running just as Jensen crosses the halfway mark at the pitch.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I should have started running the second the ball left
my bat. We’d be on two runs by now. FUCK!
I don’t watch the fielder dive sideways and try and catch my ball. I’m
busy running for my life. For my century in twenty-six fucking balls. My
heart is pounding so loud in my ears, I think it’s about to burst out of my
eardrums. My vision blurs with sweat and panic.
I don’t remember if I have to take one run or two.
I just blindly start running back to the batter’s end.
But then Jensen grabs me and hugs me hard. “You did it, Noah! You did
it!” He screams. I throw my bat down in shock.
 I shake as I find the fielder chasing my ball.
He’s still sprawled on the boundary line, my ball resting gently two
inches from his outstretched fingers, caressing the rope. There’s absolute
disgust on the fielder’s face as he eyes it.
My beautiful, precious, precious ball.
I grab Jensen back. And lift all six feet of him in the air. Jensen shouts
and whoops. And when I put him back down, he pulls me up too. I cup my
helmet and feel hot tears streak down. I’m unashamed of them. These runs
are career-defining. Monufuckingmental.
When he puts me down, the rest of the world tunes back in. All the
fielders are clapping. Rohit Devgan, today’s umpire, is also applauding me.
A faint smile on his face.
I nod at him and smile shakily. I remove my helmet because my head’s
reeling. And I need air desperately. I pick up my bat again, my sword, my
weapon.
I wipe the tears with my gloved hand and then, because I can’t help
myself. I look over at Row B6.
Mischa’s jumping up and down and the two boys are whooping and
cheering. But Queenie, my desi girl, my Hellcat, is just standing there.
Hand over her heart, wearing the jersey with my name on it.
It’s the most natural thing in the world to lift my bat and show it to her.
To dip my head in her direction.
Yeah, everyone knows who I am now. Including Queenie Madhavan.

Unfortunately, we still end up losing the match because Martin Van Joost
ends up scalping six wickets, including mine, and wins the match for the
Knights. I’m not in the greatest mood when Martin walks off the field
without shaking my head. Instead, he almost smashes my nose with the
match-winning ball he tosses from hand to hand.
“Some games are tough,” Coach Devgan begins, materializing in front
of me. “You can give it your all and still the result is not favorable.”
“It’s the luck of the draw, sir.” I strip my gloves off and grip them in one
hand.
 Queenie’s godfather holds out his hand. “You were excellent today,
Dumaine. Excellent. Letter-perfect. Congratulations on breaking the world-
record.”
My heart buzzes, fills with liquid gold at his genuine compliment.
“Thank you, sir.” I firm up my hand before shaking his. “It’s because of the
extra work you and Coach Gilcrest have done with me. The pointers about
studying the ground before each ball, really helped.”
“Are you interrogating the chap already, Devsy?” Padric asks easily,
joining him on the field. “Let him have his world record moment, will
you?” He slaps him on the back, all friendly-like. Devgan stiffens at the
gesture.
“Coach Devgan wasn’t—” I begin in immediate defense.
“I’m going to save the interrogation for the party,” Coach Devgan
answers mildly.
“Party?” I echo blankly.
“Oh, yes. The party,” Coach Gilcrest yells from the other end of the
pitch. Where he’s talking to the Knights. “Seeing as we are in America and
it is their Independence Day on the fourth of July and you lot haven’t done
a half-bad job over the last month, we’re giving you a chance to unwind.
Let your hair down.” He winks. It is not scary at all. “Celebrate your first
month at Triskelion.”
“It’s black tie. A formal event with a sit-down dinner,” Coach Alastair
adds. “So do not think you can be uncivilized, gentlemen.”
“Are we allowed plus ones, sir?” I ask eagerly.
Coach Devgan casts a beady eye on me. Assessing and absolutely scary.
“Yours will be my goddaughter?” He is so hopeful my answer will be no.
“No one else, Coach,” I answer truthfully.
“Plus ones are allowed,” Coach Alastair answers. “The more the
merrier, am I right, Gilly?”
“As long as you lot are okay with watered down beer and frozen hot
dogs,” Coach Gilcrest mutters.
The players on the field roar and laugh. And I grin at Coach Devgan’s
grim expression.
I get to show my pretty desi girl off on a real date. I can’t wait for it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘SLOW LOVE’ BY TENDER

“CAN YOU JUST—” I turn around and try and check the back of my dress
Mischa’s fixing. “Hurry up?” I plead with her.
She shoots me an impatient look. “I am going as fast as I can. This is
Mom’s dress, you know? She’s like four inches taller than you. Hemming
this takes time. You will.” She snaps off the thread off her needle. “Give me
time.”
I subside, although I check out the time on the wall clock.
The party’s about to start any minute now. And I’m still getting dressed.
I fluff out my hair, which insists on sticking to the back of my neck.
And direct the tiny fan to my nape, to settle it. I took a two-hour shower –
with triple deep conditioner and a blow-dry – so it’s tamed and still kind of
wild. Giving me ‘beach goddess attends beach party’ vibes.
I’m a comfy clothes kind of girl, always have been. Between studying
endless hours and getting straight As so I could get into med school as soon
as was humanly possible, fashion’s never been a priority for me, like it is
for Jo. But, tonight…
I bite my lip. I really want to make a splash tonight.
Noah deserves it. My fake-real boyfriend deserves it.
My phone pings with an incoming text message. It’s him.
Where are you, woman? The party’s about to begin. And my
date’s missing.

I consider rolling my eyes, but he isn’t there to witness my indignation.

So, I just send him a text telling him I’ll be there in five minutes. A lie, of
course, but hey, I never claimed to be perfect. And tonight, I really do need
the time.
Hair, makeup, outfit, accessorizing…fashion takes time.
“Did you see the way the freaking ball just sailed over the fielders’ hand
and hit the boundary line?” I gush dreamily. Replaying it in my head with
perfect recall.
“I did. I almost went deaf with your screams,” Mischa replies dryly.
I grin cheekily at her. “You were screaming yourself, Meesh.”
She cracks a smile. “Well, he is very good. Your Noah.”
My pulse thuds slowly once and then picks up speed at her words. I
want to refute them. Casually. Immediately. The arguments are already
there. Logical. Irrefutable.
He isn’t mine. We’re just faking it for the summer. He is a soon-to-be
famous cricketer and I’m a waitress. This is not real, and he isn’t mine.
But he sleeps in my bed every night. Dark eyes hungry but always,
always respectful. His lips so sinful I dream about them even when he is
only hidden by a damn wall of pillows. His voice is enough to trigger a
cavalcade of heat in me, from the tips of my toes to the base of my spine.
“He…” I swallow. “He lifted his bat for me. You saw that, right?”
Mischa tugs at the back of the dress one last time and then stands up. “I
did.” She puts her chin on my shoulder. We look at me in the mirror.
Mischa’s little sister will do my makeup as soon as Mischa’s done with the
dress.
“What do you think it means?” I ask softly.
Although, I’ve seen Virat do it, and Dhoni too. And everyone else, when
they score important runs. Or win a match. Lift their bat and show it to their
family…their wives and girlfriends. It’s a shoutout, a claim. As much as a
benediction.
I had to physically put my hand to my chest, because it wanted to fly
out and follow Noah to the pitch when he hit the century. His innings
wasn’t just romantic or dramatic. It was an execution of precise talent. And
something more – a sign of greatness. An indicator of how far Noah will go,
one day.
“I don’t know,” Mischa says slowly. “Should it mean something?”
“Virat showed his bat to Anushka, during the Ashes Cup last year,” I
murmur.
 “Then, it’s a cricketer’s instinct thing.” She cinches my waist with the
belt we’d scrounged from her mother’s collection yesterday. “Like, hey,
look! I did it.” She grins. “At least, he didn’t start screaming like that idiot
Van Joost, when he took those wickets.”
I try to hide my instinctive disappointment at hearing Mischa’s practical
reason. It was just instinct. It didn’t mean anything more. It’s not like he is
Virat and I’m a famous Bollywood actress, right?
I shake my head.
“Does he…” Mischa brushes lint off my shoulder and steps back. “Does
he make you happy, Queenie?”
“Why? Do I look unhappy to you?”
“It’s not that.” She shakes her head. “I’ve known you my whole life and
this is the first time, I’ve ever seen you make an effort for another person. A
man. Even with the other boys you dated, you just…you know…you were
you. You weren’t trying to impress them.”
My lips part for a confused breath. “You think I’m trying to impress
Noah?”
She sighs. “All I’m saying is…it’s easy to see why you would want to.
God knows, the man is dreamy. And he is decent. Not, like surface-level,
open doors for you decent, but actually, inside where it counts. So yeah. It
makes sense if it’s what you’re doing? I just wondered if you knew you
were?” She ends with a lame shrug.
“Mischa, I…” I try and put into words, why I am making all this effort
for him. Because this is effort. Not to impress him. But to show him… “His
family’s not here. So, I just want him to know I’m proud of him. You
know?”
She nods.
“He was so upset when I mangled his jersey with the tricolor. But he’s
been such a good sport about it ever since.” I wave a hand at my dress.
“This is just my way of proving to him he matters too. That’s not wrong, is
it?”
Mischa shakes her head. Tucks her hair back under the practical bun it
is in. “Of course, not.” She gives me a tiny approving nod. “I really am
glad, though. You’re embracing color after the year of the goth!”
“It’s still black.” I run a hand over my hip. “I just make it look good.”
We both burst out into giggles and I forget about the tiny catch in my
chest where Mischa’s question ricocheted.
 Why am I making so much effort for him?
The answer surprises me. It’s because I like him. I like him enough to
make this effort for him. I like him.
Then, Mischa’s little sister sticks her head in, and I stop thinking.
Because one L-word is not the same as the other. And I don’t want to
think about L-words anymore. I resolutely push all thoughts away. And
beam expectantly at her.
“This is all yours.” I circle my face. “Do your worst!” I can be dramatic
too, when I want to be.
She rolls her eyes. and I giggle again. My phone pings again but she
grabs my chin and tilts it this way and that. “I can work with this,” she
declares. And just like that, I’m just a girl getting ready for a party with her
date.

Noah

“Congratulations, man. You were fantastic with reading the outfield.” Teddy
Durham, the Knights’ wicket keeper shakes my hand, hard. He’s the fifth
person in as many minutes to do so at the coaches’ Fourth of July party.
I give him a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Thanks, man. It was just a
good day, you know.”
News of my record spread all over the camp and I’m still getting
bombarded with congratulatory messages and good wishes. Queenie
smothered me in kisses the second she locked the door to our room night
before last to congratulate me.
I got so worked up I went back to sleep on the stupid mattress and away
from temptation. She threw a pillow at my departing back.
I grin wider at the memory. Maybe I’m growing on my Hellcat too.
“Well, it was awesome to see. And I truly mean it.” Teddy smiles back
widely and then nods at me in respect before sliding into the seat next to
me.
We’re at the beach. It’s a private property, right on the water, owned by
Coach Devgan, apparently. The sky’s a stunning blue with tinges of the
setting orange-pink sun. The water’s a cerulean blue and the guests… are
mostly sloshed.
“That means heaps.” I toy with the water glass and jiggle my knee.
Queenie’s late by like forty minutes. I should have waited back with her.
“Too bad I still couldn’t win the match for my mates.”
“That’s cricket for you.” Teddy clinks glasses with me. He’s easy and
affable. A preppy, generic blond. I totally understand why Queenie’s blond
nemesis went for him.
I give him a non-committal smile because it’s not my place to ask about
his girlfriend or why she’s a spiteful mean witch.
Teddy moves to the next table with another easy, affable, ‘See you on
the field man’.
I watch couples jive on the makeshift sandy floor. Ares is goofing with a
woman who looks like a supermodel. Totally his type. Fox is nowhere to be
seen. It’s typical of my best mate. He’s not the kind to make political
appearances if he can get his hands and other body parts on a willing
partner.
Besides, he’d once confided to me one wasted weekend he was sick of
parties. He’d attended too many of them as a child because of his family’s
lineage and image.
I spent a lot of time with my mother and my dad was a workaholic, so
my childhood did not have this particular issue.
“Whiskey, sir?” One of the staff asks me casually. Holding a tray up full
of brown and white drinks.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘DANGER ZONE’ BY KENNY LOGGINS

THE SMELL OF THE ALCOHOL, potent and familiar, hits me. It’s just
one drink, a little voice inside me whispers. You can have one drink.
I physically feel the liquid hitting the back of my throat. Going down
my gut. Making everything warm and fuzzy. Right.
I shake my head with difficulty. “No, thanks, mate. I’ll stick with
water.” I look at the blue-eyed, black-haired teen with a crooked tie and
jacket that’s a bit too tight on the shoulders.
“As you wish, sir.” The kid continues looking at me. Assessing.
“There are other people who’d love the drinks.” I smile at the kid.
He nods. “So, there are.” A lock of his hair falls on his forehead.
I sit up straighter in the chair. “Listen⁠—”
“I saw you. At the match yesterday. I didn’t know much about cricket
before yesterday, but you’re a fucking god, Dumaine.”
Aah, I understand now. He’s a fan. “That was just luck and good timing
with the bat. But thanks⁠—”
“Queenie screamed herself hoarse when the ball crossed over the rope.”
The kid pauses for effect before declaring, “She’s my QBee.”
The fuck she is. I keep my smile on, aware I’m at a public event hosted
by cricket legends who are also my coaches. But the fuck she is. “Look,
kid…”
“I’m Simon Archer.” His smile is adolescent arrogance. “QBee would
have told you about me.”
“Actually,” I smile nastily. “She has not.”
 The kid smiles, easily. Just like Teddy Durham. All self-assured and
aware of his place. “Probably because she knows I don’t like you. You’re
the reason she doesn’t give me all her pies.”
All her pies are for me, you little shit. “I see.”
“But since you showed up, her eyes are not so sad anymore. So, I guess
you’re an okay boyfriend.”
This kid does know Queenie, if he knows her eyes are sad. “Thank you,
I guess,” I say dryly. Unsure of how to respond.
“Although I wouldn’t be so friendly with Edward Durham if I were
you,” the kid says snidely.
“And why’s that?” I ask, quietly.
“Because your girlfriend’s had a crush on the guy ever since he first
came to town.”
“What did you—?” I couldn’t have heard it right. My first thought is the
guy’s lying. Trying to rile me up. Because I took his pies away. But Simon’s
clear-eyed and straight-shouldered.
He’s not lying.
Simon tips his head in my direction, suddenly formal. “You have a good
night, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Ares drops into the seat next to me and grabs a drink from the departing
Simon Archer’s tray. He guzzles it down in one shot. “I’m parched as fuck,
man.”
My knee jiggles. Hard. Incessantly. I wish I could loosen the stupid tie
I’m strangling in. Simon Archer’s truth bomb floats in the space he just
vacated. “Don’t drink yourself into a stupor, man.”
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself, Centurion.” Ares winks
at me. It’s my new nickname in the locker room. It’s weird. I’m not sure if I
should despise it or revel in it. “How many people have congratulated you
on your world record now? Fifty? Seventy? A hundred?” He snickers at his
own joke.
“Even the wait staff congratulate me, Sandoval.” I sip my water. Really
wish it were whiskey. A bead of sweat drips down the back of my neck into
the collar.
 “My date, Lysa, was asking me about you. She said you looked lonely
and pathetic sitting here all alone.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. I told her you were taken. Besotted. Except…” Ares peers
around me. “I don’t see Queenie anywhere. She’s not coming?”
I check my phone for the tenth time. Her text still reads:
On my way. Stop being so pissy, Aussie boy.

“She’s on her way.”

“You’re pissy,” Ares observes, helpfully.
“Get bent,” I fire back. Bored and annoyed and altogether done with
this party.
I stand up, my dress shoes squelching in the stupid sand. Seriously, who
keeps formalwear parties on the damn beach. It’s so inconvenient.
“Noah, I—” Ares eyes widen. And even he shuts up. “Holy god,” he
says.
“I’m going to—” I turn around.
Then all thought disappears from my head. All words disappear from
my vocabulary. I am struck mute, deaf, blind.
Because Queenie’s walking toward me, the sun as her personal halo.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘I WAS MADE FOR LOVIN’ YOU’ BY YUNGBLUD

EXCEPT, it’s not my desi girl. Or even my Hellcat.

No, this is a woman. A curvy, delicious, goddess of a woman. Her dress
is black and slinky; it sort of slithers over her body and drops in large bells
over her sleeves. The draped neckline reveals her cleavage every time she
moves. The dress skirt flirts with her legs, and her block heels are in hot
pink. Her tiny waist is accentuated by a hot pink belt which pushes her
magnificent tits up.
None of that has me rooted to the spot.
It’s her pretty face. Wreathed in a tentative smile, her eyes smoky like
soot and her lips a generous curve of glistening pink. Her hair flies down
her back like a banner. All tangled curls and sexy waves.
She’s stunning. Otherworldly.
“You look divine.” Ares, the bastard, leans down and kisses my Queenie
on the cheek. It’s sort of dusted with gold powder, so it gleams in the late
evening sun. “GODdamn. I’m calling Fox right away.”
Queenie smiles, pleased. “Thank you. That was a lovely compliment.”
Ares shakes his head as he stares at me and mouths Idiot.
She turns to me with the same pleased smile. “Hi, sorry, I’m late.
Mischa had to alter this for me. So, it took some time.”
“Right,” I say thickly.
Her smile fades. “Yeah.” She clutches the purse she holds tightly. She’s
even painted her nails hot pink. I don’t know why I find the combination of
pink and black so extremely arousing, but I do.
“Is this our table, then?” Queenie points at the table.
 I shake my head. “We’re sitting with the coaches. Apparently.”
“Oh.” She glances at her outfit. At her tits displayed so enticingly. “I
didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I,” I say gruffly. I can’t stop staring at her chest. Her waist.
Her curves. I’m instantly and horribly aroused. “Do you want to—” I tug
my jacket over my pants. “Sit?”
She nods. “Sure.” Her voice is tiny.
I wait for her to precede me. She does. Her arm brushes my chest. I
suck in a breath, and she shoots me an uncertain glance. Looking like a
goddamn woodland fairy in her silky outfit and flowing hair.
Her scent hits me, it’s hot and flowery. Jasmine and honey. Perfectly
luscious like her.
She stumbles a little on the sand, so I lunge forward and put a hand on
her lower back. Queenie stiffens but then leans into my touch and we walk
toward the coaches’ table.
To my displeasure, Teddy Durham, Queenie’s crush is also at the table.
Alone, thankfully. But Queenie doesn’t notice him, she rushes to greet her
Rohit Chachu, on the other side of the long table, her smile back. He hugs
her tight and they talk in hushed tones. She looks over at me and so does he.
My neck feels tight, but I stare levelly at both of them.
Even the other two coaches hug Queenie, like they know her. And she
hugs them back.
I’m hot under the collar. Sweat drips down my jaw too. I wipe it off
with a tissue. Unruly and wild feelings bubble up in me. Like snarling
hands off to the three men who will decide my fate. Or popping Teddy a
shiner on his perfectly affable face.
“Dumaine, you don’t mind if my beti, my goddaughter, sits with me,
right?” Coach Devgan orders. It’s not even a question.
“No problem, sir.” I grab the nearest chair and park my butt on it. I also
discreetly try and push my erection down while adjusting my suit.
Disappointment floods me but I dismiss it as unproductive.
As if in sympathy with my mood, a rush of grey clouds show up on the
horizon. I look up at the sky. Thanks guys.
Pretty soon, our table fills up. To further my black mood, Van Joost shows
up with his date at our table and sits on my other side. He smiles and takes
over the table quickly.
Coach Alastair begins with a speech about the importance of sport and
team spirit. Coach Devgan adds something about how this first batch of
Triskelion Training inductees are going to make cricket history in a town
that doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
I tune them all out.
I only pay attention when Coach Gilcrest says, “This is not just a party,
people. We’re also formally announcing the Triskelion Cup tonight.” He
holds up three fingers amid hoots and cheers and applause. “The Cup takes
place in the third week of August and is a combination format event.” He
downs one finger. “You’ll play one match of each variation – T20, ODI, and
Test.” He downs the second finger. “The camp winner will be announced
after the last match, the test. We’ll call the selection committee member
during the presentation ceremony and choose one of lucky blokes.”
The applause goes deafening when he downs the third finger.
“Good luck, gentlemen.” Padric raises his glass. “You’re going to need
it.”
The tables are all abuzz with news about the Cup when we are served
caviar and foie grass. Lobster and shrimp. And some other equally tasty
things. I don’t taste any of them. I just keep watching Queenie talk and
laugh and sip delicately at her wine. Her throat moves with the motion.
I want to kiss it so badly I am afraid I have already walked over to
where she’s sitting next to her coach uncle and done it.
“Are you okay, man?” Ares asks me in an undertone. “Your knee’s
trembling like there’s an earthquake.”
I grip my water glass and wish it were beer. “I’m fine.”
I do a facsimile of having a good time even though I cannot think
straight. All I see are Queenie’s curls, running riot in the low and cold wind.
I want to drape an arm over her shoulder and shield her from it.
Then, Martin, the fuck, also looks at Queenie. He grins. “So, she’s the
girl who’s got you twisted up, Skipper. No wonder you lost the match
anyway.”
Ares puts a hand on my vibrating knee. “Fuck off, Marty,” he says
good-naturedly. “Have another drink.”
 “I don’t blame you, though. If I had that fine piece of ass waiting in my
bed, I’d be showing her my bat too.” Van Joost snickers.
“What did you just say?” I deliberately look at the man who’s been
giving me a hard time on and off the field.
“You heard me just fine, Dumaine.” Martin’s mouth takes on an ugly
twist. His eyes gleam meanly as he finishes off his sixth drink. “And I have
eyes too. I saw the video. For a chubster, she’s got great ti⁠—"
I am out of my chair before I’m aware.
Ares holds me back and shoves me back down with brute force. The
whole thing’s over in seconds.
I vibrate. With anger. With pure rage. With a flux of emotions that
cannot be jealousy. I am not a jealous kind of man.
“Crab on his chair,” Ares smiles at the enquiring coaches. “Nothing to
worry about, sirs.”
I clench my fork so tightly; it bends under the weight. I am aware of
Queenie’s hot gaze on my hand. I shove it under the table.
I take a single deep breath before I face Martin Van Joost. I make sure to
keep my voice level and my eyes blank.
“I know you think it’s sportsman-like to talk shit like this. So, I’m going
to say this exactly once, Marty. You ever breathe in Queenie’s direction,
much less look at her…and I’ll take your head off with my bat. You hear
me?”
“Fuck off, Dumaine.”
I smile. With my eyes.
Van Joost stops breathing.
“Do you hear me, Van Joost? Do not entertain any thoughts about my
girl. Ever. Or you won’t like the consequences.”
“The camp⁠—”
“The camp can burn for all I care,” I grit through clenched teeth.
And I mean it. I need for this camp to be a success. More than my own
life. But not more than Queenie’s dignity. No one talks about her like that.
Full stop.
“Go away, Marty. Now,” Ares says quietly. “He’s dead serious. Just…”
He sighs. “Go away.”
Martin pushes his chair back and stalks off.
Some of the rage leaches out of me. Just some.
 After a few thrumming moments, Ares sips at his drink slowly. “You
know, a casual onlooker would mistake what you did for love.”
I glare at him and keep the growl inside. “Fuck off, Ares.”
Ares beams at me. “Good thing I’m your best mate and know better.”
His smile fades a little. “By the way, you should tell Queenie she looks
pretty. It’s nice, you know?”
I kick him under the table. And loosen my tie just a bit. The damn thing
is going to strangle me.
The clouds turn black over the sea. They’re the best indicator of my
mood.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘GUILTY AS SIN’ BY TAYLOR SWIFT

I DRAG my eyes away from Noah’s thunderous face. I wish he didn’t look
so…handsome in his grey suit with the lavender shirt and a slim blue tie
with lavender hearts. The steel grey emphasizes his tan, and the lavender
softens the hard edges of his scruffy jaw.
He’s not even bothered to shave for the formal party. Although Noah is
one of those men on whom evening stubble just works. Just like brooding
devil-black eyes and flat lips.
It has to be my own implicit bias toward him which makes him so
appealing to me. My brain has turned against me, making it hard to think
logically around him.
Especially when he put one hot, possessive hand on my lower back and
led me to the table.
Still, I didn’t get two minutes alone with the man after I went to all this
effort to dress up for this important party for him.
In fact, a lesser woman would have been thoroughly devastated at his
complete lack of non-response when he saw me. But Ares was so effusive
in his compliments and Chachu grunted loudly at the table with a warning
glare, so I know I looked alright.
I don’t need a cranky Australian’s compliments to feel good.
“So, how’s school, Queenie?” Padric asks me, refilling my wine glass.
“I don’t think Rohit’s as proud of his own Leher as he is of you and your
med school degree.”
I laugh and sip at the wine. It’s a Malbec, fruity and tart on the tongue.
Goes perfectly with the garlic lobster. I wish I could enjoy it more. I know I
would have if Noah was sitting next to me and whispering nonsense in my
ear about the people at the table.
A lesser woman would be offended, he didn’t even put up a feeble
protest when Chachu asked me to sit with him and the other coaches. But
I’m not.
I fork a piece of lobster to prove my point and chew vigorously. Then I
answer Padric. “Leher’s going to make all of us proud, I just know it,” I
murmur. I deflect the comment Alastair made about me. And I do mean it.
Leher’s only sixteen but she’s already a mathlete, a computer whiz, and
she plays two different instruments – the flute and the drums. Accomplished
doesn’t begin to describe Chachu’s daughter, who is thick as thieves with
Jo.
“What’s interesting to me, though,” Aiden Gilcrest begins speculatively.
“Is how Dumaine convinced you to wear his jersey and cheer for him at his
matches.”
“They’re dating,” Rohit Chachu growls. “She’s his girl.”
Aiden blinks. “I wasn’t aware of this development.”
“Yeah, yes.” I offer a weak smile. “Noah and I are together. I’m here as
his date.” Even if my date can’t bear to look me in the fucking eye.
“I thought you came to visit us, Queenie.” Padric makes a wounded
expression. “I’m gutted.”
I smile and shake my head. And flip my hair over my shoulder.
Something hot skewers the air around me. I look around. Noah’s eyes drift
slowly away from mine back to Ares.
He looks like an Asshole. All dark eyes and grim expression.
“I did, Uncle Paddy,” I say sweetly. “You’re my absolute favorite.” I
even squeeze his arm.
Another hot thing skewers me. I look around again. Again, Noah looks
pointedly at Ares. I’m sure he isn’t looking so intensely at me all the time.
Because he doesn’t even care I’m here.
My heart pinches. I shake it off and talk to my uncle’s friends.
Determined to enjoy myself.
I even do a decent job until Noah shoves off his chair and Ares has to drag
him back down. Every instinct I possess urges me to go to him. Talk to him.
He’s not well. He doesn’t look like the Noah’s who has been slowly and
thoroughly romancing me the last two weeks.
Kissing me like he won’t stop. And then he does. Looking at me like I
matter. His strokes so sinful I can’t stop the groans when he touches me.
Anywhere. Bringing me daisies when he picks me up from the diner after a
late shift. Eating every bit of the pie I bring home for him. Just for him.
And hugging me good night every night before sleeping on his side of
the bed.
That’s the Noah I know. This Noah is…different. Edgy. Hard. Like he’d
combust into a supernova if someone looked at him wrong.
Whatever Ares says works because he settles in his chair and talks to his
other companion.
“Do your parents know about the Australian?” Rohit Chachu asks,
interrupting my covert spying.
“I don’t report everything about my life to them, Chachu.”
“Then he doesn’t matter,” Chachu says sagely.
“I never said that,” I protest in a high-pitched voice. At Chachu’s
quirked brow I elaborate with, “I’m just waiting for the right time. It’s
not…he’s not…he’s important,” I finish finally.
And he is. That’s the silly, stupid thing.
I spent two hours blow drying my hair and perfecting my makeup with
Tina, Mischa’s younger sister for him. Because I wanted him to see me and
be blown away. I wanted him to be proud of having me on his arm.
That’s how important he is to me.
“Is he more important than your career, your education?” Chachu asks,
quietly. Before I can retort he continues, “I know something happened last
year. You’ve been…withdrawn. Quiet. You don’t sparkle as much. Except
when you’re with him. I don’t know if I like it or I’m worried,” he admits
heavily.
“Is it so bad, Chachu?” I ask softly. “Liking someone?” Especially if
they make you forget how awful your life is. If they are good for your soul.
“Of course not, Queenie.” Chachu spares Noah a glance. He’s looking
at the darkening sky now. “I just want you to know you’re worth more than
him. In your own way.”
 “He holds a world record for the fastest century ever, Chachu. He’s
worth so much more than anyone else,” I defend him immediately. Not
liking how Chachu dismisses Noah’s hard work.
“But he isn’t my kid,” Chachu answers simply. “You are.”
“That’s just inherent bias,” I bite back. “You know he’s brilliant and has
an amazing future in international cricket. And you’ll make the selector’s
call for him.”
Chachu gives me an impatient look.
“I…” I hesitate, trying to find the right words. “This year has been
different, Chachu. I’m different because of it. And I will tell my parents
everything, I promise. But please don’t assume Noah’s not…that I’m not
aware of what I’m doing.”
“I hate that you want to make your own decisions, now,” he grumbles.
Defeated
“But you’ll respect them anyway.” I kiss his cheek. “Noah’s here to
stay. And he is brilliant. And he’s mine.” For now. “And you’ll not tell my
parents anything till I am ready to.”
I can be as authoritative as Coach Devgan when I need to be.
I make small talk with the others at the table when I suddenly see a
silver-haired man in wired, rimless glasses at one of the other tables. My
heart jerks to a stop. I clench my fists. And I look blindly at the table.
Words are distant echoes in my ears as I recall a closed office door, the
light streaming in through Thorndon’s diamond shaped windows. I hear the
words that haunted my nights till Noah Dumaine started occupying them.
Who’s going to believe you, Miss Madhavan?
A light touch from Chachu dissipates the image from my head. I come
back to the present.
“You okay, bachcha?” He calls me by my childhood name, little child,
and looks in the direction I was looking.
“I’m fine. I’m going to—” I jerk my head over to the other end of the
table. Where the seat next to Noah’s empty.
Chachu sighs and pats my hand. That’s about as much approval as I’m
going to get from him.
I am aware of more than a few glances as I make my way across the table to
Noah. It never stops bothering me. The way people just openly assess you,
trying to make judgments about you. Based on how you look. What you are.
What they’ve heard about you.
Thorndon’s campus and the townspeople shamelessly stared at me,
while I walked through the roads. I used to shake inside because I could see
the curiosity and excitement and judgment in their eyes. But I never let
them know it.
Only in the last month have I stopped shaking inside. And truly stopped
being bothered by how people see me. Let them see what they want to see.
What I am, who I am, matters only to certain people.
I walk taller the last few steps to Noah’s side.
I drop into the seat next to my boyfriend and peck his cheek. “Hi,
boyfriend. I missed you.” I play my fake girlfriend act to the max.
A muscle ticks in Noah’s jaw. But he doesn’t react otherwise. He smells
of the food and the sea and his cologne’s sandalwood, myrrh and minty ice.
In short, mouthwateringly appealing.
Since I can’t have him, I pick up a fork and dig into the untouched apple
pie and ice cream on his plate. “Surprised to find this still here,” I tease
him.
He still doesn’t even look at me.
I swallow a sudden, hot ball of tears as a wayward thought strikes me.
He doesn’t want to be seen with me anymore. He’s finally realized we
aren’t the real deal and doesn’t know how to tell me.
Heck, he even went back to sleep on the couch two days ago.
I eat more pie with determination. If he doesn’t want me anymore, he
can fuck right off. I don’t need the man anyway. And I certainly don’t want
someone who doesn’t want me.
“Hey, Queenie,” Teddy Durham calls from across the table. “I don’t
know if you remember me. I used to come to the diner during March
Madness. Follow the scoreboard with you? You taught me the correct way
to read basketball scores.”
“Of course, I remember you, Teddy.” I give him a wide smile.
“Congratulations on the match win.”
“She more than remembers you, Durham,” Noah speaks up. “She’s had
a crush on you, from what I hear.”
 I almost choke on my pie at his casual words. I swallow the bite down.
“Wha—” I smile weakly at Teddy who just gives me a sweet grin. “He’s
joking.” I touch Noah’s thigh. It’s vibrating. Like he’s been electrocuted.
What in the fuck is going on?
Teddy laughs. “Oops. I never knew that. If I had, I’d have asked you out
long ago. Then you’d look stunning for me, right?” He laughs again,
boyishly.
My blood does not stir. Hell, it does not even move sluggishly. It just
runs at its normal speed. When I see Teddy next to Noah, I feel less than
nothing. Just a black void.
Was Teddy ever a crush if just touching Noah makes heat slide into my
tummy?
“Then I guess, I’d have to fight you for Queenie and the Cup.” Noah
toys with his water glass. He gives a poison-sharp smile to Teddy. “And for
saying what you just did.”
I seethe inside. Why is he doing this? Why’s he saying these things
tonight, of all nights? Especially because he just might be done with me.
“No one does obsessed like Dumaine.” Ares grins unrepentantly.
Teddy swears and stares at Noah. “Why did you kick me, Noah?”
Noah shrugs. “I didn’t mean to kick you.”
“Shall we dance?” I say brightly. And I dig my nails into Noah’s arm.
He gets up, still holding eye contact with Teddy.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOVEFOOL’ BY THE CARDIGANS

I ALMOST DRAG him to the dance floor.

“Why are you intimidating Teddy?” I whisper-shout, placing my hand
on his shoulder.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” Noah answers, over my head.
I growl and step on his foot hard. He does not react. I get angrier.
Hornier. “At least he’s looking at me,” I mutter.
He grips me around the waist. Tight. “What’s this fabric?” he asks
quietly.
“What? It’s satin,” I answer impatiently. Then since he doesn’t move on
the floor, I barrel on to give him a piece of my mind. “My back’s roasting
inside it. But I wore it for this party that’s so important to you and your
place at camp. But you can barely bring yourself to look at me so I might as
well have worn my waitress’s uniform. Right?”
He starts moving. Still not saying anything.
I consider stamping his feet again. But I don’t. I don’t want to create a
scene either.
I just step back from him. “I’m tired. And I’m going home. You can die
for all I care.”
“I already am,” Noah mutters.
“What?” I ball my fists. “What did you just say?”
He jerks me back into his arms, his fingers biting into the satin. Creating
imprints on my skin.
And he finally looks at me. My lips part shakily at what I see in his
incendiary eyes. They’re molten. With desire. Want. And untrammeled lust.
 “I said I’m already dead. I died the second I saw you in this outfit and
your sunshine smile and your bloody hair…and now I’m in hell because
this has to be suffering in the torments of hell,” he finishes grimly.
“What has to be the torments of hell?” I move slowly. My heart pounds
from a combination of stress and anger and my own inconvenient desire.
He looks so fierce, like a warrior out on the battlefield. All dark hair and
brooding expression, stony-faced. Like how he is on the field. Ready to take
on the opposition and win.
It’s unbearably hot.
“Watching you smile and hug every man here but me.” He sounds so
forlorn and possessive at the same time I want to hit him.
My jaw drops. “I waited for you to say something to me,” I whisper
fiercely at him. We still move slowly to the fast-paced song. Locked in our
private rhythm. “I came here, dressed in your uniform colors, for you. And
you said Right. When you saw me, Noah.”
Noah winces. “I⁠—”
“Shut up,” I glare at him. “And when Chachu asked me to sit with him
you did not stop him.”
“He’s my coach,” he mutters.
“And now you’re looking like you want to murder Teddy just because
he said something nice to me. No. Hell, no.” I shake my head. “That is not
okay. I don’t care how messed up you are, you have to use your words and
communicate with me.”
“That’s the problem,” he snarls. “I’m so messed up I can’t tell you how
I feel. What I want.”
“Well, what do you want?” I snap at him.
“You,” he says so simply. “Anyway, I can get you. I want your kisses.
And your moans. And the way you smile with your eyes right before you
kiss me back and your lids close shut. I want to crawl into the bed in our
room with you and not come out for three days.”
My knees go weak at his explicit words.
“I want to peel off this dress and then burn it because every man in here
is thinking how incredibly fucking good you look in it. And this hair?” He
clutches a handful of it, while still somehow dancing with me. “I want it
over me. My chest, my shoulders when you ride me and take me to fucking
heaven, Queenie. That’s what I fucking want more than I want to breathe.
More than I can breathe.”
 I stop breathing at his words.
He gives me the blackest look possible. All deathly obsidian and
marble-faced. But his heart races, bouncing out of his ribcage and settling
into mine.
It gives me the courage to tell him how I feel too.
“I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me,” I say in a small voice. I
can’t even look at him. “That you changed your mind about…me.”
“Changed my mind?” Noah barks out a laugh. He tips my chin up, so he
looms over me.
I have to crane my head to look at him. The first drop of rain falls on my
nose.
“There’s a very good chance I’d stop playing cricket before I change my
mind about you, Queenie. And I will never stop playing cricket.” Noah
takes the rain off my face and holds it on the tip of his finger. “Does that
answer your question?”
A breath expels out of me. Bringing our chests closer.
“I didn’t ask one.” I’m unable to stop looking at him.
The rain comes down in a patter around us.
He stops being so agitated. “You wore this dress for me?”
I nod, the tiniest bit. “Yes. I wanted to do something special for you.
After the world record.”
“You could smile at me.” He sounds so genuinely pitiful. Like I never
smile at him.
I smile shakily at him.
Noah sucks in a breath. And there’s so much feeling behind this lust
driving him.
“You still shouldn’t have been rude to Teddy. It wasn’t nice.”
I’m quieter now. As if the rain has cooled my heated blood. Or maybe it
is Noah’s proximity. Being in his arms, being near him, makes everything
else matter less.
“Don’t talk about that wanker when you’re dancing with me.”
“You’re so possessive,” I grumble.
“About you? Yes,” he says baldly. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
I’m illogical and depraved because I love hearing that.
The rain comes down in earnest. I blink against it. “This is going to
mess with the fireworks.”
“I thought we just made some,” Noah mumbles.
 I laugh. And he smiles too. Shy and pleased.
“Next time, just say, Queenie you look like a goddess. Okay?” I link my
arms behind his neck and go on my toes.
“Next time, get ready on bloody time so I’m not sucker punched with
your entrance,” he says tartly.
But he caresses my waist and my blood turns into a river. An endless
current borne by desire.
“We should go.” I look around. Most of the tables are empty and the
servers are clearing the plates, scurrying about. I feel a twinge of
camaraderie for them. I’d be doing the same too, if it wasn’t for this man
who says the most incredible, swoony things.
“Everyone else is gone.”
“Good. Then I can do this.” Noah stops dancing. Cups my face in his
hands and kisses the rain off my lips. “God, you’re better than the pie,” he
whispers.
“You are crazy.” But I kiss him word for word.
“About you, yes,” he repeats his earlier words.
My tongue chases his and finds it and melds with his. He holds me on
his toes, the satin drenched beyond repair. His cock pokes into me, through
his dress pants. And I am wet from the inside out too.
I press closer to him, to lean against his solid chest. Loving the scrape
of his beard against my cheek, my chin.
All of my anger has dissipated in the aftermath of his confession and the
rain. Because I don’t want to stay mad at him anymore.
Rohit Chachu is right. When I’m with Noah, I stop thinking. Worrying.
Pondering. I’m just present. I feel. It’s a rare and beautiful thing for me. I
want to cherish it.
“Noah?” I say his name against his lips. Which are welded to mine.
“Yeah?”
Now I touch his jaw. Hold it against my wet palm. He nuzzles into my
touch. It makes my next decision easier. “Let’s get home so you can peel
this dress off me.”
Noah stops kissing me. “Are you sure, Queenie?” His stare is intent,
yearning. “You don’t want more time?”
I gaze into his drownable eyes. His patrician nose is flared and heated.
“There’s a good chance I’d stop loving the Indian cricket team before I stop
being sure about you, Dumaine. And I’ll never stop loving the Indian
cricket team.” I kiss the rain off his nose. “I’m sure. I don’t need any more
time.”

Noah picks me up, the idiot, while I shriek and runs off the beach to the
parking lot. At the parking lot, he finds Ares on his bike.
“Maybe we should take Lizzie,” I venture uncertainly.
Noah just shakes his head. I don’t argue.
“Get off. And fuck off,” he says to his best friend. He deposits me on
the seat like I’m made of clouds. “Tell Fox to stay fucked off too. Maybe
till Monday.” He looks at me. His eyes gleam devilishly, water dripping
down his PGSOFS face. “Make that Tuesday,” he murmurs.
I laugh and bat at his restraining arms.
“He’s kidding, Ares.”
Ares hands Noah the keys. “Do not fuck this up. And take care of her,”
he says simply. He gives me a one-armed hug and says, “Be happy,
Queenie. You deserve it.”
The unexpectedly kind words bring tears to my eyes. I go to slide off
the bike but Noah hands me the helmet. “Sit,” he commands. “Do not
move. Until we get home.”
For once, I don’t argue with him.
I just hike the dress up my thighs. And straddle the pillion seat.
Noah fingers the single black garter peeking under the dress.
“I’m going to get speeding tickets,” he murmurs.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘THE ALCHEMY’ BY TAYLOR SWIFT

NOAH DRIVES LIKE A DEMON, taking the winding turns liberally fast.
My hair whips over the helmet and onto the visor. I grip his shoulder and
chest in a death grip, sliding low on the seat so I’m plastered over him.
He keeps a careful hand over mine as he maneuvers the bike one-
handed.
That he can do that, while wearing a Tom Ford suit with fucking
lavender accents, makes me hornier than ever.
I admit to myself I want him. I want Noah Calvin Dumaine. I’ve wanted
him since the second I kissed him. I wanted him more when I saw his
PGSOFS face. And I wanted him through every second of fighting and
bantering with him.
I. Want. Noah. Dumaine.
If this were a neuroscience theory, I’d make an argument for neurons
firing repeatedly to create a pathway of a long-term memory becoming
ingrained in my body. It’s physiological and physical and chemical.
But the simple truth is I just want him. Period.
And I’m going to have him now.
Because he wants me back. Enough to drive a terrifying vehicle at
ungodly speeds. The rain adding splendid drama to the urgency driving
him.
I lay my cheek on his strong back and nuzzle in. His hand tightens on
my hands.
It takes him mere minutes to reach Clanbray. And he roars at close to
two hundred miles to the cottage. Taking the bends on a low-arch, so my
dress flips the asphalt and almost catches on a stray stone.
I laugh. Free and unfettered. I don’t know what else to do.
We drive through the driveway. The rain battering our heads and bodies.
He stops the bike on the driveway, under the portico.

He kicks the stand and straddles the bike on his legs.

I unclasp my death grip from his chest and remove the helmet. “My
hair’s a freaking mess, Aussie boy. And it’s your fault.”
“Your hair’s perfect.” The words are muffled under the helmet. But he
removes the thing in the next instant and throws it on the ground. “I love
your hair.”
He drags me forward by the waist and kisses me hard, twisting half his
body to do so.
I gasp into his mouth, tasting rain and Noah. This is perfect, I think
hazily.
In the next moment, he scoots me forward even more, so I’m kind of
half over him.
“Throw your legs over me, desi girl,” he orders.
I do what he says, unconvinced of the acrobatics. But the man is an
athlete. And he proves it when he pulls me forward and around him by
simply lifting my butt.
I lose my breath by the time he settles me in front of him. Then he
brushes his callused thumb over my wet, plump, gloss-less lips.
“Perfect,” he breathes again. Then he kisses me again. Sweet and long.
I crush myself closer to his chest, his thighs, as I kiss him back. Loudly
and messily.
The dress slides up and down between us, slick and wet.
“Wait, wait.” I manage to say.
“You’re killing me,” he groans. But he pulls back an inch. His chest
heaves from the force of our kiss and exertions.
“I…” I swallow at the red splotches on his face. He’s incredibly,
insanely aroused. And it arouses me in turn. But I still need to know. This.
“Why me?” I ask finally.
 I touch his wet shirt. The jacket’s splayed open and the tie’s askew. His
skin’s hot, burning hot, under the wet fabric.
“What?” Noah kisses the side of my neck. Unable to stop touching me.
“Why me, Noah? You’re like, ridiculously handsome. And filthy rich.
And you are a cricket god.”
“Go on.” He kisses the pulse beating on the side of my neck and sucks
on it. “I love hearing you compliment me.”
“Why do you want me?” I ask helplessly. Needing to know the answer.
And half-afraid of it. Maybe I’m just a fat girl fetish for him. Or an item to
be checked off his list. And I’m okay if that is all this is. I really am. But I
want to know before I get any more involved with him.
“You’re asking me that when I’m about to come in my pants for you?”
He runs feverish hands up my thighs. And squeezes them.
I squirm against him and the bike wobbles.
“Ye-yes.” I sigh and try to keep from losing my mind.
“You want words? Like declarative sentences?” He sucks on my
collarbone and drifts down to my cleavage.
“Ten words will do.” Noah sucks on the fleshy part of my breast.
“Five.” I strangle out. Press him closer to me. The combination of warm
breaths and cold rain is insanely pleasurable. And painful.
He holds up ten fingers while still kissing my neck, the tops of my
breasts. So, when he speaks, his words are latticed on my skin, piercing my
flesh, living in my blood and bones.
“I.” He downs one finger. “Can’t.” He downs another. “Help.” A third.
“Myself.” A fourth. “And.” A fifth. “I can’t tell you why.”
“You can’t tell me why?”
“I just do, Queenie.” Noah nuzzles against my cleavage. “I just fucking
do. It’s like cricket. I don’t know why it’s this sport, but it is.”
“You compared me to cricket,” I whisper tearily. I cup his face and kiss
his philtrum, the space between his nose and lips. “You really want me.”
“I really fucking do.”
He sweeps the dress up so the garter’s visible. And then he bends down
and takes the lace between his teeth.
I strangle on a groan and a laugh.
“Maybe because you wear my uniform colors. And a garter under it. Or
your hair makes me hard whenever I see it. There’s a thousand reasons and
none, Queenie.” He kisses the garter and my thigh around it. Wet plopping
kisses and soft, soothing kisses.
“You look really good in a cricket uniform,” I say between gasps.
Playing with his wet hair. “And you have these eyes…” I groan again when
he stretches the elastic of the garter. “Your eyes on me make me hot.”
“Where?” Noah kisses my hand. “Show me.”
“Here?”
“There’s no one here but us.” His words are intimate. A command.
“Show me.” He kisses the tips of my fingers.
I shake and my lips part shakily. But I point to them. “Here.” I whisper.
I touch my cheeks. “Here.” My fingers drift down, taking his with me. I
touch my neck. “Here.” Down to my collarbone. “Here.” I touch my nipple.
And cup my flesh. “Here.”
I drift down, our hands intertwined, one. His breaths mingle with mine.
The rain shrouds us in a bubble as much as the heat enveloping us. “Here.”
I touch my navel. I travel down to my thigh, “Here,” I whisper.
And then I finally, finally, take him to my wet, needy core. I press his
hand against mine. “Here. So much here.”
He rubs his hand over mine and my core contracts at the sensation.
I move closer to him and the bike wobbles again. My stomach swoops
down. On the excitement and illicit thrill of this outdoor adventure.
“I’ll fall,” I warn him, clutching the back of his neck with my nails.
“I’ll catch you.” He rubs me again, as he kisses my neck, end to end.
“Promise.”
Noah slides me closer, jerking one thigh open over his leg so the dress
slides down to the ground. It makes a wet squelching sound.
He chuckles. “Satin. My downfall.”
Then he rubs me in earnest, using the weight of my hand and his. As he
kisses me and teases my lips, my nose, my cheeks, my neck. Murmurs
nonsense in my ears. Except I can’t hear anything except his harsh, rough
breaths. I can’t feel anything but the stress of his knuckles on my clit.
Where the rain adds even more force, wet and insistent and relentless.
And I am dying, dying…
The orgasm shoots up on me before I’m prepared for it. I gasp out loud,
a long, breathy moan.
And he captures the sound in his mouth and sucks on my tongue. While
he uses his thumb on my clit, hard and fast and ruthless. I come apart in his
arms. On the front seat of a bike. With the handlebars digging on my back.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘CHERRY’ BY LANA DEL RAY

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, he is just staring at me. His devil black eyes
are starless, the pupils blown.
The rain’s slowed down a bit. It’s a gentle drizzle now.
“Ten times,” he murmurs. Rubbing a thumb over my kiss-swollen lips
again. “I want to see that ten times tonight.”
I laugh weakly and flop a hand weakly at his chest. “Shut up. Don’t
make me hit you.”
He kisses me and helps me down the bike. I hop down like a hobbit,
even with heels on. And my thighs only shake a little.
Then he bends down and sweeps my waist closer. And kisses me again.
“We’re doing that about a hundred times tonight,” he murmurs.
“You’re into stats now.”
“I’m a cricket player. Stats are in my DNA.”
I shake my head. And then lose it because he turns around and holds my
hand, walking backward to the house. As if he can’t bear to not look at me.
“You’re going to fall,” I warn him.
“Then I’ll fall,” he says simply.
We manage to cross the stairs and reach the door without bodily injury.
Noah opens the door, still looking at me. Like he can’t help myself.
Like he doesn’t know why.
So, I kick the door shut when we go inside and jerk him closer for a
French kiss. He makes a muffled sound but then participates
enthusiastically. Kicking off his shoes and toeing off his socks, so they
dangle off. I toe off my heels too, so I’m four inches shorter than him.
 I drag him in half over me and he comes willingly.
“We should dry off,” Noah gasps out. Now the voice of reason. “You
could catch cold.”
“Sex is a vigorous, sweat-inducing activity. Orgasm chases colds away.”
I swipe at his wet jacket. I kiss his wet chest, when he finally shucks off
the jacket and it gets tangled on his elbows. Before it lands with a wet plop
on the foyer.
I push my messy hair behind my ear and wink cheekily at him. “Trust
me, I’m going to be a doctor one day.”
Noah grins. A full-blown delight of a grin. And it shines in his eyes,
turning them into pricks of light.
I begin to fall. With no hope of being caught.
He helps me with his shirt, and it’s soon untucked out of the waistband
of his dress pants. His tie comes down with it.
“Lavender hearts.” I snap at his tie between my hands. “My downfall.”
“Come here.” He brings me closer, hikes me to my toes and kisses me.
Spearing one hand through my hair. Cupping my skull, leaving marks there.
I match him beat for beat. I discard my belt. And it slithers down my
waist with a hiss.
Noah runs a carefully rough hand up and down my back, my legs, my
waist, my hips, squeezing my butt. Taking handfuls of the fabric as he does
so.
I let him do what he wants. Because I want it too.
“How does this come off?” He grasps one dripping sleeve and squeezes
water out of it.
“It sort of slithers off, since it was cinched at my waist with the belt.” I
push one sleeve under my shoulder. It dips to show the curve of my bra
over my breast.
His jaw drops.
I never knew it could be gratifying to leave someone speechless, but
watching Noah’s jaw drop is the most satisfying thing ever.
“Wait,” he breathes.
Then he takes my hand and practically runs me to the couch where his
sleep things are piled neatly on one side.
Our feet make squelching noises on the marble. I giggle at our theatrics.
Then he drops on the couch and spreads his legs. And grabs my waist.
 “If this is a show, then I need a proper seat to enjoy it.” He kisses my
tummy. The curve of it. Loving it.
“I was thinking you could turn around and we’d hop into bed together.
Under the sheets.” I play lazily with his wet hair. And he shudders at my
touch. “I’m shy, you see.”
“If that’s what you want.” Noah immediately goes to stand up.
“But…” I push his shoulder back. Actually, I just press lightly. He sits
willingly. “A show is better. More control for me.” I drop one shoulder and
the satin slides down.
Noah’s mouth parts, his eyes darken to obsidian. He goes to touch me.
I slither around him and bite his ear. “No touching, sir.”
He clenches his fists and puts them on his iron hard thighs. His cock
swells against his pants. I lick my lips at it.
“The show, Hellcat,” he rasps out.
I drop my other shoulder and the dress sort of hinges on the rounded
swells of my tits. I reach behind me and unhook the bra, so it slides down
first. Leaving me in wet satin, panties and the garter.
I strike a long leg pose.
“You like?”
“I love. Take it all off,” he grits out.
I hold my bra in one delicate hand, then throw it at his face.
He catches it in mid-air, like the fielder he is. Then he tucks it in his
pants pocket. “Mine.”
I laugh and shake my head. I lift the sopping wet hem of the dress and
lift it up. This feels decadent. Wicked. Sinful. I angle my thigh outward, so
the dress reveals more and more of it as I lift the dress up. I stop right
before my inner thighs and drop it down.
All while maintaining intense eye contact with him.
He thunks his head back. Twice. “Hurry!” Noah begs.
“Say, please.”
“Please,” he says immediately. “Please, now. Please.”
I grab the edge of the dress and lift it up in one smooth motion. Then I
throw it behind me. Leaving me in nothing but a thong.
And now I can’t look at him. My cheeks are burning. Hot.
“Fuck, Queenie.” He touches my stomach first. Splaying large fingers to
span it. My stomach trembles, from the touch and reaction. “Fuck.” He
brings me forward and kisses my stomach. “Fuck,” he says again.
 My lips quiver as nerves set in.
But then he does the sweetest thing ever.
He draws me down beside him and covers me with the blanket.
“You want to stop?” Noah asks quietly.
Tears fill my eyes at how attuned he is to me. How fully he knows me
despite not knowing much about me at all.
“No. But…maybe, you could…” I wave at his shirt and pants.
“Five seconds.” He throws off his shirt and shucks off his pants and belt
all in the same motion. His silk boxers cling to his thighs, riding up and up.
He is all lean muscle and sinew and long bones. Altogether too pretty.
“I want you on this couch.” Then he lays me down and cups my cheek
again. “Comfortable?”
I nod. And I drift a gentle finger over the daisy tattoo above his left pec.
“What’s this for?”
“Mum loved daisies,” he answers softly. “I wanted to have something to
remember her by.”
It feels natural to reach up and kiss it. This gentle, sweet, utterly
unhinged man with secrets. When I stop kissing it, he looks at me again,
with those eyes. They see everything and judge nothing.
“You’re not going to let me go down on you yet, right?”
I shake my head, even though my belly trembles at his filthy words.
“I…”
“It’s okay. We’ll work up to it.” He kisses my shoulder.
Noah drops his weight on me. “Is this okay?” He cradles me in his
arms.
“More than okay.”
“Tell me how you want it, okay? Slow or fast⁠—”
“Medium pace?” I chuckle out.
He kisses my nose. “Medium it is.”

Noah kisses me like it’s the first time. And my knees go weak, like it’s the
first time. I reach around the blanket covering me and hold him. His back,
his neck, his shoulder blades. Any part I can reach.
 My thighs fall open, so he settles in the notch between my legs. His
thighs are hard and powerful, an athlete’s physique.
He’s hot and hard and jutting, an alien presence over me and around me.
I’m turned on and a little apprehensive too.
He brushes my hair behind my ear and kisses me again. Soft and sweet
and gentle. Over and over.
I’m the one who urges him to go faster, licking and nipping at his lips.
Fastening my tongue to his.
“We need protection,” Noah whispers against my lips. “Give me a
minute.” He digs around the pillows and pulls out a strip of extra-large
pleasurables.
I shake my head. “You’re too much.”
He thrusts into me over the blanket, and I gasp. Then he bites the side of
my neck. “I really am.”
I stop teasing him.
He rolls down my panties, careful to keep the garter on. And I touch his
boxers. The waistband. Then I slide my hand inside and cup his ass. It’s
firm. Tactile. He flexes into my touch.
I gush between my legs.
“Inside the blanket?” He asks.
I want to shake my head. But I nod. I need to be honest with him.
So, we keep the blanket over us. And Noah’s touching me. All over.
Everywhere. He brushes the back of one palm over my nipple. And I arch
into his touch. He does it again and I moan. He kisses the sound into his
mouth.
Then, he goes down and kisses my nipple. Sucks it strongly into his
mouth. I thrash and writhe against him. Feeling too much and too little at
the same time. He cups the fleshy part in one hand and pulls me up to his
mouth by the other. Then he sucks again, eating at me.
I look at his wet head on my brown skin, his pink mouth consuming me,
devouring my brown nipple. And another orgasm builds in me.
I take his hand and push it in my wet, aching, trembling core. Noah
pushes two fingers in. It’s a tight fit. I drop one leg on the floor, and he gets
better access. He drives in and out of me, slowly and inexorably while he
feasts on my tits.
His pulls are long and unending. Enervating. Devastating. He pulls
sensations from my navel to my toes and all the way to my skull. I’m made
of feeling as he fucks me with his fingers.
Then, he brushes a strong thumb on my clit. Unerringly finding it again.
And I shudder. He does it again, faster and faster. I climb to the peak. The
dual force of his fingers inside me and the suction of his hot lips on my tits,
making me come. My pussy clenches around his hand, my channel
squeezing his fingers.
My toes stretch out into infinity, rasping against his hair-roughened legs,
under the blanket.
Noah stops before I can chase oblivion. The bastard stops.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘HEAVEN OR LAS VEGAS’ BY COCTEAU TWINS

“THAT’S NUMBER TWO,” he says, a heavy second later. “Eight more to

go.”
“Noah!” I groan-growl at him. Pushing my hips into his lax hand. He
takes his hand out.
I almost cry from thwarted orgasm.
Noah tears off a condom packet. “I want to feel number three on my
cock. I’m going to die if I don’t.”
I snatch it from him, but he snatches it back, the fiend. “You can do it
the next time,” he breathes. “If you touch my cock now, woman, I’ll come
all over your hand. Not happening.”
Finally, I relent and settle for biting his shoulder and neck while he
groans and wears the protection. When he’s done, he grabs my chin and
kisses me. Messy and soppy. Dominating.
“You’re going to pay for that.”
“Consider it payment for stopping mid-way,” I say primly.
He holds my hands and draws them up. Then, twines them with his own
fingers. And he says, “Open up.”
I raise my legs as high as they can go. He touches my inner thighs,
squeezes it, and then pushes in. Slow. Inexorable. Inevitable.
Still my breath catches at what we’re doing. At how I’m reflected in his
eyes. The glow from the lamp creates a pinprick effect in his eyes and I
watch his pupils dilate as he goes in inch by inch.
I arch my back and take him in as best as I can.
 We’re both panting by the time he settles in. And I’m taken by Noah
Calvin Dumaine.
He’s solid and hard, a little more than I’m used to. But it’s probably his
height. Genetics hold true everywhere.
“Stop thinking.” He sucks on my bottom lip. “I’m trying to fuck you
here, woman.”
“Then do it,” I order him.
He surges all the way in, almost hitting my womb.
I go up a little on the couch from the movement. I hold him close. And
feel him. His heaving, sweaty chest with the daisy tattoo. I press my fingers
into the indents of his pelvis.
“I’m obsessed with these.” I clutch at his lower dimples.
“They’re yours.” He pumps into me. Shoving his knees up, pinning me
in place. “Keep them.”
We crash into each other again. Our chests pressed together, in tandem.
But this time, he grabs my breast and sucks on it as he pumps in.
I cry out in a thin scream at the pleasure pain of feeling him everywhere.
His hand streaking up and down me. His legs caressing mine, holding me
captive. And his cock taking me, and taking me…
He strokes in and out. In a measured rhythm. My eyes glaze over. He
does it again. And kisses my shoulder. I dig my nails into his back, urging
him on. Holding him close. His back ripples from my touches and torments.
But he keeps the same measured strokes up. Over and over again. Pounding
into me, unmaking me with each touch, each stroke.
I bite his shoulder again.
Noah laughs breathlessly. “You really are a hellcat, aren’t you?”
“I want to come,” I grit out.
“So eager.” He muses, breathless.
“Noah,” I whine.
“Say, please.” He throws my words back at me. This time, when he
strokes in, he flexes his ass and it touches a deep place inside me, setting off
a tiny explosion.
“Please,” I beg. “Please now. Please, please.”
His strokes turn rougher. He touches my shoulder and holds me in
place. He kisses me and I kiss him back, feral and needy. Our tongues
fucking each other even as our bodies do.
 My climax begins in my toes. I draw them over the backs of his legs.
His knees. Noah flexes in even more into me. I arch into his strokes, his
fucking. Our middles hit each other with each move, and I hold him with
both hands. Containing all his passion, his need, all this energy in my
hands.
And finally, I come. A long, liquid wave of nothing and everything.
Colors burst behind my eyes. Sounds turn into sights and the universe
explodes within me. Sparking me with obsidian light. Perfect and rebellious
and mine.
I kiss his shoulders. Even as I come.
He kisses my bruised lips as I clench him hard and ride out the shocks.
My thighs trembling and falling into him.

When I’m done, I sigh out a breath. I open blurry eyes and try to smile at
him. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” Noah growls. He grabs my hips and squeezes me into
him. “Again.”
I scream as he does it again. Once more. Stroke for stroke, beat for beat.
Until I’m a writhing, quivering, messy mess under him. One made of desire
and need and orgasms.
“I can’t,” I gasp as he makes me chase one more. One more. Rubbing
my clit while systematically dismantling me inside out. I’m nerveless,
limbless, made of sensation. “I’ll die.”
“You won’t. I promise.” The words are guttural, uncivilized. “For me.
Please.”
Noah speaks into my ears, while he cups my sensitive nipples and peaks
them again. Then he takes them both in his mouth and sucks. I clench
around him while he hammers into me. Rough and unfettered.
I come again for him. And I die for him. Pouring wetly around him.
Drowning in the scent and heat and throes of completion. Over and over in
every cell of my awakened body.
And then I watch, through half-slitted eyes as my aftershocks prove too
much for him. And he grunts into me one last time, before clutching my
back, my leg. And he pours himself into me too.
 I hold him close, wrapping him in my embrace as he gives me himself.
His head drops down on my shoulder when he’s done and says one
word.
My name.
Queenie.
Queenie.
As if he can’t say anything else. As if nothing else matters.
In that moment, I fall a little bit in love with him.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MAHEROO’ BY YASSER DESAI

I CRACK open one eye and smell Queenie Madhavan. Sugar and flour and
jasmine and rain and me. I am drunk on her all over again.
“Good, you’re awake.” She pushes ineffectually on my shoulder. “Get
off me.”
I grunt and slide out of her and off to the side of the couch, loose-limbed
and spent. I keep one hand loose around her. And I play with her arm, the
skin all mine to touch. All mine. I smile. Wide and satisfied, against the
fragrant curve of her shoulder.
“I can see that smile, you know.” She brushes her nails on my hair.
I keep the shudder inside with effort. “No, you can’t.” I speak around
her skin.
“It’s too self-important, your smile. You’re not that good.” Her
murmur’s teasing.
“Liar.”
She giggles and kisses my hand and then cups my hand in hers.
My heart, beating at the pace of slow molasses, thuds to a stop. I wait to
see what she does next.
Queenie turns around, her cloud of hair moves all over me, sending
chills. “You’re better.” Her whisper falls on my lips before she kisses me.
Soft and questing. A blessing. A miracle.
I grip her closer. Kiss her back. Just as soft.
Words float in my head. This was amazing. You’re amazing. I can’t get
enough. I lo-
 “It’s not my real name, you know.” She settles her leg over mine.
Comfortable around me. “Queenie.”
“It’s not?” I am only half-listening to her. The rest of me is reeling from
the words wanting to tumble out of my reckless mouth. Reveling in the feel
of her sexy ass against my cock. Even if said organ is tired and done. For
now.
She nods. And runs a hand over my neck and presses a finger over the
hickey she gave me. She smiles.
“It’s…Devika,” Queenie confesses. “I’m Devika Madhavan. But
Devika means Queen in Sanskrit and Tamil, so I decided to use it.”
“Why…Devika?” I test her name out. Deh-vic-ah. I scrunch my brows.
“Am I saying it right?”
“You actually are.” She blinks, gives me a pleased smile. “And why’s
because I was only one of two Indian kids in my kindergarten class and
even the teacher screwed up while using it. So, I figured, I might as well be
their queen in their language.”
I shake my head and smile. Half in admiration. “You deserve to be
called by your real name, you know? It’s who you are. Your heritage and
identity.”
She shrugs. “Four-year-olds don’t understand heritage and identity.
They just make fun of anything they don’t understand, Noah.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“What were you like when you were four?”
“Gap-toothed. Gangly.” I stroke her thigh, and she melts into me.
“Handsome.” I wink like the cheeky, self-satisfied bastard I am.
Queenie laughs, a full-throated, full-body laugh. The sunshine laugh I
don’t hear often. I watch her face move, animated and fairy-like. Some of
her makeup’s run off and transferred to me. And her hair’s a complete mess.
She is so beautiful she takes my breath away.
I don’t know why it’s her. I cannot fathom it anymore. It just is. I want
her. I crave her. There’s no name for what I want from her.
The realization strikes a pang of actual fear in me. Because I don’t know
what she feels about me. And I don’t know if I want to ask.
“How do you say Noah in Sanskrit-Tamil?” I ask her idly.
“Noah.”
“And how about?” I whisper a really filthy demand in her ear.
 Queenie blushes and bats me away. “I don’t know how to say that, you
jerk!”
I laugh and comb through her hair, spilling over the couch cushions.
“Fine. How about something easy? How about ‘I want you’?”
She pretends to consider it for a moment. Then she turns fully into me.
Holds me in her arms. My heart picks up speed again. So does my cock.
“Ennekku nee vennum,” she says in a low voice. Thoughtful. Solemn.
“Ennekku nee vennum.” I mangle the phrase beyond redemption.
She smiles. And her eyes are dark and intense, honey brown pools of
feeling and desire. “It actually translates to, ‘For me, you’re the want.’ Not I
want you.”
I cup her cheek, spearing my fingers through the tangle of hair. “For
me,” I say solemnly. “You’re the want.”

We say nothing for a long, drawn-out moment.

Then, Queenie kisses me with all her heart, open and giving and wet
and deep. Still, I want more. I want everything all over again. We’re sticky
and messy and the couch leather groans against my movements. We’re an
incredibly tight fit on the generous couch.
I know I should be a gentleman and take her to a proper bed.
“Am I?” she asks, shakily when I stop for breath. Our lips are still
melded together. “Am I your want?”
I take her hand to my heart, beating recklessly fast. Like I’m about to
take the winning runs of a match. Like I’m running the twelfth mile on a ten
miler. Like I’m about to make Devika Queenie Madhavan mine all over
again.
Then, I take her hand lower. To where my cock juts out. Brushing
against her sensitive skin. All ready. All hers. All wanting. All over again.
“You’re the want, Queenie,” I answer baldly. “You’re it.”
She kisses me hard then, mashing our lips together. Her nails scratching
my face in her desperation. Insistent and inevitable. My fate coming to meet
me.
I shuck off the used condom and wear the next one, while we kiss like
horny, horny teenagers. Fumbling under the sheets with panting breaths and
handsy hands. The blanket falls off my back. Uncovering us both.
She doesn’t mind. She’s too busy licking and biting the curve of my
shoulder.
“God, you’re so…” Queenie kisses me again. Wherever she can find
skin. And space.
I quiver inside when she does it. Each time she does it. My blood rushes
to whichever spot her diligent mouth finds.
But I don’t make it easy for her because I’m eating at her tits. The curve
of them beckoning me with their scent and feel. Heavy and perfect. They
overflow against my palms, and I love that.
“So… what?”
“I don’t have words. I can’t thi—” Queenie arches, shudders and can’t
talk anymore.
I grab the backs of her knees and shove them a little higher than last
time. She goes one step farther and crosses them at the small of my back,
giving me full and complete access.
I brush my thumb over her curls and find her wet. Moisture staining and
sticking to my fingers. I press into her hot cunt.
She moans. Loud and unfettered, her honey brown eyes drifting shut.
“Don’t…” I grit out as I place a finger inside. Make sure she really is
ready for me. She clenches around my finger, and I go cross-eyed with
pleasure. “Don’t close your eyes,” I pant out.
“I—” She shakes her head.
“You can. Please. For me.” I kiss her again. “For me, please.”
Queenie opens her eyes with effort. Lashes trembling against the lids.
I feel ten feet tall, a fucking king, when I slowly carefully ease into her
in this new position. Her breath catches at the movement, the tension and
give of it. For a second, a hot, immeasurably hot second, her entrance
denies me. Then she relaxes against me, and I slide in. Bit by bit.
She arches into me, with every stroke. I watch her. Watch the minutest
of expressions go off in her lovely face. How it changes from tension to
need to surprise to fulfilment. How her well-kissed mouth goes slack and
draws breath audibly. How her cheeks flood with color and flushes down
her neck, to her chest.
Queenie Madhavan blushes with her whole body, I think with wonder.
With one last rocking, I am seated in her.
 She moves her hand restlessly over my back. Urging me with small,
urgent fingers.
I don’t move.
She strangles out. “Move.”
“For me,” I rock into her.
Queenie cries out, high and thin, and her eyes almost drift shut. But she
opens them at the last moment.
“You’re the want,” I say before I withdraw completely and go all the
way in again. The sensation of her muscles hugging me, inviting me, taking
me is so good I’m breathless, mindless with it.
My back flexes with the need to move, to hurry. But I don’t. I draw it
out. I hold her in my arms, her shoulders, her waist. I stroke in and out.
Queenie cries out again, burying her lips in my bicep, so my skin absorbs it
through osmosis.
I love it. I need it. Again and again.
I move a little faster, hitting her channel deliberately. The withdrawal
and surging a pleasure-pain for me. My knees shake a little from the
enormity of it.
Seeing this strong, brave, independent, hellcat of a woman come apart
for me. Because I’m taking her. I’m moving in her. And she’s letting me.
It’s a privilege, a gift.
I kiss her forehead. And then seal my lips to hers, as I go faster, losing
control because even I can’t hold back anymore. Against the feelings or the
tide of desire burning my bones into ash. Making me hers in every way that
counts.
This time, I can’t hold back my orgasm. It hits me all of a sudden. A
thunderstorm I have to ride out. I stretch her out in every way possible,
eating at her lips, her stiff peaks, the scented cove of her neck. And I
hammer into her, wringing every last bit of pleasure I can when I come.
My eyes crash shut against the pleasure consuming me.
So, I can only feel her when I jet into her. Hot and spurting and endless.
When she murmurs my name, so brokenly.
Noah. Noah.
And I know, in the deepest corners of my heart… I can’t lie anymore.
Queenie comes against me, her cunt clenching my cock so tight it
makes me breathless. She contracts and undulates, her knees dig into my
back, leaving grooves there. Her nails dig into my skin, making permanent
marks. Branding me.
For me, she is the only want.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘ANYONE BUT YOU’ BY STILL WOOZY

AN HOUR LATER, we pick up the trail of clothes we left in the foyer and
the family room. Noah offers to throw them in the wash, and I let him.
I’m still shy around him as I wrap the blanket around my extremely
wrung-out body and climb the stairs to my bedroom for a much-needed
shower. I order Noah to shower separately because his obsidian eyes gleam.
They say, I will have you now. And I’ll let him. Because I want to have
him too.
I slump against the shower as the quakes of my climaxes (six!) move
through me. I’m a boneless, nerveless heap.
I will never forget tonight as long as I’m alive. From the fight and then
those things he said. And then the rainy ride. And then all of this. I hug all
of these memories close. Make a home for them in the happiest memories
album in my heart.
I am not super experienced. Because I’m a driven, ambitious college
student. But I did do the deed with three boys on campus. On their dorm
beds or in mine. And they were adequate. I didn’t feel unsafe or blah with
them.
But this…with Noah, this is…I truly have no words to describe it. No
way to analyze it.
It exists in its own dimension. Separate and pristine. A unique miracle.
With Noah I feel alive. And safe. Safe enough to do anything. Give him
whatever he wants. Because he always asks me for it. He makes me feel
seen. Not just seen, but cherished.
 It’s the thing romance novels are made of. This feeling of flying and
feeling secure at the same time. Isn’t it? This is what Jane Austen wrote
about.
I smile and hug myself in delight. Allowing the cold water to wash out
the conditioner from my tangled curls.
I am cherished by the Aussie boy I accidentally kissed at a party.
It’s the loveliest feeling ever.

“If you’re not out in three minutes, I’m coming in,” Aussie boy calls out.
“My hair! No!” I shriek, touching it reflexively. “Don’t you dare.”
“Three minutes.” He bangs on the door for good measure.
I hurry through the rest of my shower and exit the bathroom with
dripping wet hair. Wrapping a towel around me in double quick time.
I slam into Noah at the entrance.
He kisses the top of my wet hair. “That was too fucking long.”
“You’re clingy,” I observe. I walk around him and grab my after-shower
hair products. “I didn’t know you were clingy.”
“I have you in my arms. Finally. Call me clingwrap,” he says smugly.
“What are you doing?”
I sit on the chair and flip my hair down. And start scrunching in product.
“I’m taking care of this hair you’re obsessed with.”
“Is that hair gel?” He sounds fascinated.
“No.” My words are muffled. “It’s leave-in. And then I’ll add gel and
finally curl cream. And then it takes forever to dry.”
“That’s a lot of maintenance,” he observes.
“Fuck, yeah.” I scrunch in the gel and leave off the cream. I’m way too
tired to do it. I straighten up.
“You’re not adding the…” He checks the tube of curling cream. “Set
and Forget Curlz Cream?”
“I’m too tired. My hands hurt.”
“Can I do it then?” Noah offers sincerely. “If you’re okay with it.”
I straighten up slowly. And push my hair back the right way. I’m
suddenly breathless. And nervous. No one’s ever offered to take care of my
hair for me.
 “You squeeze a circle in your palms and then sort of smear them on
both hands?” I do a smearing motion.
He does what I tell him.
Then, he stands behind me and applies the product per my instructions.
Untangling the curls with his hands, scrunching up the ends. And he does it
quietly and competently. When he’s done, he goes to wash his hands.
I just wipe mine on the towel. “Why did you do that?” I clench my
fingers on the ends when I am done.
“Do what?” Noah dries his hands on the towel I’d hung on the stand. He
is in grey sweatpants and nothing else. And those damned Adonis Dimples
wink at me, flashes of sexiness I am mesmerized by.
“You know…” I point at my nicely cared-for hair. “That.”
“You were too tired to do it, so I did it for you.”
“That’s—" I try to find fault with his logic. I can’t. “Why aren’t you a
typical jock? You know. Rude and arrogant and a jerk. Throwing your
charm around for girls to shimmy out of their underwear for you?” I
grumble.
“I’m fairly confident you said my middle name was asshole not too long
ago. And as for my charm.” He touches the towel edges, right at the top of
my breast. “You’ve shimmied into a towel, haven’t you?” He even winks,
the bastard.
“How can you make me mad and laugh at the same time?” I grumble
some more.
“I live to serve you, Queen Queenie.”
I laugh and wrap my arms around his neck.
“Is this thing coming off?” Noah fingers the towel again. “I’ve had
fantasies about this moment, you know?” His eyes begin heating up. Even
his cheeks go hollow under the beard. Like he’s already aroused.
The man has the strength of a stevedore.
“What moment?” My foot pops off. Just like in the movies. I touch the
V on his waist. He smells of freshly washed laundry and summer rain. He
smells like he could belong to me.
I don’t know why I am not more scared of the thought.
“You out of your shower. Wearing nothing but this towel.” He touches
my thigh under the towel. My skin heats up, water vaporizing off me. “Then
I unravel it.”
I grab his hand when he goes to untuck it from my chest.
 “Noah!” I shriek in warning.
He sighs and tucks it back in. “And the moment remains a fantasy still.”
I make him turn his back as I hunt for panties and quickly wear them
before he changes his mind.
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow?” I ask him quickly.
“Shirt? Why?”
I throw my hands up. “So, I can dance with it.” At his blank look I
elaborate with, “To wear, dummy. It’s a fantasy of mine.” I wink, sexily, I
hope.
“Do not move.” He orders, a devilish gleam in his eye. “Not one inch.”

Noah comes back before I have taken five full breaths. And throws me his
Barrons Bay Challengers jersey. “Hurry up! Quickly.”
“Turn around.”
“Uh-huh!” He shakes his head and lies spread eagled on the bed. “I am
not missing out on watching this, woman. Now, hurry up.”
I roll my eyes. And tug the jersey up and over my head and arms. Then I
wear it quickly and whip the towel off. He’s so tall, the thing comes over to
my knees, like an oversize nightshirt.
I cock my hip. “Am I a supermodel or what?”
Noah sits up slowly. And says not a word.
I walk toward him. And press one knee on his thigh.
Outside, the first of the night’s fireworks start going off over the bay.
“Well?” I prompt him, one hand on his shoulder.
“I wouldn’t be afraid to touch a supermodel. She’s not real.” His hand
finds my waist. Spans it. His fingers shake slightly. “You’re real.”
I sink into Noah, straddling him at the waist and he holds me tight. So
tight, our hearts beat as one.
Our kiss, when it comes, rivals the heat and drama of the fireworks
dancing in the sky. And it doesn’t fade long after the fireworks have.
It’s yet another memory to place in my happiest memories album.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘YEH ISHQ HAI’ BY SHREYA GHOSHAL

“DO you know what I don’t understand?” Mischa asks me a few days later.
She’s sprawled on my bed, flipping through the pages of my newest book
obsession – Graceling by Kristin Cashore. It’s about a royal assassin who
falls in love with the guy whose uncle she is meant to kill. And it is badass.
“What?”
“First, why are you wasting your time reading this fluff.” She taps the
book cover. “When you need to be catching up on your texts for next
semester. And secondly.” She sits up and gives me a pensive look. “Aren’t
you moving awfully fast with Noah?”
I duck out of the bathroom where I’m shaving my face, without nicking
myself. “Fiction expands the mind and imagination and helps with
cognitive behavior changes. So, the only reason I can think of for you to
diss on my book babies is because of Noah.”
She puts her chin on her knees and doesn’t look at me. Just worries the
toe ring on her middle toe. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, Meesh. I know you too well.”
I scrape off the last of the cream with my blade and splash water on my
face. I talk to her as I wipe down the excess water. “Would you believe me
if I said he makes me happy? He helps me be present?” I smile goofily.
“And the constant multiple orgasms is a nice side benefit I cannot
overlook.”
“We’ll table the orgasms for the moment and focus.” Mischa shakes her
head. “You’re a chronic overthinker. And you don’t trust anyone anymore.
You said this yourself back when I told you to talk to Teddy and maybe ask
him out. And here you are…playing house with this stranger and doing the
deed with him after knowing him, what, seven weeks?”
“Yes, but—” I sit on the bed next to her and nudge her shoulder with
mine. She doesn’t budge. “I thought I had a crush on Teddy because he’s
obviously good-looking. He plays cricket and he was nice to me when I was
waiting on him,” I say slowly. Trying to put into words the evolution of my
feelings for Noah. Trying to make sense of them myself. “I think I also
liked him because I didn’t want to do anything with the like.”
“Okay.” She sounds even more skeptical than before.
“With Noah, we began in such an unconventional way I didn’t even get
a choice to do anything differently. He just showed up and swept me away.”
My lips twitch as I now think back to our first days of fighting and
bickering.
I now understand it was all the unresolved sexual tension between us.
And the very real moral lines we’d drawn.
“I mean, I kissed him before I said hello to him, Meesh. And he has
never once, not for a second, taken advantage of that fact or any other. He’s
done so much more for me than anyone else. And he did it without any
agenda.”
Mischa sighs. “Then send him a thank you card. Don’t…” She waves
her hand at the room, where some of Noah’s things are lying on the couch
and the chairs. “Cohabit with him?”
Since we spend a lot of time together, in bed and out of it (and in the
kitchen, and the bathroom, and the backseat of his Jeep), it’s natural for his
things to be around more. Besides, we’ve been sharing a bed for almost a
month now. Even before we started sleeping together.
“It’s just for a few more weeks, Mischa. Till the end of summer,” I try to
reassure her. But just saying the words fill my heart with a pang. I try not to
think about it, but this…thing…with Noah has a time limit. Sand running
through an hourglass.
Our summer, this summer… is unreal. A vacation from who I really am.
Who he probably really is. So, it’s easy to fall into it with abandon.
But it might not hold up in the cold chill of autumn and beyond.
Summer romances are special because they live in their own bubble,
right?
“Do you believe yourself?” Mischa searches my eyes, looking for an
answer even I can’t find.
 “I have spent my whole life, since I was five, with every second of my
life planned out,” I say, instead. “I’ve been singularly focused on getting
into med school and make Amma and Appa proud of me for as long as I can
remember. It’s taken up all of my time. All of it. I’m finally living for me,
you know?” I say softly.
“I finally breathe freely. I smile freely,” I admit the truth. “And it’s not
just because Noah makes me forget what that asshole did to Dolly and me.
It’s because I like who I am when I am with him. Even when we’re
fighting.”
Mischa sighs and hugs me. “You really like him, don’t you?”
I blink. And shrug. “I’m trying not to put a label on it.”
And I really am not. Fake boyfriend and girlfriend works as well as
anything else. And we haven’t talked about any of this for the last two
weeks since the Fourth of July party.
I never feel the need to when I am in his presence. Because he is so
intent on me, I don’t need words to understand how he feels.
And yes, I am a little scared to ask too. Because we have known each
other a short while. And too much has happened in this short while.
And to be honest, I haven’t felt the need to have a partner, a boyfriend, a
romantic relationship so far because no one interested me as much as the
life I was building for myself as a doctor. But Noah’s interesting and
fascinating and dramatic and just…so there I have to take notice of him,
whether I like it or not.
But most of all, asking Noah about the future means I have to face
mine. And I’m not ready to, not yet.
“And you’re happy?” she asks again, doubtful.
“The happiest,” I assure her. And hug her back tightly. “If I had known
sex was meant to be this kind of awesome, I might have practiced it more
with the idiot from Psych class.” I wink at her.
Mischa laughs and shakes her head. “You really have changed, Queenie.
And it looks good on you.”

I mull over her words a few hours later when I’m on my shift at the diner.
Mischa is not wrong. I had made plans with her to study and catch up on
my reading and notes for the next semester. The plan was always to go back
to school in the fall, once spring semester passed me by. Continue my med
school journey.
But meeting Noah, watching him and Fox and Ares be so incredibly
passionate and focused about cricket is… defining me. They get up at all
hours of the day and put in untold hours of practice and drills. They also are
sticklers with diet and rest, especially before match day.
I have a ringside view of dedication, determination, passion, and
ambition coming together to make an impossible dream come true.
It’s what I need in order to get through the next decade of med school.
Except…except…I shake my head. All these exceptions and thinking
about the nebulous future gives me a cluster headache.
My phone buzzes. Since I’m in the pantry, I extract it from my apron
and check it.
“What do you want?” I ask by way of greeting.
“You in my lap, while I feast on your tits,” Noah answers promptly.
I laugh and hold the phone in the crook of my neck. I remove the
ketchup and mustard bottles for refilling. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m honest,” he retorts.
“Did you call me just to flirt incorrigibly with me or is there an actual
purpose for this call?”
“I can do both, can’t I?”
“Noah!” I admonish him.
“I get hard every time you use your strict doctor voice with me,
Hellcat.” His voice drops a sexy octave. “Do it again.”
I squeeze my legs together because of an answering reaction in my
panties. And then, because I’m so distracted I say, “And what if I tell you I
don’t want to be a doctor, strict or otherwise?”
“You don’t?”
I hesitate a microsecond before answering him truthfully, “I’m actually
keen on neuroscience. As a career. I want to research the mysteries of the
brain and find answers to them. Maybe even find a connection to why
certain people get affected by neurological diseases like Alzheimer’s and
Parkinson’s.”
“That’s heavy-duty.” Noah’s quiet, thoughtful.
“It is. It’s still medicine. I am just more interested in academia than
practical application, you know,” I say softly.
 “So, you don’t have to start all over again with college?” Bless him for
asking the most practical question. “You’ll not lose out on all the education
you already have?”
“No,” I answer. “I’ll need to take a few extra classes to make up for
certain subjects. But I can essentially switch streams right now and not lose
much time.”
“That’s excellent then, Queenie. When are you starting?” He sounds so
completely sincere tears spurt in my eyes.
Mischa’s known all the versions of me. The go-getter, the straight A
student, the dutiful daughter, the hurt and rebellious senior who dropped out
of college than deal with the mess of her college life.
But Noah’s only ever known me as a waitress at Ma’s Pantry. He’s only
ever seen me as dependent on him – whether it is helping me out by kissing
me at a party or giving me a place to stay because I’m homeless.
He has no reason to have any kind of faith in me. To believe I can do
this.
That he does, without question, is why I’m with him. Why I can’t stand
the idea of not kissing him anymore.
Noah believes in me. Period.
It is such a rare and beautiful thing, this unquestioning belief, my heart
overflows with it.
“I still have to tell my parents. I haven’t talked to them properly for two
months,” I try hard to keep my voice level even as a hot tear streaks down
my cheek. “And I’ve to fill all these forms. And Thorndon might not even
agree to keep my scholarship if I change majors now.”
“Then you’ll convince them,” he says simply. “Same with your
parents.”
“How do you know?” I demand aggressively. “I’m just a stupid waitress
at a stupid diner refilling mustard into Kitten squeezey bottles for minimum
wage.” I sniffle a little.
“Because you’re a logical woman,” Noah replies calmly. “And logic
dictates you’ll take the path required to get to your destination. Which is
becoming a neuroscientist. If it means changing majors or talking to your
parents or fighting with Thorndon, you’ll do so. I know you will.”
“I haven’t been logical with you,” I point out nastily.
“That’s because I make you lose your mind, baby,” he says cheerfully.
Arrogantly.
 I laugh through my tears. “You’re an idiot, Aussie boy.”
“I’m your idiot who misses you, so he called you to hear your voice.”
I sigh. “I get off at seven. I’ll see you then. And don’t you have
practice? Aren’t you trying to nail the cover drive you keep messing up?”
“I am. But I got the Hellcat signal in my heart, you know.”
“The Hellcat signal?”
“It’s like the Bat Signal.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Except it’s a
prickly cat with glowing eyes and curly ears.”
“I think I’m going to base my research on how a perfectly smart
Australian cricketer descended into a blithering idiot,” I say meditatively.
“I’ll save you the time. It’s because he met this curvy, gorgeous, wicked
smart desi girl who makes him lose his mind.”
“Go away, you maddening man. Have a ball or two hit your head and
get it straight.”
“I could change the location of the Hellcat signal. It could be on my
cock,” he insists drolly.
One of the other staff pokes their head in and raises their brows at me. I
hold up one finger, signaling one minute. Blushing hard at all this silly
horny talk. Really, how dramatic can he be?
“If it’s on your cock the Hellcat will not be responsible for any scratches
and marks on it.”
Noah winces. “You’re a hard woman to argue with, Queenie.”
“You’re the one who’s hard, Noah,” I say tartly. “Now, I have to go. I’ll
see you in the evening. Okay?” And I end the call before he says something
funny or touching or outrageous.
But the warm glow of his trust, his faith in me remains in my heart.
It sparks the germ of an idea for how I can do the same for him.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MAGIC’ BY COLDPLAY

I FINISH practice a few hours later. I am in a rhythm now, with most of the
drills I run, the shots I practice and perfect till I can nail them in my sleep.
We play matches almost constantly, so practice is what I can eke out when
I’m not at a match or practicing with the team.
The weird thing is, given the high stakes pressure of the situation and
how the end of summer will decide if I ever get to play professional cricket,
I still feel more settled. More at peace, more at ease in my skin, now.
Maybe because I am not high strung and wired inside out. Maybe
because I don’t take wins and losses personally (I don’t punch walls
anymore!). Maybe it is time, and the perspective afforded me from being
sober.
Or maybe it’s because I have something, someone more fascinating to
occupy my mind with, so I play my natural game the best I can.
I turn the thought over in my head.
Is Queenie the catalyst to bring about this change in me? Making me a
better cricket player, a good captain? Is it even possible or fair to me and
my years of hard work and sacrifice to credit her so arbitrarily?
To be sure, when I am thinking about her or trying to not think about her
or thinking about what she’s thinking about, it’s easy to just be in the flow,
in the moment. I don’t think about my game. I don’t have room to think. I
just play. Automatically. Letting my instincts take over and guide my body
and brain.
But it’s so much more. It’s this town. We play to nearly empty stadiums,
but I’m forced to play my best game every time, every day because it’s the
right thing to do. Not because I’m a wannabe superstar with pleasing
crowds. It’s not even to impress the coaches.
It’s because I love the game. I want to do right by it. That means playing
it to the best of my ability.
Queenie helps to bring about that focus in me, because I want to play
my best for her too. My real fake girlfriend.
I wonder what Miss Neuroscientist will say if I present this theory of
distraction and focus to her.
Which brings me to my next thought, as I slip into civilian clothes in the
empty locker room.
She wants to switch streams and careers. A huge, massive decision. One
she probably hasn’t made lightly and without much forethought. I mean,
this was a woman who wrote a twenty-point roommate agreement before
moving in with me and my mates. She’s thorough, practical and logical.
I’m fucked because I find all of her hopelessly fascinating.
I am also, selfishly, thrilled with her new career. Neuroscience is a
demanding, specialized career. But it doesn’t need a license to be practiced.
She doesn’t need to be in America and have a medical license to be a
neuroscientist. She can do so anywhere else too and be equally fucking
brilliant at it.
Like, in Australia. With me. The thought sneaks up on me. Unbidden.
Insidious. A small wish.
Hold your horses, boy-o, I caution myself.
We just became an official real couple a few days ago. And we haven’t
talked about anything concrete. Like the future. Like what happens after
summer ends.
I haven’t because until the last ball is played and the call to the selector
is made, I don’t even have a future. Not a real one. And it is unfair to put
that kind of weight on Queenie when my own future is so uncertain.
Besides, she is so prickly and vulnerable, I know any discussion of this
nature will freak her out more than anything.
I am freaked out too and I am actually okay with it. Kind of. Maybe.
We haven’t even taken the fake off the boyfriend-girlfriend thing.
Mostly because whenever Queenie comes within touching distance, all I
want is to snatch her up and devour her. All the rest can wait.
And because she’s not indicated she wants anything to change either.
Except in the bedroom department.
 I haven’t allowed a woman, a person, to really affect me since mum
died because having people and losing them is hard but with Queenie, I
don’t know…it seems almost inevitable. For some reason.
I give my reflection a sheepish smile in the locker room mirror.
After a whole lifetime of only obsessing over cricket, I’ve finally found
a new object of obsession. Except, she turns out to be even more elusive
than the sport I want to shine in.
Go figure, Dumaine.

I walk out of the locker room and jog into the tunnels. I want to know more
about this neuroscience thing and see how I can help Queenie out with it.
Before I take her clothes off and she helps me with my problem of needing
her too fucking much.
I am surprised to see the waiter kid, Simon Archer, waiting for me there.
With him is another kid, dark-haired and blue-eyed. He has the same
arrogant tilt to his chin. Must be Archer’s brother.
“G’day, mates,” I say easily. Although I know something is up. These
two wouldn’t show up, just like that. A fist pounds in my chest when a
horrifying thought strikes me. “Is Queenie okay?” I ask quickly. “Is she
alright?”
Simon looks at the other kid who frowns. “I told you, Jace, he was
going to worry about her if he sees us.” He holds out a hand and Jace slides
a fiver in there. “Hi, Noah.” Simon smiles cheekily at me and pockets the
money. “Meet my brother, Jace. He just lost five dollars to me because of
you.”
“I didn’t know he was into her. I thought it was just you know…a
summer fling,” the younger kid grumbles. He shoots me an accusing glance
anyway.
My fingers twitch with the need to take the twerp by his collar and
shake him till he apologizes. But I shrug, indifferently. I am the adult in this
situation, after all. “Is that all? Can I go now?” I smile cheekily at both of
them. “I have a date with a beautiful woman, and she doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.”
Jace makes an ewww face and Simon laughs.
 “That’s kind of why we are here.”
I stop smiling. “Explain. Now. Fast,” I order them.
“Your date wants you to go someplace else,” Simon says. “She asked us
to take you there,” Jace adds. And Simon ends with, “She’s running a little
late and forgot to text you.”
“Of course, she did,” I murmur. I am too tired for the games these
blokes are playing at my expense. “Alright, then. Let’s get to it, shall we?” I
heft my heavy kit bag. It weighs a thousand fucking pounds after an eight-
hour day at the nets, trying to perfect the damn cover drive I still cannot get
right.
Jace shows some class and manners when he holds out a hand so he can
carry the bag for me.
Simon hands me a daisy and a note. “You should tuck that in your jacket
pocket,” he suggests. “It’s a boutonniere,” he explains. “A flower for your
buttons.” I do as he asks and contemplate reading the note. But I don’t want
to give these kids any more ammunition, so I just walk out with them.
“Can I ask you something?” Jace asks, diffidently.
“Yeah?”
“Why cricket?” At my raised brow, he elaborates with, “I know cricket’s
huge in Australia, along with Australian Rules Football.” I smile, impressed
at the kid for swotting. “But why choose cricket?”
I want to tell him about my mother and her love for the gentleman’s
game. About the hours I spent watching matches with her. Her animation,
her enthusiasm for it when she was dying by inches. But that story is for
Queenie and Queenie alone.
“Do you know how much cricketers make if they play the T20 leagues
and international cricket?” I ask instead.
Jace shakes his head. Simon looks intrigued.
I name a figure; it’s in the mid-seven figures. “And this is an average
player. Not even the elite players with all their sponsorship and
endorsement deals. There’s a crap ton of money in the game, boys.” I grin
unabashedly at them. “And who doesn’t like to be rich, right?”
They exchange a look. It’s a peculiar combination of determination and
brokenness.
“There are some things beyond money, right?” Simon asks finally.
“Some things even money can’t buy.”
 I nod. “Yes. Being a good person matters heaps more. A good man.
Being excellent at what you do because it’s the right thing to do, a
worthwhile way to spend your time on earth. These things matter more, and
money cannot buy any of them, for sure.”
Jace hefts the bag to his other shoulder. I reach for it. “Give it here. It’s
too heavy for you to carry, kid.”
Jace gives me a long, considering look. “But you’ve been playing for
hours now, haven’t you? You must be tired.”
“You can’t carry it alone, and I don’t want you to drop it and mess up
the way I arranged my things inside.”
Simon takes one of the handles from his younger brother. “We’ll carry it
together.”
I blink. They are not bad kids at all, if they have this much empathy.
Simon shrugs and throws my own words back at me. “It’s the right
thing to do, isn’t it?”

The Archer brothers pepper me with questions about the game, my

technique, my mindset when I win matches and lose them, the captaincy
aspect, all the way to the ride in town. Simon directs me to the middle of
town, driving away from Ma’s Pantry, where I was supposed to meet
Queenie, like always.
We end up near the fanciest building. He makes me park the Jeep in an
alley behind the most famous business in town, House of Niamh Atelier. It’s
a world-famous designer brand known for its stylish and affordable clothes.
There are HON stores in every city in Australia, too.
Jace treats me to a small history lesson on the company and the family
that runs it. And ends with, “Anyway the younger daughter of the company
owners, the Rais, is my best friend. And she’s the reason we’re here.”
“I was the one who called her,” Simon says snidely. Although I catch
him watching his brother speculatively.
“Can one of you explain to me what’s going on?”
“We’ll leave it to Queenie to do that. But you should know this,” Simon
says solemnly. “We love Queenie with all our hearts. She’s the older sister
we never had, because we’re the heads of our family. So please be nice to
her. She deserves it.”
I blink again. “I—” I’m taken aback by the threat and entreaty.
“What he means is, a baseball bat does as much damage as a cricket bat
when it comes to bodily injuries,” Jace adds with a perfectly pleasant smile.
Well, that is a threat.
I’m saved from answering it because the subject of our little
conversation careens up in Lizzie Bonnet and screeches to a stop behind my
Jeep. She gets out of the car with a huge wicker basket in one hand.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘TIPTOEING’ BY HOPE TALA

“SORRY, sorry, I was supposed to be here already. Sorry.” She hugs Jace
first and then Simon and finally beams a distracted smile at me.
“Here, let me take that.” I take the basket from her and almost swear.
The thing is heavy. “What do you have in here? Rocks?” I grumble.
Queenie laughs. “Thank you so much, you two. I owe you pies and fries
for this.” She takes my arm and waves the two of them.
The young twerps nod at me, man-to-man, and walk away. They are
strange but good kids.
Then my attention is occupied by the woman next to me. “What are you
wearing?” I eye her outfit.
She’s in white pants; her white tee shirt stretches enticingly over her tits.
I can see the faint outline of her red bra under it. I wonder how long it will
take for me to take it off her. Five seconds? Ten?
“I’m wearing cricket whites,” Queenie says proudly.
“Huh? What?” I’m confused. “Why?”
“You’ll see. Come on.” She urges me up the stairs and into the darkened
shopfront.
“We have to sneak in because the owners are out for the weekend and
no one’s supposed to be here at night without permission,” she whispers as
she leads me through the workshop floor.
I hold the basket and my kit bag, almost collapsing from the fatigue.
“I’m tired beyond words, Queenie. All I want is another hot shower and
some hot grub and then you. So can we just…?”
 She squeezes my hand. “Just give me five minutes? If you don’t like it,
we can go back home.”
“Home. I like the sound of that,” I muse out loud. And it’s true. The
cottage feels like home now because of the meals we all have together.
Because of nights spent playing video games with Queenie and then
wrestling her in bed. Because of mornings watching her sleep peacefully
before I slip out for my morning workout.
I lug all the shit up two winding flights of stairs, until I’ve worked up a
sweat. Finally, Queenie opens a door, and we’re on a closed rooftop.
She flips on a switch and the place is lit up.
“I thought you said we’re not supposed to be here.”
She points at the black glass enclosing us in our own private bubble,
twenty feet up. “This is sunproof glass. Light doesn’t come through here,
but we can see out without anyone noticing us.”
She motions me to keep the stuff on the stone floor and walk over to the
edge with her.
I put my arms around her waist, so I’m clasping the railing, my chin on
top of her head.
I check out the whole of the town, Main Street and all the others. The
distant drama of the cliffs, the expensive houses and the ocean are all
visible from here. As we watch, the sun dips down over the cliffs and slips
into the Bay. And as the sky darkens, the lights on the street come on, one
by one.
It’s stunning.
“Isn’t it just so pretty?” Queenie looks up at me. Her eyes are beaming a
sultry, sunshine brown.
I kiss the top of her head. “The prettiest.” But my view is better.
“We can enjoy the view for another two minutes. Then it’s time for the
next surprise.”
I smile into her hair. “Trust you to time our romantic date.”
“This is not a date,” she protests indignantly.
“Then what is it?” I clutch her closer and rub against her back.
Suggestively.
Queenie melts into me and makes an incoherent sound. And then shakes
her head and bumps my chest with her head. “This is a training session.”
“It’s a what?” I’m properly bewildered now.
 She slides out from under my arm and walks to the other side of the
massive rooftop. Pulls off the canvas off the contraption kept there. It’s a
ball-dispensing machine.
“What the fuck is this?” I demand.
“So, I’ve been thinking about your inability to get the cover drive
right,” she says smugly as she fiddles with it. “And, of course, it means my
Virat is superior to you because he’s a master of the shot.” She shoots me a
smug smile over her shoulder.
“Your Virat can kiss my—” I begin, annoyed.
Queenie laughs her full-throated laugh. “I can just imagine him doing
that. It’s hot! My two favorite players going at it.”
My annoyance dissipates a little. A warm glow strikes my heart because
I’m one of her favorite players. I stride toward her. “Desi girl, what’s going
on? And start talking fast because your five minutes are up.”
“I’m getting to it. If you’ll just give me a –” She grunts and pulls a final
lever. “Second.”
“Behold the Cover Drive Maker.” Queenie stands arms akimbo. “I made
Fox and Ares calibrate the machine to the exact height the ball needs to be,
for you to make your shot between the covers.”
“There aren’t any covers here.” I look around. The place is empty of
fielders covering me.
“Use your imagination, Dumaine. Come on.”
“Alright. Alright. What do you need me to do?” I am too tired to argue
with her.
“Glove up and take guard? Over there?” She suggests.
I do as she says, just to shut her up.
“Better wear your helmet too.” She smiles secretively.
“The ball’s supposed to be waist-height for me to hit the cover drive,
Queenie. You know this already.”
But I wear the helmet, nonetheless.
Strangely, she wears pads that she removes from the wicker basket and
a helmet too. Then she stands in front of me, between bat and pad.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to teach me how to play the shot. That’s how you’re
going to perfect it.” Queenie winks at me over her shoulder. “I suck at
hand-eye coordination, so this is going to be fun.”
“Fuck—” I protest.
 Before I can say another word, a ball blitzes at us. At breakneck speed.
It’s blue in color.
Queenie screams and I grip the bat and her and bend her forward. “Put
your left foot forward,” I tell her grimly.
She is a second too late.
The paintball splashes against her pad and my precious bat.
She winces. “It hurts. No one ever told me paintball hurts.”
“That’s your plan? To use paintball? Bend.” I snarl at her as the next
ball comes at us.
This time, I force her into position. My left foot forward, my back foot
takes all the pressure. I flick my wrist a little because I can see the red ball
coming so clearly at me.
And Queenie.
I chuck the ball away a little better. Imagining the players standing to
cover us. Waiting to take a catch or simply dive and stop the ball.
Thwack, the thing goes off on my bat. Right in the middle.
But the direction of the ball is timed right, between the covers.
“Just, do what I tell you to,” I instruct her. Then I just move her foot and
hands where I need them to be before the next ball comes at us.
This one is purple and probably doing two hundred kilometers an hour.
“How fast is this thing set at?”
“Fox said, the faster it is the better it is for you.” Queenie’s voice is
gratifyingly small. “So, about one fifty miles an hour.”
“I’m going to kill—” THWACK between the covers. “That fucker.”
“That’s the center! It middled to cover drive!” Queenie yells happily.
“How many rotations on one cycle?” I bark, getting ready for the next
ball. Not thinking, just doing.
I don’t like the idea of Queenie getting hurt. It happens in the next ball.
I’m a fraction too slow and the purple smatters all over the front of our
shirts.
“EEECK!” Queenie screams.
“You should move,” I tell her grimly.
“Not until you nail this shot,” she says equally grimly.
I go ten, twelve more times. Before my arms do the thinking for me. My
legs become accustomed to the exact direction of the shot. I’m even able to
move my head in the proper angle, even with Queenie tucked under my
chin.
Her waist gets the brunt of a yellow ball. My thigh gets the worst of a
black one.
But, somehow, at the end of twenty, extremely fraught, yell-y minutes,
I’m getting the hang of the cover shot.
“You got this?” Queenie asks.
“Yes! I did. Now can we⁠—”
The next ball to come at me is the shiny red season ball. It’s instinct and
instinct alone which saves the ball from hitting Queenie in her crotch and
unwomaning her.
I take up guard, go on the front foot, forcing her to follow me. She
bends when I bend, and we take the shot together.
The ball thwacks right between the imaginary covers to roll gracefully
and fast at the very end of the rooftop. Where it rests. Ever so gently.
I give her a look of surprised delight. “I made it,” I whisper urgently. “I
made that shot.”
Queenie shrugs. “You have to make it like thirty more times. Then
you’ll really have learned it.”
“You’re going to stand in front of me the whole time?”
“You always say I distract you at odd times and you need to get out of
your head.” She shrugs again. “I just combined those two facts into this
little experiment. Back foot,” she barks.
The ball comes at me again and this time, she swings the bat with me.
Our bodies, our breaths in sync.
“You used neuroscience on me?” I pant slightly after the next ball rolls
to a stop next to the previous one.
“Yes. I used neuroscience to rewire the pathways of your brain so it can
associate the cover shot with this training session than…” We move
together in preparation for the next shot.
“Whatever you did before,” she finishes breathlessly.
Thwack! The ball goes off the middle of my bat and runs to join its
other two brothers in the same spot.
My heart thuds. In gratitude. In fascination. In blessed relief. In
something huge and unnamable because this woman took the time to
understand my problem and solve it for me. In the most creative of ways.
“God!” I shout in her ear. “I’m crazy about you.”
I smack the next ball as hard as it can go, right between the covers so it
almost flies to the edge of the rooftop. The fifth ball to do so.
Her shy, delighted smile is my own personal miracle.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘STARLIGHT’ BY JAI WOLF, MR. GABRIEL/ ‘ONLY’ BY
RY X

NOAH CONTINUES PLAYING ball after ball for a vigorous thirty-

minute session. My all-white outfit gets thoroughly splattered like I’m
playing the Holi festival of colors.
He becomes better and better at reading the ball, with each shot he
makes.
After the first few balls, I step aside to watch him perfect the shot that’s
troubled him so. And marvel at the precise arch and curve of his body, long
hands and legs working in perfect coordination, in excellent tandem…even
the way his tapered chin dips toward the ball is a thing of precise definition
and beauty.
I fall a little bit more for him when I see him play with absolute and
total focus.
In the last fifteen minutes, I collect all the balls he’s hit over the rooftop.
When I’m done, I put them in the duffel bag.
When the last ball of the machine spits out, Noah lets it go and walks
towards me. He even throws his helmet and bat on the ground.
We meet in the middle of the rooftop.
“Well?” I hold a red season ball. “What do you think? Think you can hit
the perfect four through the covers in the next match?”
He sweeps me off my feet and hoists me up over his waist. I shriek and
yell. Then he swings me around, while I hold onto his neck with both
hands, digging grooves into his shoulders. His skin.
“Can you not do that? It’s scary!”
 Noah lets me slide down his sweaty and color-filled length. And kisses
me on the nose. “Now you know how I felt like when you stood in front of
me.”
“But I got the result I wanted. So did you,” I retort indignantly.
“I had to. Your parents would have murdered me if I let a ball flying at
two hundred kilometers per hour hit your pretty face.” He sounds so
aggrieved and relieved at the same time. “Plus, I like your pretty face too
much.”
I giggle at his convoluted reasoning. “Actually, my sister would totally
approve of you. She’d forgive you my murder because you’re so hot and
have a cute butt.”
“Oh yeah?” He kisses me a little harder on the lips. “And what does her
sister think of me?”
“Her sister thinks you need a shower because you stink. And I need to
lie down because I’m going to collapse in a boneless heap after swinging
that bat like a maniac for ten minutes!” But I bite his lower lip and then
soothe it with a luscious kiss.
“Her sister likes your pretty face too,” I say against his lips.
His sculpted cheeks billow out with the force of his feelings. His eyes
are obsidian again. But I can read the flashes of tectonic emotion in them.
They’re deep, depthless even. And they exist just for me. A line of sweat
runs down his philtrum. He’s flushed with a warrior-like glow.
It just delineates how incredibly ridiculously handsome he is. My dark-
haired, dark-eyed warrior.
He cups my jaw in his hands and kisses my forehead. “Thank you,”
Noah says gravely. “I’ll never forget this gift as long as I live. Thank you
for this, Queenie.”
I hold his hands in mine. I don’t answer. But the words carve a home for
themselves in my newly awakened heart.
And I’ll never forget you as long as I live.

I direct Noah to the facilities on the first floor where he takes a well-
deserved shower, while I set up the rest of our date. Rain starts pattering the
glass from above, providing a natural background music to the night.
 I absolutely have to thank the boys, Fox, Ares, Simon, and Jace, for
helping set this up. Fox and Ares grumbled no end while they calibrated the
machine to Noah’s height and filled it with paintballs. They dragged it to
the rooftop with Jace and Simon’s help.
Simon called the daughter of the House of Niamh owners and got her to
open the place for me. Jace helped me with the rest of it because Mischa
had to watch her siblings for the night.
When Noah walks back to the rooftop, he’s in the same outfit he’d worn
the night we first met.
I pause in setting out our picnic dinner and watch him move toward me.
He’s lean-hipped and long-legged. But he doesn’t move in a gangly or
awkward way. There is an athletic grace to his movements, punctuated by
when he isn’t holding the bat or running on the field.
His unbuttoned dark blue-black dress shirt flies behind him, as he
adjusts the Henley he wears over casual jeans. I told him to discard his
shoes because of the picnic blanket situation.
It’s criminal how good he looks in simple clothes. And how badly I
want him out of them.
He smiles, goofy and pleased. “You changed too?”
I point at my ruined cricket whites folded neatly at the edge of the
picnic blanket I’d set up over a large sleeping bag. “I just shimmied out of
them.”
I’m wearing a simple red summer dress which ties in a halter knot at the
base of my neck. And I tied my hair up in a bun because it is too freaking
hot, and the exertions left me sweating. And I’m braless for the first time
in…ever.
Noah kneels down and places the daisy he’d worn, behind my ear. “Hey,
daisy girl,” he says softly.
My breath hitches. “I thought it was desi.”
“I like daisy better. Mum would love it.” He picks up a cracker and dips
it in caviar before popping it whole in his mouth.
“What else did your mom love?” I finish setting up the last of our
dinner and sit cross-legged in front of him.
“Seashells,” he answers. “We used to walk the beach at Darling Beach,
the Sydney Harbor Front, and collect shells. She had a whole jar full of
them.” His smile is pure nostalgia as he has another cracker.
 Then he sighs and lies down on his elbows on the blanket. “Not that I
don’t appreciate all this…but…what brought this on?” He waves a hand
around the blanket.
I’m a little mesmerized by the veins sticking out of his hand, since he’s
pushed the sleeves of his shirt up. There’s also a dusting of light black hair
there. I want to touch them.
“I…” I take a deep breath. His gaze immediately dips to my chest. I
tingle there. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. I think it’s the whole
immigrant coming to America thing. And my parents are extremely self-
dependent. They encouraged it in my sister and me.”
“Okay.” His eyes are so patient, so focused on me. It makes it easier and
harder to talk to him. Face to face, like this.
“I really thought I had this year and all its problems under control. But
then I met you and –” I give him a weak smile. Tuck my flying hair behind
my ear. Try to put into words what he’s done for me; what it means for me.
“I am not going to list everything you’ve done which includes giving me
your actual bed to sleep in and rescuing me from a terrible, public scandal.”
“Let’s not forget the multiple orgasms.” Noah winks at me.
I put a hand on his firm thigh. He stills immediately. “I’m trying to tell
you something here.”
“You don’t have to thank me for what I’ve done, Queenie.” He puts his
hand over mine.
“No. This is not thank you.” I shake my head. “This is—” I search for
the right word. “A gift.”
“A gift,” he echoes.
“Yes.” I nod. “I want to give you something, heaps of things,” I echo his
words from long ago. “So, you can see what you mean to me.”
“You fixed my brain for me, Queenie. That’s priceless.” He twines our
fingers together. “There’s no gift big enough I can give you back.”
“That’s not—” I shake my head. And some of my hair falls forward. I
go to push it back when Noah says, “Let it be. Please?”
I let it brush against my cheek while the rain plays a symphony to my
confession. “I’ve not told anyone about the neuroscience thing. And you
were so immediately supportive of my choice I could just hug you for it,
you know.”
He widens his arms. “I’m yours to hug anytime, Hellcat.”
 “And then…” I worry the picnic blanket. “I…” I swallow and continue,
“I have never had an honest-to-god romantic date.”
“Are the men in Connecticut blind or stupid?” His peeved question
bolsters my courage.
“I have had dates before,” I say quickly. “And I’ve even done it with
other guys.”
“Who are these other guys and where do I find them?” Now he sounds
quietly dangerous.
I laugh at him. “Come on.” He looks grimly at me. “It was a long time
ago. I haven’t been with anyone since senior year began. It just got too
hectic, and I am a focused person.”
Noah inches my dress up at the knees. “I love it when your focus is on
me.”
“Anyway.” I push his hand away. “This one is for me as well as you.
The night we met doesn’t count because we didn’t call it a date, right?”
He nods. “Okay⁠—”
“So, I wanted to have a date with you. A real, romantic date. A picnic
dinner under the stars and rain.”
“I thought you were a prickly, pragmatic woman who hates all that.” He
tugs me forward. “I didn’t know you were a closet romantic.”
I land on his chest with a thump. And push myself up on my elbows.
“You’re not…you’re okay with this being a real date?” I ask him, worriedly.
“I know we haven’t talked about it or defined it but⁠—”
“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to take you on a real date?”
Noah spears a hand into my hair, dislodges half the bun. “Do you have any
idea?” He asks roughly.
“How long?” I look into his eyes and try and discern what he’s feeling.
Whether he’s on the same page as me.
“Too fucking long. If you were dating Teddy Durham, I’d have made
you break up with him. That’s how long,” he answers grimly.
I chuckle faintly. “You’re being overdramatic. Teddy never liked me. He
only saw me as the girl who served him cake and tea.”
“Teddy’s a fucking idiot. But I’m grateful to him.” He urges me closer
to him. Our lips and breaths are aligned now. I’m half sprawled over him.
“His loss is very much my win.”
“I’m not a prize to be won, Noah.” I try and push away from him.
 But he holds me in place. With just one hand on my skull. His eyes are
dark and unfathomable. A lock of his wet hair falling on his forehead.
“You’re the prize, Queenie. No one in my life has ever done what you just
did for me. You saw a problem in my game and fixed it.”
“I could have got us both concussed. It could have gone either way,” I
remind him.
He shakes his head. “Nah. You’re Queenie Madhavan.” He smiles, slow
and devilish. “Everything you do is perfect.”
I smile, pleased. A blush climbs my cheeks. “Stop talking, you liar.”
“I’m just following the script of the romantic date.” Noah kisses the tip
of my nose. “Compliments. Check. Now it’s time for the kiss.”
“We should eat. The dinner’s going to get cold,” I protest half-heartedly.
But I inch closer to him anyway.
The want inside me is a living, breathing entity. Separate and disparate.
Reckless and consuming.
“I don’t mind.” He kisses the side of my chin. Soft and sweet. Endlessly
seductive.
My knees go weak and I’m half-lying on him. “The wine needs to
breathe.”
“It can suffocate.” Noah runs a shaking hand down my arm. Takes my
palm in his and presses a kiss to it.
I tug my hand back. “That’s the kiss, then. Now let’s do dinner.”
Noah shakes his head. Slow and deliberate. “No. I want dessert first.”
His hair tickles my neck, springing chills all over my skin. I melt into
him. I give into him.
“I should at least put away the food.” I sigh against his hand, kissing the
rough palm.
“You do that. I’m eating.” He kisses his way up my arm.

I turn around awkwardly, anticipation and desire turning my belly into a

shivering mass. He is a hot, male, insistent presence at my back. Plastered
skin to skin against me.
Noah kisses the sweaty nape of my neck as I gather the watercress and
lobster salad platter I’d ordered from Domenico’s, the fanciest restaurant in
town. I place it in the basket. My sandwiches are in the wrapping paper,
untouched.
He cups my breasts and squeezes them when I put the nibbling bread
away. My breath hitches and I almost go cross-eyed from the pleasure.
I reach over and grab the crackers and caviar, going into a cat cow pose.
He pushes his erection into me, and I shudder in response.
“I want to take you like this. You on all fours and open for me. In every
way,” Noah murmurs the sinful words in my hot ear.
I choke on air. Grasp at his hand, around my waist, while I hurriedly
shove the crackers into the basket. They make a crackling sound as they
break and fall.
He pulls my floaty skirt up, inch by inch and bares my legs and thighs
to the cool night air.
Lightning strikes above followed by a crack of thunder. BOOM!
I almost jump out of my skin at the sound. And the sensation of Noah’s
rough fingers skimming the wet gusset of my panties.
“I—” I think I love you, I think wildly, disjointedly to myself.
“Don’t talk,” he instructs. He kisses the side of my neck. Licks it.
“Don’t think.”
I shudder endlessly and put an arm around his neck to brace myself.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Noah kisses my bare
shoulders and the blades. “Do you?”
I shiver delicately. “I’m just me,” I strangle out. Holding him tighter.
“I’m just me,” I repeat, helplessly.
And really, I don’t get it. My want for Noah has been intellectualized
from the first day. He is handsome and pretty and decent and fun. And I am
crazy about the V at his pelvis. And he plays cricket like a fucking god.
“Exactly.” He sweeps the half-falling bun to the other side. Finding new
and sensitive places to kiss, lick, and suck. “Exactly.”
In that moment, surrounded by his freshly showered scent, his heavy
words reverberating through my skin, dewing me inside and out; I want to
believe him.
I do believe him.
I reach for the tie at my nape, but he drags my hand down and places it
on the front of his jeans. We unzip his fly together. Bumping over the
erection jutting out of his boxers. So proud and hot and hard.
All mine.
 I grasp him in one hand while he tips my head up and kisses me deeply.
Deeply. My cheeks go hollow from the force and strength of his kiss. Still, I
want more. I am half-pretzeled as I kiss him and devour him as much as he
does me.
I stroke him, firmly. Like he’s shown me.
Now, he trembles. I don’t let go, kissing him harder, stroking him
harder.
He cups my breasts inside the dress and brushes knowing thumbs over
the stiff peaks. I gasp-moan in his mouth. He does it harder. Pinching at my
nipples. The electrifying shock of it runs from my navel to my womb,
squeezing it tight.
“Are you wet for me?” He grunts.
I nod, desperately. Eagerly. Unashamed. “Yes, yes,” I pant out.
“Show me.”
I take his hand, and we lift my rucked-up skirt together. My knees are
shaky, my spine is gooey, so I rest more of my weight on his strong thighs,
his waist.
The chilly night air hits my wet panties. And I shove the elastic aside
and guide his fingers in. When I turn to remove my hand, he shakes his
head.
“No. Stay.”
My heart thuds erratically, out of control, as Noah pushes one finger in
slowly, slowly. Along with mine. And I sense, feel my own arousal. Sticky
and wet and endless.
I shudder again. Beyond control. Beyond all rational thought.
He goes knuckle deep in and I feel the stretch and burn of our combined
fingers inside me.
“One more.” He bands his hand over my tits, pressing tight against me,
pressing me to his chest, widening my thighs with his knees. I try and grip
and stroke him harder through the jeans, through the tight fit.
It is heaven and hell at the same time.
In this new position, he is able to glide one more finger in. And then I
do too.
“It’s…Aaah!”
I grip his cock hard, digging into the velvet soft skin. The sensation of
having him fill me like this, to the brim and more…while he surrounds me,
so I’m almost trapped against him, is terrifying. Arousing.
 He works the knot of my tie with his teeth, while he pumps our fingers
in and out of me. I stroke him harder and harder. I feel a bit of precum
coating my hand. And it makes me gush even more.
“God, you’re so tight. So perfect,” he groans.
The knot falls off. Noah moves his hand an inch, the dress slides off my
chest. So, it’s only him covering me. Inside and out.
“I’m close. I’m so close,” I pant out.
I stroke him recklessly, hurriedly. And he pushes into my hand, growing
impossibly harder. He sucks the tender place where my shoulder meets my
arm, leaving bite-sized marks. Love bites.
“I want to taste you,” he rasps out. “I need to…”
He doesn’t give me time to think. To wonder. To worry. He just turns
me on the blanket and follows me down. Taking the dress with his hands. I
try and keep my screams in, because he’s still fucking me with our fingers.
The pressure builds inside me like a wave drowning me.
He takes my panties with the dress, so I’m completely, completely
naked in front of him.
I go to cover my chest but the look in his obsidian eyes is obliterating.
He looks like a man possessed. A man devoted. His eyes are slits, nostrils
flared, pink lips parted, like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
A gasp bellows out of his chest, rumbling into me.
I let myself be seen. Touching his hair, his face, his shoulder instead.
He’s hot to the touch. Incendiary.
“Fuck.” He stresses.
Then, he kisses my stomach. Every inch of it, while still fucking me.
Endlessly, mindlessly.
I’m coming a little. Because I can’t help it. But he knows my body well
now. So, he slows down the pace. And swirls his fingers around.
“Noah!” I gasp out, half-threat, half-plea.
He goes down, sucking on my navel. And more liquid pours out of me
with the suction. I arch my back and dig my heels into the ground.
He stretches against me and noses my wet, messy core.
“Better than pie,” he murmurs. Then he winks at me. The fiend winks.
“Fuck you!” I pant in anger, pulling at his hair in an effort to torture
him.
“You’re going to, absolutely.”
 Then he eats at me. Licking and sucking up and down my entrance.
Going deep into my folds and using his fucking tongue. Each lap wrings
more shocks of pleasure in me. Each stroke makes me see stars.
I stuff my hand in my mouth, taste myself.
He swipes over my entrance once more. I scream and come. And come
and come.
Then he swirls his teeth over my clit.
And I whimper. Because another climax hits me on the heels of the last
one. I clutch at his shoulders, digging my heels deep into the ground.
I’m afraid I’ll fly apart.
Noah cups my butt and squeezes. Holds me by the pelvic bones, open
and at his pleasure.
And does it all over again, until I’m writhing and twisting. Unable to
take the pleasure he’s giving me, unable to stop him from doing so.
“Please,” I sob out. Tears run down the corner of my tightly shut eyes.
He finally lets me wring out the last aftershocks of the orgasm, which
clenches my core so tight and hard, I die for a moment. His tongue pads my
core, making it his in a way I’ll never be able to erase.
When he finally comes up, he licks his lips. Like I’m a tasty dessert.

I can’t help it. I blush. All over again.

Noah watches my tits flood with color. And his eyes go obsidian again.
He cups them both in one wet hand and sucks on them. Hard. Then soft.
Then hard again. His cheeks hollow from the effort.
I go wet again. And again. Unable to control the impulses, the desire he
ignites in me.
But I want to taste him too. To feel him too. To drive him over the edge
too. So, I push at his chest. And, by some miracle, he backs down. I throw a
leg over his waist and clamber on top of him.
He plays with my undone hair, wrapping them in his fist while I kiss
him. Eating at his face, his mouth. I bite at his collarbone, where the faintest
scar rises in a ridge against his unmarred skin.
I mark his fast-beating heart with repeated kisses. He clenches and
unclenches on my hair; but lets me do what I want.
 I shove off his tee shirt and he raises his arms willingly. Just looking at
me with unreadable eyes. Damning me with them. I am mindless, a creature
driven by instincts and impulses. Want. Need. Lust. Craving.
I kiss his Adam’s apple, when he swallows hard. His skin’s salty sweet
with sweat and musk. I kiss the daisy tattoo over his heart. Owning it a
little. His other hand shoots up to my skull.
I slither down his magnificent chest. I suck at his nipples, raising them
to wet points. And he presses me closer to his skin. I play with and mark all
six of his abs. Perfectly cut, perfectly honed. Perfectly earned. Then, I come
to the Adonis Dimples.
He groans when I bite them both. Just a little. He smells of musky sweat
here. It’s incredibly arousing. And then he says, “Do it again.”
So, I do it again. This time, hard. And his cock surges against me.
Impossibly, unbelievably hard. The veins are sticking out, purple. I grasp
him in one hand and push his chest down. I stroke him, one, twice, thrice.
“Queenie, my pants.” He arches against me.
“Fuck the pants.”
I kiss my way down his happy trail.
“You don’t…” He touches my hair. My shoulder. His hand is shaking.
Trembling. Even his voice is unsteady. Unmoored. “You don’t have to⁠—”
I kiss the nest of curls around his cock. “I know.”
I take him in my mouth. My spine tingles, because he feels so good, so
full, and so Noah. I move up and down his length, experimentally, and he
curses.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He also grabs my hair and holds it in a rough,
caressing hand.
I move harder on him, trying to take more of him. My teeth hit his
sensitive skin, and I suck on him like a lollipop.
“God. Fuck. No. Yes!” Noah gasps out. He is unrecognizable.
I do the same he did to me. I grab his superfine ass and hold it. Squeeze
it. He flexes reflexively into me. And pushes more of his length down my
mouth. I feel him hit the back of my throat. Impossibly full, filling me up.
“Queenie, please, let me fuck you,” he begs.
“You are,” I talk around his dick.
He shakes his head. “Properly. Inside you.”
But I want to make you come. I think. And I’m so amazed by the
thought, by the idea of having him climaxing inside my mouth for the first
time in my life, I stop for a moment.
Noah takes full advantage of my lethargy. And kisses me full on the
lips.
He also hurriedly shoves his jeans and boxers off; they fall on the
opened food hamper. I barely have time to think of the hygiene of it all,
when he tears open protection and jerks it on in rough, uncoordinated
movements. His cock weeps with precum.
Then Noah climbs over me. My head hits the edge of the blanket, so the
stark cold of the stone floor hits me. I gasp from the heat and chill of it all.
“Turn around. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He turns me around. Now I can feel him all over my back, my flanks,
my knees.
His eyes are glazed, possessed. He just jerks my legs apart and raises
me by the hips. I automatically support myself on my elbows because he is
a hulking presence all around me. His longer length surrounds me like a
great beast, a shadow I can’t escape, a lover who demands everything.
Every. Thing.
He pushes into me, from the back. Slow. Controlled.
I arch and cry out, reflexively moving into him. He holds me in place
with his hands on my back, my stomach.
I tremble to keep still, letting him move at his pace. But my heart’s out
of control and I see dark spots.
A drop of his sweat falls on my back.
It’s. So. Hot.
My lips part. Eager for him. For any part of him.
As if he’s read my mind, he cups my cheek and gives me a finger to
suck on while he feeds into me slowly. The invasion true and never-ending.
A tight burn I crave more than my next breath.
I bite and suck, my core contracting with each inch he gives me. When
he’s buried to the hilt, he bends over me. And cups my tits.
“Fuck,” he breathes, right into my ear. And bites it. “Fuck, Queenie.”
I shudder against him. Desperate for friction. For movement. For
release.
But he doesn’t move. His knees shake too, his thighs flex too. But he
doesn’t move.
 “Move!” I beg him. “Move, please!” I turn my head and fix him with a
desperate glare. Very aware of how undone, how completely messy I am.
“I want.” He clenches his jaw. “To make.” He puts a hand on my back.
And I arch like a cat against his touch. Tactile and needy. “This last.”
So, I move against him. Sinuously. Seductively.
He hits a spot inside me, and I groan. My arms tremble from effort and
completion.
Noah finally moves. Stretching me so deliciously, I feel flayed. Like the
sun is beating down on my skin and I am burning from it. He strokes out
completely before slamming back in.
I stifle my scream and throw my head down.
He does it again. I move to meet him for the stroke. It’s unbearably
heated. Unutterably sinful. It’s everything I dreamed of and read about.
My channel squeezes him when he moves inside and protests when he
leaves.
Our dance turns slow, syrupy. His movements are controlled by my
breaths. My breaths are controlled by his cock. I strain toward my peak.
Wanting it. Fighting it. Loving it. Hating it.
Colors explode in my eyes, painted on the back of my lids.
Noah grabs my chin and kisses me roughly. And he moves. Fast. Too
fast. So fast, I lose my breath, my mind, any semblance of control. Any
illusion of being my own person.
I become entirely his.
He rubs a sure, knowing, rough thumb on my clit. And fucks a finger
inside me. Swirls it.
I shiver delicately, endlessly as I come. The orgasm takes me under.
Taking me over. Taking me away from this earth. I’m unmoored.
Unanchored. I’m all feeling and skin and sensation.
I kiss him and sob against his mouth.
He grunts, his sweaty-wet hair falling over my cheek, my jaw. Tickling
me. Owning me yet another way.
“Come for me. Come with me,” I tell him softly. Or maybe I just think
it.
But I nuzzle into him, letting him take all of me. My weight. My worry.
My self. I touch his right leg, the femur holding a ridged scar, thick and
brown. I run my hands down it. Loving it, loving him.
And he flexes into me in preparation of his climax.
 I know his body too. I know how he moves and what he wants. So, I
move my wet cunt into his hand. Give him more access into me.
And he comes for me. Comes with me. Saying my name and fuck and
God against my lips, like a prayer. Like the only words in the universe.
He opens his depthless eyes at the last moment, as I feel him jet over
and over into me. Filling me up with himself, giving me all of himself.
It’s wild. It’s catastrophic. It’s everything I have ever wanted in the
secret corners of my pragmatic, protected heart.
It happens. The thing I never expected to happen. The thing that
changes everything. Changes me.
I fall. Fast. Hard. Forever.
I fall the last little bit in love with Noah Calvin Dumaine. And I don’t
come back from it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING BY ‘LAE DOOBA’ BY SUNIDHI CHAUHAN

A LONG TIME LATER, I stir from his arms. My mouth is parched, and
my lips are numb.
“This arm is useless,” he murmurs. “I can’t play cricket anymore.”
I instantly become contrite. “I’m so sorry. I should have moved.” The
newness of what I realized when I shattered around him undulates in me.
“I’m kidding.” He squeezes open one eye. “Cricket is not more
important than you.”
I throw his shirt back at him. “Now I know you’re lying.” I hunt for my
dress, trying to find equilibrium in the practicalities. And trading tart
statements with him.
“I could mean it.” He stares up at the ceiling, arms below his head. His
armpit hair glistening in sweat.
I look longingly at it, as I shrug into my dress.
Oh god. What has happened to me that I am lovesick over his armpit
hair? No. I’m not. I’m not lovesick.
“So, why does this place have a domed rooftop when the rest of the
buildings on Main Street don’t?”
“Legend has it they’d hold fashion shows here when House of Niamh
was not given an invite to the New York Fashion Weeks. It became a
tradition to continue doing so, after they got in. So, the glass stayed up.” I
squeeze into my panties while answering him. I’m sticky and messy
everywhere. And dying for a shower. Post-sex hygiene is important, right?
“Fascinating.” Noah sits up. Squints at me. “Why are you getting
dressed, daisy girl?”
 I stop breathing for a micro-second when he calls me that. “I’m cold.”
He holds out his arms, like he’s freaking Shah Rukh Khan. “Then let me
warm you.”
I smile wanly at him. “I’m hungry too and I’m not sophisticated enough
to have food with you stark naked.”
Although he looks so deliciously tousled, stark naked.
“Are you okay?” He tilts his head in concern.
I think I’m in love with you. How’s that for okay?
“I’m totally fine,” I emphasize. “I just…we were supposed to have
dinner here, you know. All romantic and pretty.”
He nods slowly. “Dinner it is.”
“But maybe at the cottage?” I venture quickly. I touch my wrinkled
dress. “I need a shower like, really badly.”
“Sure.”
We pack up quickly, and Noah gets dressed after disposing off the
protection he wore. I got on birth control the first night we hooked up when
we watched MI2. But we’re still careful on the protection front. It’s just
common sense.
I gather all the evidence of our untouched bacchanalia and shove it in
the wicker basket. Along with my ruined cricket outfit.
I make a mental note to come back tomorrow before my shift and clean
the paint mess off the floor.
I’d put a tarp on the ground but some of the color has still splattered on
the stone.
I push the tarp over the ball machine. I text Simon we’re leaving,
because the Archer siblings will be responsible for bringing the machine off
the atelier. I owe him like a month of pies for this favor.
Noah carries all the stuff back down in silence.
I watch his broad back, so stalwart in the dim lights.
I love you. The words knock in my chest. It would be fine. Because love
is a verb. An action item which needs no action on my part. But then—I am
in love with you, follows it. And I can’t stand it.
I run down the stairs and open the door to let Simon and Jace in. They
whistle when they see me.
“Boys.” Noah is slightly winded on the last flight. “Nice to see you.”
Jace immediately takes a load off Noah, and I feel guilty. I didn’t even
offer to help him carry the bags. I just take Noah’s brand of chivalry for
granted.
We carry everything stealthily back to Noah’s Jeep. And he shakes
hands with the two younger men. “Thank you,” he says solemnly. “You are
real mates.”
Simon gives him a short nod and Jace smiles. A real smile. Not the
plastic prettiness he doles out.
They go back inside House of Niamh, and I point at Lizzie. “I drove up
here so…”
“I’m not getting into that gokart excuse of a car, unless I’m dying,”
Noah says flatly.
I giggle. “It’s a regular-sized convertible. I can’t help it if you’re a
giant.”
“I’m a normal-sized man, woman.”
“Giant.” I indicate his superior height. “Limbs.”
“I’m also not letting you drive alone tonight. We go home together.”
He sounds dead serious. And it’s not worth the argument, so I text
Simon to park my car at the diner’s parking space. He’s a tall kid too but he
can manage.
Then I climb into Noah’s Jeep and spy the sticker on it. I smile and
think back to the first night we met. And all the events since then. Two
months is too short a time to have lived this much, this quickly.
It feels like a lifetime of crammed experiences.

We don’t talk much on the drive home. He just shoots me occasional

glances. I send him answering smiles. I’m okay. Even if I’m scattered into a
million crystalline pieces.
My phone rings as I’m getting off at the portico entrance.
It’s my dad. I debate answering him while I’m still wet and sticky from
vigorous sex. Nope. I let it go to voicemail.
“Who was that?” Noah asks, removing the wicker basket from where
he’d stashed it.
“No one.” I sigh. “My dad.”
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
 “I don’t know how to talk to him.” I hold out my hand. “Give me one of
the handles, please.”
Noah gives a private smile and shares the load with me. We walk into
the house together when he asks me, “Why don’t you know how to talk to
him? Is it because you’ve dropped out of college?”
I drag the basket over to the dining table before answering him. Aware
this is yet another secret he’ll know about me. Something I haven’t told
anyone other than Mischa. “It’s not because I dropped out. He was
surprisingly okay with it. It’s more…” I hesitate. “He doesn’t understand
why I did it in the first place. And my parents think I’m also attending
special courses at the university while working full-time.”
“And are you?”
I shake my head. “I dropped the course two weeks in. I can’t…I don’t
want to go back.” Not yet. Not when I feel less than my former, kickass, go-
getter self.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head vehemently. “Not right now,” I murmur. The new
feeling inside of me – fragile and pretty - twists with all the ugly, delicate,
broken feelings. Melts into it. But still stands on its own.
“Alright, then. Want to take your shower?”
“Do you mind if I go first?”
He kisses my cheek. “I don’t mind, Queenie.” And when I turn to leave,
he says my name again. Queenie.
“Yes?”
“Was…before…” Noah swallows, uncertainties storming his eyes. “Was
it not good for you?”
I reach out to cup his cheek and kiss him softly. “It was the best ever,
you idiot,” I whisper against his lips. “I’m not sure I survived it intact.”
“Because you’re so quiet and withdrawn, I thought⁠—”
“You thought wrong. I’m just really not used to frolicking on strange
rooftops on romantic dates.”
“You’re sure?” He searches my face, and it’s all I can do to not blurt out
the inconvenient truth. I love you. That’s why I frolicked with you. And now
I don’t know what to do.
“I’m very sure.” I push at his shoulder. “Now, let me get freshened up,
please. Before your mates come home and demolish all this food.”
 “I certainly can’t have that.” He caresses my sweaty, wrinkled waist.
“It’s all mine.”

I race up for a quick clean up and shower and wander down in comfy
pajamas and the jersey I now wear to sleep. It’s worn and soft and Noah’s
eyes glaze every time he seems me in it. It’s gratifying, even if I’m so damn
shallow.
He’s spread the picnic spread on the dinner table. And popped open a
beer for himself.
“You know what I don’t understand?” I walk past him to get to my
chair. He snags my waist and plonks me on his waist. I tumble a little and
settle against him.
“What?” Noah nuzzles my neck.
“How come beer’s not considered alcohol in your brain?”
“Because it’s beer. It’s yeast and potatoes, you know?”
“That would be vodka, my good friend,” I answer solemnly. But my lips
break out in a smile.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Noah pops a cracker
into my mouth. “Bite.” He orders.
I don’t have an answer for how I fell in love with you. I shrug and chew
the cracker. Then he lets me slide to my chair.
We divide the food up and devour it. He’s famished too so we only
make small talk by the time we get to dessert.
“I made gaajar ka halwa.” I proudly place a steaming hot portion of the
Indian dessert on his plate.
“Gaajar ka what?”
“Halwa.” I fork some in. “It’s carrots. Milk. Sugar. Dunked in clarified
buttery goodness. Yum.”
He watches my lips, my throat, which goes dry. “Yum,” he echoes. But
he’s not taken a bite yet.
I resist the urge to squirm in my seat. And continue eating the delicious
food I made. “Did your mom like sweets? Or was she a savory lover?”
Noah smiles. Digs his fork in the gooey red dessert. “She loved to eat
everything except salads. But, in the end, the doctors made her eat a whole
bunch of green salads. She hated it.”
“I hate salads too.” I make a face. “But they’re good for the health and
work instead of exercising like a demon so I eat them.”
“Healthy food is not a substitute for exercise, woman!” He wags his
fork at me.
We argue over the merits of healthy food and exercise for the rest of the
meal. He banishes me outside so he can finish cleaning up.
I wander out to the couch and flick the TV on.
Just then something buzzes. I glance at the buzzing. It’s Noah’s fancy
phone, which says Thalia.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘CHASING CARS’ BY SNOW PATROL

I BLINK. He’s never mentioned a Thalia before. Although, to be honest, we

haven’t talked histories or anything in the time we’ve been together.
I’ve been with Noah a little more than a month. Now I’m in love with
him. My heart speeds up uncomfortably, both at the phone call and the new
feeling that won’t subside.
I debate answering it when he walks into the room, wiping his hands on
a dishtowel.
“Here.” I toss the phone. He catches it in mid-air. “It’s ringing.”
He checks the caller ID and then his face closes off. “It can wait.” He
sits down next to me.
I fold my legs and face him. “Who’s Thalia?”
Noah hesitates a second.
“An ex? A groupie? A cheerleader?” I ask him with a small smile. I
don’t mind knowing. Unless she’s a tall, leggy blond or redhead who can
reach his shoulders without getting a crick in her neck. Fuck.
“Why? Are you jealous?”
I shrug primly. “I don’t get jealous of other women. No man’s worth it.”
“Not even me?” He winks lasciviously at me. All boyish charm and
scented goodness.
My heart lurches and I have to physically restrain from rubbing at it.
Making sure it’s still inside my ribcage. “The jury’s still out on you.”
“I told you the day we met there’s no one but you.” Noah plays with the
hem of the jersey. “I wasn’t lying.”
 “But there must have been others before me,” I probe insistently. I’m
not jealous. I don’t think. Maybe curious? Yes, I settle on the word. I’m
curious.
“There were.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “I wasn’t a monk
before I met you. But after the accident and going to rehab…I might as well
have been.”
I blink, digesting this knowledge. So, Noah is really not a jock playboy.
He’s decent. Knowing this weakens my defenses even more. “So, Thalia
is…” I let the question trail off.
“My half-sister,” Noah says finally.
“Oh!” I did not expect this answer.
“Yeah. My dad…” He runs a hand over my arm. Talks without looking
at me. “He met his new wife, my stepmom, Isabelle, a year after mum
passed. And he married her within months.” His kissable lips twist into a
thin smile. “His reason for it? He wanted to give me a stable home. A new
mum. Like mums are replaceable.”
I touch his chest. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” Calvin Dumaine, the
millionaire lawyer, is an idiot.
“I tried to put up a brave front and it was okay for the most part.” He
does not sound okay. “Because I spent my time in school or playing cricket.
Then, she got pregnant when I was fourteen. And suddenly, dad was a…
dad, you know? He took her to doctor’s appointments and attended Lamaze
classes. The whole bit.” His mouth twists again. And his eyes take on a far-
off gleam, like he’s reliving those memories again.
“I was happy for them. At least I tried to be. But I couldn’t understand
how my father…how he quickly forgot my mum. He got a whole new
family, just like that. And I was just a reminder of the dead wife, you know.
Especially because I didn’t call her Mum, like he wanted me to.”
“Oh, Noah!” I reach out and hug him.
“It’s okay. I’m fine now.” He’s anything but fine, but I don’t press him
on it. This is a tender wound even now. “But yeah. I started to feel like an
outsider in my own home. And after a while…it just became easier to not
live there. I hung around at Fox’s, after school and during holidays. Fox’s
family has been very kind to me.”
“He’s a good friend.” I turn around and lay my head on his shoulder.
His arms come around me and settle at my waist. “The best.”
“Life’s awful sometimes, isn’t it?” I play with the buttons on his shirt.
 “The fucking worst.” He kisses my shoulder. “But having you in it
makes it bearable, you know?”
I nod. “Me too. Same. With you.” I close my eyes and the love floating
and fluttering in me gives me the strength to tell him my ugly truth. “Before
you came, I was floating. Like a ghost or a pariah.”
“Why a pariah?”
“Because I accused a very powerful man of something terrible.”
Noah stills behind me.
“Dolly…” I lick my lips. “Dolly wouldn’t tell me who attacked her till
the night she left. But she’d have terrible nightmares. And I held her
through all of them. It was hell.”
“Queenie—” He breathes against my hair.
“But one night, she told me… it was a professor from Thorndon. A
Head of Department. She left the next morning and put the whole incident
behind her. But I couldn’t.” I sniff against the barrage of tears filling me. “I
tried to find out where she went. Who she met. How it happened. I tried to
find answers.”
“And did you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit softly. “Sometimes I think I made it all up in my
head. Because no one in the university believes me. Not staff. Not faculty.
Not the administration. I couldn’t tell my parents the whole truth because
they would be devastated. And…” I continue in a small voice. “I didn’t
want them to tell me how I fucked my life up by going on this crusade.”
“Is that why you dropped out? Because all of this got to be too much for
you?”
I flash back to the wintry sun streaming in through an office window. A
man’s kind voice asking me – But who is going to believe you, Miss
Madhavan? And the closing of an office door.
“Word spread around campus. I was a troublemaker asking questions
she shouldn’t be. I was shunned out of classes, graded poorly. People would
whisper about me when I rode into town. They weren’t outright cruel to me,
but they made me feel like an alien. Other.” I sniffle again. “Small towns
are a plague on humanity.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“It’s why…when the video came out, I lost my shit on you.” I swallow.
“You didn’t deserve my overreaction.”
 “It wasn’t a flattering situation for anyone.” Noah is so gallant my heart
aches.
“But can you forgive me for it anyway?” I ask him, softly.
I don’t know if I want absolution or forgiveness. I don’t know if it’s
because I told him the truth. Or because I love—I shake my head to dispel
the traitorous thought.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Queenie.” His reply is instantaneous.
Gratifying. “You protected yourself the best way you could.”
“You know, the night of the summer party?” He nods against my hair. “I
was actually there to have a showdown with one of the people who made
my life hell. I even memorized this monologue from Jab We Met⁠—”
“Jab We Met?”
I snuggle into him. Safe and warm, a million miles away from the
tragedy which blew me off the charted course of my life. Which brought me
to him. “It’s a famous Bollywood movie. The heroine, Geet, she cusses out
her ex in Hindi.”
“I’d pay money to see you cuss in Hindi.” He kisses my cheek. “So did
you have your showdown. Did I miss it?”
I shake my head. “No. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want the public spectacle
of it.”
“That makes sense. You want a quiet, normal life. Like everyone else.”
He sounds tired, a little lost.
“I want…” My words trail off. Because I honestly don’t know what I
want anymore. For someone who spent her whole life being sure, this
uncertainty is destabilizing. Debilitating.
“Well, then, I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
Noah turns me around and gives me a chaste kiss. “Will you trust me
not to hurt you like that? Ever?”
You could break my heart and not even know it. The words don’t come
out because they cannot be true. They just cannot.
I nod, slowly. And one tear slips out.
He kisses my wet cheek. “Then we’re good. We’re golden. Okay?”
I hug him slowly and wish with all my heart, it were true. That telling
the truth would set me free. But telling my truth has only ensnared me
further. Until I am caught between all the truths I’ve told and not told.
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LIE IN THE SOUND’ BY TRESPASSERS WILLIAM

I DON’T KNOW when we drift off. Maybe it’s the heavy, calorie-laden
meal or the heavy-duty confessions. Or the intensely heavy coupling that
ended with the best fucking orgasm of my life. But I go to sleep, holding
Queenie in my arms.
It’s late, the house is quiet, and the garden is alive with summer sounds,
when I wake up slowly.
She’s curled into me. Her small fist rests on my heart.
I love you.
The thought comes unbidden, unasked for, involuntary. I brush hair off
her face, and she nuzzles closer, wrapping her legs over my thigh. Trusting
me so deeply I am humbled, I am undone.
I am in love with you, I think to myself.
I haven’t actively sought a relationship with all the attendant feelings
ever. Yes, my focus is on cricket, on becoming a capped player for the
Australian international men’s squad.
But after watching mum fade away and unable to do a thing about it…
after watching my father basically deny my mother’s decline…and then
immediately jump into a new romantic relationship complete with a white
picket fence and a princess daughter…love became an ugly word for me.
I haven’t been alone, but loneliness is a shadow in my life too. Even if I
don’t actively acknowledge it.
I don’t feel lonely when I’m with Queenie. Even when we were sparring
and spitting at each other, I didn’t feel…alone. I was connected to her.
Thinking about her. Mildly obsessed with her.
 I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone since mum. I haven’t even
thought of love since I left dad’s home and attached myself to Fox and the
De Rossis.
But, somehow, with Queenie, this brave, impossibly strong, amazingly
smart woman…the words don’t just come, they are fact. They exist before I
can deny them. And I don’t want to.
A small pang thuds against my newly awakened heart. A pang made of
fear, vulnerability. Uncertainty.
No. I am certain, I decide. I don’t want to deny how I feel about
Queenie.
I’ve had multitudes of feeling for her – liking, affection, infatuation,
admiration - even before I came to know what she told me tonight. It must
not have been easy. Going against the system, questioning it, questioning
her place in it…having everyone judge her for something she didn’t do.
Because she wanted to make it right.
She’s a freaking warrior goddess.
I don’t just like her or admire her now. I’m in awe of her. I don’t know
if anything I ever do will be good enough to deserve her. Be worthy of her.
Doing the right thing when no one is watching is hard enough. But
doing the right thing when everyone is watching and judging you is
horrible.
And she’s so young. Younger than me. To have gone through so much.
Alone. All alone.
No more, I vow to myself.
She’s not going to go through shit alone.
And, maybe, hopefully, if she will have me, I won’t be alone anymore
either.
I stretch more comfortably around her. A protective shield of limbs and
bones and skin. A wall between her and whatever world wants to harm her.
When she puts her arms around me, she does the same for me.
I love you.
I’m in love with you.
I am happy I’m in love with you.
The words echo in my sleepy, hazy brain. A warm promise. A light
against the shadows and secrets. An unexpected miracle.
And if there is a tiny hint of fear under the words, I choose to unsee it.
Because I am not spending my life being afraid of love. Of the person I
love.
Of loving her.
I almost believe myself.

Hey, Noah, how are you, mate? This is Kevin Sangster. Please give me a
call as soon as you get this message.
I wonder who Kevin Sangster is as I listen to his voicemail one hot
afternoon, in early August.
The sun gleams on the beach behind the cottage, where Fox is doing
water therapy for his pulled hamstring.
Ares and I are playing gully cricket. We’ve hammered three sticks for
stumps and placed stones on top for the bails.
Ares walks farther and farther afield for his markup, so I decide to
check my phone. See if I have any texts from the woman I’m in love with.
I grin, when the thought comes, as I always do.
Being in love with Queenie Madhavan is easy. A honeyed road full of
warm woman and a bright future.
Is it possible to have everything I asked for?
“I’m bowling,” Ares calls out.
I shove my phone and the lovely, wondering thought away. Grip my bat
tighter.
Ares throws a yorker and I swat at it half-heartedly. He cocks his head.
“That was a pissant move, you berk,” he calls out, as he walks back to the
run up. “Hit the damn thing so I know what I have to adjust before we take
on the Knights for The Triskelion Cup.”
I concentrate on timing the bat and working on my cover drive in real
time.
“It’s just another match,” I tell him when he bowls the next ball. I
middle it in the direction of the imaginary covers. It rolls a decent distance
before it’s caught by Ares.
Not a boundary, but not bad either. I can time the damn shot correctly
eight times out of ten.
“It’s three matches in three formats,” Ares corrects me. Rubbing the ball
on his pants leg, to give it the correct shine and friction he needs. “A fifty
over match, a T20, and a Test match. All in a span of ten days.”
“Because the coaches want us to play under pressure and master them
all,” I remind him idly. Taking a small water break.
“I was there when Gilcrest gave the speech, man.” Ares walks back to
his run up point. He’s varying his length between forty, thirty-two, and
twenty-four yards to see which one gets him the most rewards. As in,
wickets.
“I’m just saying, it’s no different than any of the other matches we have
been playing for the last two and a half months.” With a jolt, I realize that’s
exactly how long camp has been on.
And exactly how long Queenie and I have been…involved.
Almost as long as I have been slowly falling in love with her.
“Yes, but this is the Cup! A cup is a cup is a cup,” Ares insists, in typical
pigheaded fashion.
I throw my hand up. “Alright, then. What do you want to do? Steal it?”
Ares shakes his head. “Nope. Win it for you. Because you’re an old
wanker and can’t do it more than once. It’s also why—” He starts running
toward me, a tank of a man, at ungodly speeds. Kicking up sand with every
mile of pace he generates. “I’m okay with you getting selected this year. I’ll
wait for my turn next year.”
“That’s mighty generous of you,” I say dryly. Nonetheless, it warms my
heart that one of the most competitive players I know acknowledges my
talent. My hard work.
Ares flicks the ball at me, right at waist-height. I squint and try to check
for the spin and speed. But damn if the fucker isn’t fast. It beats past me,
swings on the inside and knocks the middle stump bail off. The stone falls
down with a thunk.
“Howzzat!!” Ares screams, hands on knees.
I glare at the ball and place the bail back on the stump. “Again,” I tell
him shortly. “I want to learn to beat your inswinger.”
“You can dream of beating my inswinger.” Ares picks up the ball and
polishes it again, till it shines like an apple, getting sand and dirt on his
tracks.
“Trash talk will only get you beaten for a four,” I call out to him.
But I settle down and concentrate on the game.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘I WILL BUY YOU A NEW LIFE’ BY EVERCLEAR

WE GO A FEW MORE ROUNDS, yelling insults and egging each other

on. It’s common practice on the ground, and we are both used to it after our
time at camp. The last ten weeks have been the hottest and most grueling of
my life.
I was a different man when I first walked into the locker room on day
one. Nervous. Unsure. Aching to prove myself. A chip the size of Tasmania
on my shoulder.
Now, I’ve relaxed into my role of opening batter, captain, fielder. I trade
jokes and punches with the fifteen other guys on my team. I’m confident in
my role, my skill, my talent.
And I hope, I really do, the coaches have taken note of how far I’ve
come. Especially with the cover drive.
The cover drive I’d never have mastered if it wasn’t for the smart,
fascinating, insanely hot woman I’m in love with.
Who I haven’t confessed my feelings to yet.
I want to drown in the Atlantic each time the thought flashes across my
brain. It’s forceful and amused and…slightly scared. Because, yes, I had my
big realization two nights ago. I’m happy. I’m in love.
And in the wake of her sobering admission, we haven’t done much
except hang out and sleep when we aren’t working. I’m amazed she still lets
me anywhere near her, after knowing what I now know.
So, I haven’t found the right time to tell her how I feel.
“Are you coming with us for dinner? The whole squad’s going cliff
diving again before the weather turns.” Fox throws a water bottle at me.
 I wipe sweat off my forehead, after removing the helmet. I hesitate. I
want to say yes. One night away from Queenie and her big, sad eyes…the
way she makes me feel all squishy and achy… is probably a good idea. I
might get some perspective, maybe even get a grip? I don’t know. I’ve
never been in love before.
I grin, on cue.
“Never mind. You have plans with your girl.”
I blink. He’s so easily accepting of Queenie. Of our relationship. The
fake one and the more recent, not-so-fake one.
And so am I. Right?
I adore the time we spend together. Whether it’s watching her read
books off her own personal reading list, or movies where she yells at the
screen. Or family meals which even Ares cooks for, the lazy arse. We all
even braved an India-Australia match telecast last week.
Queenie was ferocious when her team beat ours hollow. She even did a
victory dance. I made her do it again in bed. Wearing my jersey. Nothing
but my jersey.
She is the one person on the planet, I am okay with being twenty-
four/seven. And we spend a lot of time, like an inordinate amount of time,
discussing the nuances of cricket greats. Ponting, Tendulkar, her precious
Kohli.
This is as real as it gets.
Being in love is just a natural evolution of my time with her. The energy
I give and get from her. Love is just another feeling she makes me feel.
So what if she’s smarter than me, like legitimately smarter than me,
with a string of future degrees to her name? This was supposed to be a
summer thing, a finite arrangement benefitting us both.
Now I have feelings. And I’m thinking of a future which includes my
girl and my game. And I’m not scared. Or alone. Or lonely.
It’s…perfect.
And all I have to do is ask her a simple question.
Queenie, can I continue seeing you after summer is over? Can we be
together, long-term? For real? For good?
“Yeah,” I tell Fox, when he nudges me. “I have plans with Queenie. But
maybe later?”
“If I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced, you’re clobbered over her,
I’d mock you endlessly for how whipped you are.” Fox gives me a cheeky
wink.
“I’m not clobbered over her,” I reply instantly. Instinctively.
I am not clobbered over her. Being clobbered means I need her. I cannot
do without her. Being clobbered means she is essential to my well-being
and that’s not what this is.
It is not.
No one is essential to my well-being. No one can be. Because if
someone else is essential to my well-being, there’s a possibility they
could…go. Leave. Disappear.
Then, I’d not have my well-being anymore.
I’m just in love with her and I’m happy about it. It’s an entirely different
thing. Not that I’m going to tell Fox and have him mock me some more.
“Alright, mate. Whatever you say.” Fox chugs from the bottle and dries
himself off.
“Why would you say that anyway?” I push him. “That I’m clobbered
over her.”
“Because I can’t remember the last time you spoke to your father, much
less asked him for help. But you called him because she was caught in a
compromising video with you.” His words are simple. Logical. “Do you
know she chucked work the day she decided to calibrate the ball machine
for you? And she’s deathly afraid of objects flying at her?”
“Everyone’s afraid of flying objects,” I argue half-heartedly.
“Not you. You face them down. You make them your bitch.” Fox hooks
the towel around his neck. “And she braved them. For you.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Fox.” It doesn’t mean I’m clobbered over
her. “Queenie’s the most practical person I know. She’d break out in hives if
she heard you.” I even sound like a level-headed bloke.
“Alright, then.” But he gives me a long, searching look from the De
Rossi greys. I stare right back at him, so he doesn’t spot any weakness in
me.
“You two ladies are done gossiping, or do I need to roast under this sun
some more?” Ares calls out from the other end of the pitch.
We both look at each other and yell, “Roast some more.”
 We pack up soon after, when my phone buzzes again. I answer it
without seeing caller ID.
“Hey, Noah. This is Kevin Sangster, assistant coach for the Melbourne
Marvels. If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about the possibility
of joining our league team for the upcoming T20 season,” the man on the
other end says easily.
Casually offering me the life of my dreams. Going pro. Finally.
“I…” I stop walking back to the parking lot.
“Hey. Are you there?” Kevin asks.
“Yes,” I whisper dazedly. “I’m here.”
And as I listen to Kevin tell me his plans for including me in the team, I
see a future so bright it dazzles me. That future is me playing professional
cricket and making mum’s dream come true.
With my dream by my side.
Queenie.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘DO DIN KE BAAD’ BY TAARUK RAINA

Dear Miss Madhavan,

We are pleased to inform that, after a thorough
internal review based on your past performance and
your current situation, the Thorndon University
Board of Admissions has decided to transfer your
scholarship to the course of your choosing.
Congratulations and welcome to the Class of …

THE WORDS blur as I read the email. For the third time.
I wipe the dust off my Blackberry screen and read it again. I’d applied
for a transfer, the morning after my rooftop date with Noah. My application
was succinct, passionate, and logical. I didn’t really know what I was
expecting when I sent it off.
But it wasn’t acceptance.
Or maybe it was.
I shake my head, my stomach trembles. It must be low blood sugar; I
didn’t have a full lunch because I was on double shift. Covering for Lisa,
the waitress who took my shift when I left to arrange our romantic date,
three days ago.
My stomach clenches again.
That damned date!
If I’d never arranged it, if I’d never thought to want something so
extravagant, I would be fine right now. I’d be elated, jubilant even, at the
admissions board transferring my ride to the major I really want. If I’d
never arranged it, I’d have gone on just fine with my life. Having earth-
shaking, multiple-orgasms-inducing sex with a lovely, kind, Australian
cricket player.
If I’d never arranged it, I would be okay when the lovely, Australian
cricket player went back to his real life once summer was over. I would go
back to mine too.
Now, I am the opposite of okay.
I’m in love. For the first time in my life. And I’m terrified. Petrified,
because he is absolutely not who I imagined my love to be.
For one, he lives on the other side of the world. For another, he is a
soon-to-be world-famous athlete. Those men have egos the size of Brinks’
trucks and portfolios to match. Not to mention swathes of groupies who
throw their panties at them, hoping for a locker room quickie.
In case I need another reason, he is a legitimately wealthy man in his
own right without all the shiny cricket money.
He is just so different from me. So focused and determined and patient.
He doesn’t get depressed when he has a bad innings or even loses a match
or his mom. He just picks himself and dusts himself off, to do better,
different next time.
He’s never allowed his failures to define him. Only the fact he tries.
Lastly, and this is what petrifies me, needing him is the easiest thing in
the world, because he’s never let me down. Not once.
But we aren’t true equals. Partners. We cannot be. Not with the
financial, social, and all the other kinds of obvious disparity.
We cannot be because I am still stuck in an office room watching a door
gently being shut. It’s not a constant sadness in my life, anymore. It’s not
the only thing I think about now I have Noah and the boys and my new life
to occupy me.
But…it still exists.
It’s the reason I’m terrified of this fluttery butterfly of an emotion rising
up with its own wings.
How can I be in love when I am not even myself anymore? How can it
be real and lasting and have any meaning when so much of my life has no
meaning beyond the fractured present?
I don’t have the time to be in love. It is inconvenient, unpleasant, and it
requires too much.
 I want to bang my head against the bathroom mirror of Domenico’s
where Noah asked me to meet him for dinner.
I received the admissions email just as I walked into the restaurant, so I
ducked into the ladies’ room to check it out. And now here I am. A
trembling, shaking mess of a woman.
I’ve kept a lid on my feelings and sensibilities for the last few days.
Pretended everything was fine. Normal. Great. Cheered Noah at the last
match and gone to sleep beside him.
Because those things are safe. Routine.
They’re part of my summer romance. And I enjoy them to the hilt.
This…love is not a summer feeling. It’s too huge, too indescribable to
be seasonal. Fake. This love demands sacrifices. It hungers for choices.
Things like being accountable, being decisive, trusting him, trusting
myself…
I don’t know how to do so anymore.
Tears well in my eyes and I knuckle them away. I shake off my
melancholic mood and walk out of the bathroom before Noah buzzes me
again.

He’s in another of his suits. This time, the color’s a mild blue and he’s left
off the tie. He looks exactly what he is. Tall, strong, dependable.
And he deserves a woman who is all of those things and more.
Things I’m not.
His PGSOFS smile splits his face into a radiant sun when he sees me.
“There you fucking are!”
Noah grabs me and kisses the lipstick off my lips, bending me over the
waist with his enthusiasm. We get a few claps and whistles when he lets me
up. I hide my face in his chest. He smells of the sun and summer and
Davidoff Cool Water.
He smells like he’s mine.
My heart knocks hard against my chest.
“You look smashing, but you took heaps too long.” He seats me
opposite him.
 I’m in a white summer dress which swishes at my calves, with a small
slit at the knee. It’s a new purchase because I wasn’t sure the empire
bustline suited my boobs but Noah’s eyes gleam appreciatively at how the
neckline pushes them up.
“All good things take time.” I primly placing my small purse next to me
on the table. My phone’s next to it, with the email that dictates the course of
my future.
“They do, don’t they?” He murmurs enigmatically.
“Sir, ma’am.” A pleasant wait staff smiles down at us. “Would you like
a cocktail while you decide what to order for the night?”
I shake my head. “No cocktails for us.”
“Actually, bring us the Verve Clicquot 1998, would you, mate?” Noah
counters.
I frown. “You’re not drinking, are you?”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I’m just going to watch you drink it all.
And if you can’t.” His grin is deviance itself. “Then I’ll just pour it into the
bathtub when we take a bath together.”
“What’s gotten into you?” I am mystified at his mood. It’s a little manic,
a little festive.
Noah picks up my limp hand and kisses the tips. “Maybe I just like
watching you in candlelight. It’s flattering on you.”
I chuckle. “Okay, did you take a bouncer to the head? You’re being
weird.” I slide my hand away from him.
My heart hammers unsteadily. Because when he talks in his sinfully
drawling voice, I want to believe him. I want to trust him. I want to make
him watch me in candlelight and tell him I lo⁠—
“I did not take a bouncer to my head, woman. I’m just trying to be
romantic.” Noah sighs, dramatically.
“Like the other night?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Any special reason?” My heart hammers faster. Is he about to--?
He picks up my hands again and plays with them. Twines them around
his strong, cricket-battered fingers. “I want to celebrate something amazing
with you.” Noah smiles. Soft and dreamy. I’ve never seen it before. It’s
boyish. Adorable. “This afternoon, I got a call from the assistant manager of
the Melbourne Marvels. They want to offer me a league contract for next
season.”
 My jaw drops. My eyes widen. “What?!”
He nods. “Yeah. I can’t believe it myself. But there’s a contract in my
inbox, right now. So…”
“Oh my god, Noah!” I squeeze his fingers back, excited and elated and
just tremendously happy for him. “That’s amazing. Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” He smiles wider. “I still can’t kind of believe of it. But…
it’s real.”
“Of course, it’s real. It’s so real. And you deserve it. You earned it,
Noah. You really did.” I smile as wide as him. My happiness in the news,
my pride in him shines out of me too. “I’m so proud of you. So proud. I
can’t…”
“And I was thinking,” Noah says slowly. Then he pauses because the
wait staff shows up with the champagne. His knee jiggles impatiently under
the table as the server uncorks the bottle and pours it for me, before sticking
the bottle in an ice bucket.
I raise my glass in a toast to this magnificent, amazing person. “To
Noah Dumaine. The next cricket superstar. Watch out, world,” I tip my flute
to his plain water glass. “Here he comes.”
Noah clinks glasses. “Thank you, love.”
My heart jerks. Does he mean to call me love or is it just an
endearment? I slide my eyes away from him, hoping he doesn’t notice the
sudden jitteriness.
I sip the fizzy drink. It hits my system like starlight. I feel like I’m up
among the clouds. Floating. Falling…
“So, as I was saying⁠—”
“Yes, what were you saying, Melbourne Marvels’ newest opener?” I
grin cheekily.
He runs a sheepish hand through his hair. “It’s not finalized. And I still
have to play the Triskelion Cup and maybe get selected for the men’s squad,
too⁠—”
“Which of course you are.” I raise my glass to him again. “You’re going
to be unstoppable next year, Dumaine. It’s just the beginning for you.” This
I believe down to my bones.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes? Tell me.” I bump knees with him. “Are they offering you a
swanky penthouse with the deal? Or do you have to buy your own?”
 “I was thinking…” Noah gulps down his water. “I wanted to—” He
plays with the water glass. “I was hoping you’d come with me too. To
Melbourne.”
I shake my head. I couldn’t have heard him right. “You…what?” I ask
him stupidly.
“This is not a short-term fake arrangement for me anymore,” he says
simply. “I want to be with you. For the long term. For go…for good. Will
you come with me?” His obsidian eyes blaze in certainty, in heat.
“I—” I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what to think.
How can I just…?
“Just think about it, will you? And I’ve been looking at universities in
Melbourne. RMIT’s got an excellent science program. I am sure they’ll be
thrilled to have you.”
“RMIT?”
Noah nods eagerly. “Yeah, I went on their website and checked out the
professors and the curriculum. It’s no Thorndon, of course, but it’s good.
And—” he reaches out and grips my hand tightly. His grip is tight and
possessive.
Hot and cold chills travel through me at the touch. At his words.
“It’ll be a fresh start for you. Away from—” He waves his hand around
the restaurant. “Everything,” he finishes softly.
“A fresh start,” I echo.
He nods again, eagerly. “Exactly. You said it yourself. You don’t need to
repeat classes and stuff, right? So, you can just do your last semester in
Melbourne, instead of here. And I could even talk to your parents for
you⁠—”
“Talk to my pare—Noah!” I actually hold my hand up.
My breaths fight to reach my lungs. Which are squeezed tight from
pressure and suffocation.
Noah stops talking. Gives me a bewildered look. “Okay, maybe you can
talk to your parents. About coming to Melbourne with me if you want to.”
He gives me a blinding smile. “Which I really hope you do. I hope with all
my heart you do, Devika.”
I blink because he says my real name. My actual name. With the correct
inflection.
“I need…” I finish off the champagne. “I need a minute.”
 “Of course, take all the time you need. I didn’t mean to put you on the
spot or anything.”
“Then what was that?” I hurl at him.
Noah gives me a blinkered look. “That was me offering you an
alternative, Queenie. You don’t mean to tell me you want to be a waitress at
a diner forever.”
I feel like shit because I yelled at the man I love while he was making
plans with me. Grand, romantic plans
“There’s nothing wrong with being a waitress at a diner,” I snap
defensively.
I also pour myself more champagne. It goes straight to my head. Makes
it woozy. Trembly. I am reconciling having a future, the academic future I
want and now he’s dropping casual bombs about moving to the other end of
the world for it⁠—
“There is nothing wrong with it. I just asked if it’s what you want,” he
says quietly.
I don’t know what I want. I’m scared to want things. Wanting you is
devastating me. I can’t want anything anymore, without losing my mind.
I straighten my shoulders. Sip the wine more cautiously. It burns down
my throat. I give him a thin smile. “Can we just enjoy your amazing, good
news? Celebrate it?”
“Will you at least promise to think about it? About being with me?” He
persists.
I feel hemmed in. Claustrophobic. On one side is Noah and the promise
of a future with him. However uncertain it is. On the other side is the ruined
wreckage of my own past. And I am in the middle, teetering in the cratered
present.
Love is not an inconvenience anymore. It’s an iron ball, dragging me
down for the third time.
“I—”
Someone bumps against my chair, dislodging me. I shoot them an
irritated look. “Can you just watch where you’re going?”
“I’m sorry--” The offender glances down at me. Smiles softly at me.
Sickeningly.
The world stops spinning. Gravity has no meaning. I am arrested,
transfixed… as I see the man who tore through my world. He ended it and
left me to deal with the debris.
 “Miss Madhavan,” the man who assaulted my roommate begins. “My
apologies.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘ARE YOU HAPPY NOW’ BY MICHELLE BRANCH

IN MY HEAD, I walk into this man’s office on the first day of winter term.
It says Professor Joseph Washington on the frosted glass. My fists are
clenched. And I stare defiantly, accusingly at him.
“Professor Washington,” I say woodenly to the man smiling genially at
me, like he really is nothing but my professor.
In my head, I throw my latest graded paper at him. “Why did you give
me a C? I worked hard on this paper, and I researched the crap out of it.”
My voice shakes, so does my hand.
“Because you deserve it, Miss Madhavan. Your arguments were poorly
presented and moreover I⁠—"
“Good evening,” Washington replies smoothly, at the restaurant. He’s
dressed in a black suit like the blackheart he is. His temple, his sideburns
are silver-grey. But he gleams like a shiny, golden god. All smooth charm
and surface smiles.
All lies.
“Good evening.” I grip my wine flute tightly, holding it for balance. To
keep me grounded.
In my head, I’m thrown back to the rest of the disastrous conversation.
“You gave me this C on purpose,” I accuse him. “You’re strongarming
me because I asked questions about Dolly’s last meeting with you on
Halloween to the team running the CCTV. I know it.”
Tears flow down my cheeks. Because the man smiles. The monster
smiles. He has no remorse, no regret. He doesn’t even care I know. That he
did something so reprehensible.
 “Miss Alderton was a lovely student but the pressures of the academic
program at Thorndon got to her and⁠—"
“You assaulted her,” I yell.
“You look good, Miss Madhavan,” Professor Washington compliments
me at the restaurant, all golden charm.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t talk.
I just keep staring at him as the past washes over me in waves.
“I did no such thing. Miss Alderton was overwhelmed with her poor
grades, just like you are, right now, and I simply…”
“You simply pawed at her like you owned her. And she let you,” I
whisper the words out. Unwilling to believe them. Unable to not.
Washington’s smile fades. Becomes a hard mask of power, of privilege.
“Whatever happened between us was a mutual decision, Miss Madhavan.
And I am under no obligation to⁠—"
I cut him off with my own hard words. “She left Thorndon because of
you. She said if she stayed here one more day, she’d throw herself from one
of the towers. That’s what happened to her.”
The man does not flinch. “I don’t understand what you want from me.
Do you want me to change your grade?”
“As a bribe to keep my mouth shut?” I hurl at him savagely. “No, I
don’t want that. I’m going to tell everyone the truth. I have a meeting
scheduled with the Dean’s office tomorrow. And I’m going to tell him
everything… what you did to Dolly and how you turned the other faculty
against me because I started asking questions. How you and the other
professors are making my grades suffer because I know the truth.”
I am so righteous, so confident in my conviction I don’t even consider
the possibility of losing. I’m the heroine of my own life. I will win this
battle. The truth always wins.
“It’s good to see you, Miss Madhavan,” Washington says politely, now.
Then he nods at Noah who smiles at him.
In my head, though, it’s a different story.
Joseph Washington, predator and monster, leans back against his chair.
Winter sunlight pours in through his office window. Giving him a false halo.
“Even if anything you say is true, and I am categorically denying it is,
who is going to believe you, Miss Madhavan?” He talks softly, rationally.
“You just lost your roommate, who dropped out of college for unknown
reasons. You’re a troubled young woman whose academics have suffered
from the pressures of thriving in college, just like your roommate. And now
you’re here, in my office, accusing me of insane and untrue things.”
I blink. Take a shattered breath. “I’m telling the truth.”
“What is truth, Miss Madhavan? It’s just a hypothesis based on facts
and evidence. Where’s your evidence?”
I lick my lips. “They’ll have to believe me when I tell them what I
know.”
“Or will they believe me when I tell them you threw yourself at me, and
begged me to change your grade because you didn’t want to lose your
scholarship? You instigated advances on me…”
He opens his jacket and unbuttons his shirt under it.
I get a glimpse of curly chest hair and turn away violently, immediately.
“You’re a monster.” I am shaking. Gasping. About to have a panic
attack. “You’re a heinous monster.”
“I’m just doing my job, Miss Madhavan. I’m trying to be a good teacher
to you. And I’m telling you, nothing will come off this,” he hesitates before
continuing softly, “This crusade you’re on. Except your own sad end.”
“You don’t know that,” I snap hotly.
“Oh, but I do. Because I’ll make it so.” He reaches one hand out.
I shrink into my chair. Clutching the paper against my chest. My heart’s
pounding, I have chills all over. My mouth feels dry. I am not…not myself.
“Do yourself a favor. Forget any of this ever happened,” he suggests. “I
can even talk to dorm management and get you a new room. You have a
bright future as a doctor, Queenie. Don’t throw it away over this.”
I take a deep breath. But knives have filled my air passage. Pricking me.
Wounding me. Bleeding me.
He sounds so reasonable. So calm. So logical. He sounds like he’s
telling the truth. He’s the victim here. Not Dolly. Not me. After all, who will
believe me?
“Well,” the monster says now, adjusting his cufflinks. “I’ll let you get
back to your night. Apologies for bumping against you, right then.”
And he walks. The man walks away. Unscathed. Unaffected.
And in my head, in that room… my future ends.
I accept defeat. I see the logic of his words. In my head, I stop wanting
to win. Stop trying even.
“I—”
 “I’ll change the grade to a B, of course. If you can just leave the paper
with me. I’m sure I can find a reason to—” he says kind words. A favor. A
benediction for me.
I know it’s a curse. A tether to this vile man.
I don’t want it.
I tear the paper in two. And walk out of his office. I close the door
behind me with a snick. It’s audible, that snick. It’s the door closing on my
future. My bright future as a doctor.
I lean against it, tears creeping down my cheek. I can’t win, I think. I
can’t win against him. I wipe them away with shaking hands.
A couple of students passing through the corridor turn their faces. They
shield their hands and talk to each other.
I can even imagine what they’re saying.
“Poor Professor Washington. She’s throwing herself at him. Of course,
she did it. She’s got bad grades, didn’t she? She’s at fault.”
I start running down the corridor.
I don’t stop till I’m out of the college and out of campus. I drive Lizzie
out of town and cross into Barrons Bay. I stop in front of Ma’s Pantry,
struck by a sign on the sidewalk window.
Help Wanted.
I walk in and get a job as a waitress at a diner.
And I give up my future. Just like that.

Noah’s kneeling at my feet, shaking my hands. Trying to get my attention.

I give him a distracted glance. He’s blurred through hot, unshed tears.
“Are you okay?” He looks over his shoulder. “Who is that?”
I shake my head. I can’t talk. I’m still back in Washington’s office.
Hearing the door close. Over and over again. I keep losing. Failing. Over
and over again. It’s never over for me.
Never.
“Queenie, —”
I wrench my hands free of his grasp. They’re restrictive. Not reassuring.
I can’t look at him. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t breathe.
 The restaurant noises – the clink and clattery of flatware, the low
murmur of voices, the ambient music – it magnifies, amplifies… until my
ears start ringing. I see sounds. I hear colors.
I stumble away from the chair.
It clatters to the floor.
I can’t take a breath. It’s trapped in my lungs. I’m gasping, holding my
chest, my stomach.
I start running again. I run out of the restaurant, pushing against a
waiter. His tray clatters to the floor. Something breaks.
I break.
I burst out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk.
Noah follows me. I look at him, tall and strong and dependable, and I
run again. But this time he catches me.
“Let me go.” I struggle against him. Violently. Vehemently. “Let me
go.”
He lets me go immediately.
Tears stream down my face. Contorting me into an ugly, futureless
thing. “I have to go,” I heave out. “I have to go.”
“Okay,” Noah says quietly. “Okay.”
We say nothing else as he drives me home in Lizzie Bonnet.
Because I know there’s nothing else to say.
There is nothing at all.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘OVER’ BY LINDSEY LOHAN

I HAVE my panic attack under control by the time we reach the cottage.
Noah’s preternaturally quiet next to me, when he opens the door and lets me
walk ahead of him. The heat from his proximity blisters me.
I concentrate on not crying. On breathing evenly.
He takes off his jacket and lays it on the mantelpiece. “Do you want
some water? Something stronger?”
His practical questions snap me out of my stupor. “I’m good. I’m fine.”
I attempt a smile. It’s like stretching taffy but I do it. “I’m sorry your night
is ruined. Maybe we can⁠—”
“Fuck my night,” he says roughly. “Talk to me.”
My breath trips up again. “I—” I shake my head.
“Please.” Noah touches my arm. The barest brush of fingertips.
“I have a headache, I think.” I touch a shaking hand to my aching
forehead. “I don’t…”
“Are you really not going to tell me who that man is and what happened
between you?” He is rough again. Almost barbaric, with the muscle ticking
in his jaw. The crinkles on his lovely, unmarred forehead.
“Please, don’t,” I try feebly.
I’m so hot. I want to tear the dress off. I want to burn it and throw the
ashes in the trash. It’s not a pretty dress. It’s ugly. Ugly.
Noah drops his hand when I jerk away from him. “Talk to me, please.”
I walk up the stairs quickly and he follows me. I want to tell him to
stop. To not come after me. I’m trying too hard not to cry.
 We enter the bedroom, his bedroom… that he let me have. So
generously. With his power and wealth and privilege.
Tears come. I knuckle them away.
Noah says my name in a small voice. So low. Despondent. “Is he…is he
the professor who attacked your friend and threatened you?”
My face crumples. I bury it in my hands as sobs shake my shoulders.
Noah puts his arms around me, holding me, surrounding me. A warm
shelter for me to lean into. But he’s a man of wealth and power and
privilege. Untouched by the ugliness of my real life.
I break away from him.
He lets me go.
“I’m going to kill the bastard.” He is murderous. Dangerous. Lethal.
I shake my head and finally face him. “He⁠—”
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Noah repeats. His fists are clenched.
He is fairly vibrating with emotion. I’m falling apart with mine.
We’re a hopeless, doomed pair.
“I tried,” I whisper. “I told him what I knew of the assault. He laughed
and threatened me with dire consequences. I tried anyway. But Dolly didn’t
leave a statement with me or the school authorities. And when I took what I
knew to the Dean’s office, they were very sympathetic to my story. But he’s
a tenured, prestigious professor and they weren’t going to…they weren’t
going to…”
I cry again. Softly. Helplessly. Shattering all over again. And this time,
the tears don’t stop. The emotions of the night, the past catching up with
me, my admissions email, Noah’s request…it all becomes too much for me.
I sink to the bed and heave and sob and cry. Noah sits next to me and
holds me. Tight. I keep struggling but he doesn’t let go. Finally, my sobs
become sniffles and tears.
I am a snotty, messy mess.
“We’ll get proof,” he says, at last.
“Dolly won’t talk.” I’m so tired. So very tired. “And she has a right to
her privacy. Her life.”
“What about your life?” He demands hotly. “You dropped out of college
because of this monster.”
“That was my choice,” I respond. “I did that. I couldn’t take the sly
taunts, the constant judgment anymore.”
 And it was. I could be brave all I wanted, be tart and sassy and stand up
for myself now…but the truth remains. When it mattered, I folded. I gave
up.
I couldn’t fight anymore.
I am weak. A coward. A failure.
The thought brings on a fresh set of tears. They lodge in the back of my
throat.
“Still.”
I shake my head. “It’s done, Noah. There’s nothing more to be done.”
“You’re coming with me,” he says grimly. “I’m taking you away from
here. RMIT will be different. I’ll hire bodyguards for you and …”
I raise my tired, aching head from his shoulder. “What? Stop! What are
you talking about?”
“What do you think I’m talking about, Queenie?” Noah is wild-eyed. “I
want you to come with me. To move away from here. This place is hell for
you. You don’t need to –”
“You can’t make that decision for me.” My heart starts hammering in
my chest again.
“I wasn’t trying to⁠—”
“But you are.” I push away from him. Intense energy courses through
me. Adrenalin. Fear. The shards of all my broken dreams. “You’re talking
about hiring bodyguards for me!” I throw my hands up. “That’s…
outrageous.”
“I want to protect you.” He is carefully blank. “Take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it all these years.”
“You were bullied out of college, Queenie.” Noah grits out. “And you
couldn’t even stand up to your bully. Not even tonight, when you had the
chance.”
The words strike me like a blow to the chest. A bullet entering my
fragile skin, tearing it apart, bleeding through and through.
“I don’t mean it…” Noah rubs a hand over his face. And stands up.
Looming over me. “Let’s try again, shall we? We’re both a little rattled,
obviously.”
He tries to touch my shoulder, but I shake him off. “Don’t do that. Don’t
fix me. You don’t get to do that. No one does.” My voice throbs with
emotion, but I’m unwavering.
“I wasn’t trying to fix you.”
 “It’s all you do,” I hurl at him. “You fix things. People. Problems. A
porn video shows up and you threaten the videographer with a lawsuit. Your
spot at cricket camp is in jeopardy and you make up a fake girlfriend to fix
it.”
Noah flinches with each word out of my mouth. Venomous. Destructive.
“You blackmail me into being said fake girlfriend by fixing my
homelessness problem. You even gave me your bed to sleep in. You want
me to be in debt to you. Not just that.” I shake my head, as a fresh insight
bursts out of me. “You fix things, you take care of things, because you want
to control everything. Control me.”
“I don’t want to control you. I can’t do that even if I wanted to. You’re
stubborn and prickly and you stand in your own way even you shouldn’t,”
he replies in a low voice.
But there is something more than affection in his voice. There’s
vindictiveness. The need to hurt.
“I don’t do that.”
“You dropped out of college and took up a minimum wage job in the
same bloody town, so your oppressors see you every day. See what they did
to you. You could have gone anywhere but you chose to stay here and be
bullied every damn day.” I recoil at his stark words. But he’s not done yet.
“You still haven’t told your parents why you dropped out of college.” He is
so logical in his response. “Why you gave up on your future.”
It hits a little too close to home. “Yes, because…”
“Because you know what they’ll say,” Noah answers steadily. “They’ll
ask you to reconsider. They’ll ask you to be reasonable and make a choice
that does not involve being a bloody waitress and take this punishment.”
He’s so right. So bloodlessly, logically right. I see red. I see fucking
crimson.
“Not all of us have absent millionaire dads to bail us out of life’s little
problems,” I shoot back nastily. “We have to make our own way. We have
to take up shitty jobs and do the best we can.”
“You think money makes life’s problems go away?”
“It certainly doesn’t hurt. You were even going to use money right now
to get me fucking bodyguards at a school halfway across the world.”
“Yes, because, I didn’t want you to go through anything remotely like
this ever again,” he bites out through clenched teeth.
 “There you go.” I throw my hands up between us. “Fixing my life for
me. You don’t have to do that.”
“Why not? Someone has to.” Noah throws his hands up. “You’re not
doing it, are you?”
And because he says it like he doesn’t like me…like he wants to hurt
me when I’m already aching and bleeding…I want to do the same to him. I
want to make him ache and bleed. See him flayed open.
“I’m not your mom, Noah. Fixing me is not going to bring her back.
She’s gone,” I say softly. Quietly. My words drop like a bomb between us.
Noah’s head snaps back. Like I physically hit him.
I take a step toward him as I realize what I just said. The awful, horrific,
terrible gravity of it. It’s unforgivable.
It’s a death knell to whatever is there between us.
“Noah—”
He shakes his head. Once. A sharp, decisive cutting motion.
My heart slides to my stomach.
“I know you’re not my mom. I wasn’t trying to make you into her.” His
ragged breath just destroys me completely. “I know she’s gone.” His words
are black. Broken. Sad.
I take another step toward him. But Noah lunges out the door. And it
snaps shut behind him with an audible snick.
My heart falls to my feet and crawls after him. While I cry and cry and
cry and cry…

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘HOUSE OF PAIN’ BY FASTER PUSSYCAT

I WALK DOWN the stairs of the house I own in a daze. A part of me still
can’t believe this happened. I met Queenie’s oppressor. We fought so badly,
so bitterly it’s irredeemable.
This night was meant to mark the beginning of my life with the woman
I am in love with. Now, everything’s over.
Definitively.
Damagingly.
Because, of course, we aren’t meant to be together.
I created all of these…these dreams in my head because I didn’t want to
be alone anymore. I wasn’t alone when I was with her so I mistakenly,
foolishly, stupidly assumed she felt the same about me, about us too.
When she was thinking the worst of me.
I shake my head. I tear open the shirt and it falls to the floor of the small
storage room that still has a few of my things. Most of my stuff is in the
bedroom she’s in. The bedroom she thinks I gave her because I wanted her
to owe me. To fix her.
When it was because…because…I put a hand on the wall. And take a
deep breath. It ripples up and down my back. I can’t see clearly because I
have…fuck…tears in my eyes.
I close them and will the tears back.
When I have beat them back, I pick a smelly muscle tee shirt from an
end table and wear it mechanically.
Under the tee shirt, over the small end table, I spy the wooden box I’d
stashed here all those weeks ago. I didn’t look for it anymore because I
carried my mother’s pookah shell necklace safely in my kit bag in a velvet
drawstring pouch.

I pick it up. The wooden markings on the box are mere scratches now. I
walk out of the room slowly, with the box in my hand. I sit down on the
couch and stare at it, playing certain scenes in my head.
I’m seven, with a gap-toothed smile. Mum walks on a beach during a
summer storm, finding the shells for my lucky charm necklace. She is in a
blue dress with daisies on them, it sticks to her thin body.
I’m nine. It’s my birthday. Mum kisses me goodnight, tells me she loves
me. She’ll always love me. Dad watches me from the doorway. I feel loved.
Safe. Taken care of.
I’m twelve. Mum holds my hand when she tells me the news of her
diagnosis. She’s dry-eyed. Strong. Stubborn. “I’ll beat it,” she says. “I’ll be
the one to beat it.” I believe her. I don’t understand what cancer is, not yet.
Mum hugs me again. And watches a match I play from the stands. She
can’t breathe properly and she’s wearing a large flowing scarf. She started
losing hair last week. Her pride helps me win the match with my first little
league century.
I am twelve again. Asleep near mum’s bed. But I can’t hear her heart
beating. When the nurse comes and shakes her awake, her hand slides down
from my head. I wait for her to wake up. I tell her, “Mum, please…please
wake up. We have to watch the World Cup Finals.”
But I know it. I sense it in the cold of her hands. Her stiff body.
She won’t wake up. She won’t ever wake up again. She’s gone. Leaving
me.
And I’ll be alone. Like I have always been. Always will be.
The knowledge sits on my twenty-four-year-old chest, my back, my
head, my neck…a heavy boulder made of unfulfilled dreams, unspoken
wishes, and unmade bargains.
I throw the box away. It bounces harmlessly on the rug and rolls to a
stop, the contents spilling open.
I go down on my knees, my vision blurred and hazy, gather the box.
Putting all the things back inside.
I sense Queenie’s presence before I see her. I’ve become attuned to her now.
Like osmosis. Like love. I know where she is before she’s there.
She picks up a black satin scrunchie. “That’s mine.”
“Yeah. Keep it.” My words are hoarse, my throat is dry. Closing up
from the effort to not cry.
“Where did it come from?” Queenie looks at the box in my hands. “Did
you…” She takes a breath. “Did you take my scrunchie?”
I shrug. And close the box gently. It’s old and worn. I have to treat it
with care.
“I’m sorry. About before,” she begins uncertainly. “I didn’t mean it. I
swear, I didn’t mean it.”
“But you did.” I sit cross-legged on the floor. “You meant it.” I look up
at her.
She’s a few feet away. But the distance between us is untraversable. I
can’t reach her anymore. She might as well be in Melbourne, half a world
away from me.
Queenie shakes her head and sinks down to the floor in front of me. “I
did not mean it. It was a terrible thing to say. I was hurt and confused, and I
lashed out at you, and I did not mean it. I’m sorry.” She tries to take my
hand. “Will you please just listen to me for a minute?”
This time, I pull away. I don’t want her touching me. I am alone. I’m
always alone.
“I have to know this. I just have to,” I ask her unevenly. Because this
question keeps roaming in my head. Circling like a vulture over a still-
dying carcass.
“What?”
“Did you…” I swallow. Firm up my voice. “Did you consent to have
sex with me because you thought you owed me?”
“NO!” Her denial is instantaneous. Anguished.
I look at her then. She’s in tears. Floods of them. And I want to brush
them away. It’s what I always do. I’m good at it. But she thinks it’s because
I want to control her. Control everything. So, I let her cry. Her sobs batter
my bruised heart to shreds.
“When I said…” Queenie swallows too. Wipes at her cheeks and tries
again. “You have to understand. I am not like you.”
 “I know you’re not like me. You’re better than me in every possible
way.”
“I’m a waitress at a fucking diner. You’re a millionaire who’s been
given a contract to play one of the most elite sports in the world,” she
reminds me.
“Does it always come down to money with you?”
“That’s not what I was…I meant, you have risen from your failures. You
haven’t let them define you. You’ve used them to make your mark in the
world. Noah, you’re inspiration personified. I’m…”
“I’m an addict who struggles with sobriety every single day,” I tell her
calmly. I show her my hand then. My fingers have a slight tremor. “See
that? It’s because I want to take oxy or a shot of tequila because this is too
real, too fucking much. I’m the bastard who personally squandered his
chance at glory and playing for the country. So don’t tell me I’m a fucking
inspiration.”
“But you are,” she argues back.
Queenie crawls over to me. And takes my limp fingers in hers. This
time I don’t push her away. I don’t have the strength to.
“Just because you want something doesn’t mean you’ll give in to it.
You’re a strong, stalwart man, Noah.”
“I gave into you.” My mouth twists. “I made you give into me. I pushed
you and blackmailed you –”
“It was coercion,” she defends me. “And you needed to stay at camp.”
“But it’s not what you said just now. Do you not remember your own
words?” I ask her politely.
“I’m sorry,” Queenie stresses. “I’ll be sorry all my life if you just let
me apologize. Please, just listen to me. Please.”
I raise dull eyes to her.
She wipes more tears away. “When I saw him…Professor
Washington…”
“Veronica Washington,” I murmur, as another piece of the mystery falls
into place. “Veronica’s his daughter?” I now understand the animosity
between Veronica and Queenie.
What had Teddy Durham said: She doesn’t like the girl in the video…
Queenie? Like, really doesn’t like her.
Queenie nods. “Yeah. She heard the rumors around school. She thought
I was…I was…trying to trap her dad. Destroy his reputation.” Queenie
closes her eyes and wraps one arm around her stomach. “She’s spent a lot of
time and effort trying to break me.”
“Because she doesn’t know the truth.”
She shakes her head. “Obviously not. Like that fucker is going to tell
her the truth.”
“I’m sorry.” They are inadequate words. But I offer them anyway.
She shakes her head. Rejecting them. Rejecting me.
I don’t expect any less now. I know the truth now. I see everything
clearly now.
“Can I just talk for a minute? Will you listen?”
I nod. I suppose I owe her civility. “I’ll listen.”
Queenie tells me everything. Every sordid horrible thing that happened
to Dolly. Then to her.
I get sickened by the picture she paints. Of a clannish community that
supported and enabled a Pillar of Community at the cost of two, young,
innocent girls and their truths.
“Fuck,” I breathe when she ends. Anger is a living, breathing dragon
inside me now. It wants out.
I clench my mom’s keepsake box harder. Some of the splinters dig into
my palms. I relish the pain.
“When I saw him again, I went back to that moment, Noah. I relived it
all again. I…I saw myself as I really was. Weak. Powerless.” My brave
Queenie nails me with a heartbreaking look. “Helpless.”
“And then you started talking about taking care of me and protecting me
and I just…”
“You thought I was him? That asshole?” I am incredulous.
She shakes her head. I’m a little pacified she doesn’t think so low of me.
At the least. “No! Fuck no. You’ve always believed in the future. You’re
here at this camp, doing everything you can so you can have a shot at it.”
“So can you,” I remind her tiredly.
She shakes her head. Again. So fast. “I’m not just stuck at that office
door, Noah. I’m trapped there,” she whispers. “I’m trapped in that moment.
Where I believed him. Where he was right. Because he is a powerful,
authoritative, privileged man. I am no one.”
“You’re not no one.”
“I am no one because it’s what I’ve become.” Shame coats her voice.
Her tears. “And I don’t know how to be someone. And you deserve
someone. Someone strong. Not weak. Not a coward or a failure. You
deserve someone who doesn’t need you.”
“And you need me?” I ask her hopelessly.
“I always need you.” Queenie takes a jagged breath before continuing,
“And you always come through for me. Don’t you see how unequal it
makes us? If you keep fixing problems for me, how will I ever learn to fix
them on my own? Who will I become in five, ten years?” She demands
thickly. “A shadow. A non-person. The footnote to your brilliant and well-
deserved career.”
“Is that how you see it?” Her words aren’t illogical. They just feel so.
Because in her head, we aren’t together. People who are together don’t
feel the need to count and measure love and affection.
I’m alone in this regard too.
“What if I need you too?”
She smiles. “It’s not the same and you know it.”
“So, what? I should quit cricket?” I ask recklessly. “Stay here with you
to prove how much I care about you?”
Queenie closes her eyes. Doesn’t answer me.
“You know, you’ve asked me so many times, why me…why me…why
do you like me, why do you want me…and I’ve tried to answer you every
time. I just realized,” I say slowly. “I never asked you why. Why me,
Queenie?”
She continues staring at me. Makes no effort to wipe the tears on her
lovely, luminescent face.
I try and memorize it. The golden eyes with no light in them, the rounds
of her cheeks, the lushness of her lips, her perky and pointy nose…the curls
I love to bury my hands in.
I nod at the scrunchie on her lap. “I came to the diner once in early
April, the first week I landed here. It must have been eleven pm. I was on
one of my clear my head drives, and I really needed some food.”
Queenie sucks in a breath.
“You were behind the bar. Your hips moved to Nirvana’s Smells Like
Teen Spirit while you muttered about women’s femurs. Simon came into the
bar and, without even asking him, you gave him a whole pie. He didn’t pay
for it.” I don’t even need to close my eyes to picture her. “Your hair was in a
fat plait. You tossed it to the back when it kept sliding to your shoulder.”
“I didn’t know…” Her mouth falls open. Her eyes widen.
 “The scrunchie fell down with the force of your toss. You went to the
kitchen afterward. You were the prettiest, kindest, most distracting woman.
I kept it in the stupid hope I’d introduce myself by giving it to you.” My
mouth twists. “But I never did because I was scared, you’d see through
me.”
“I—” Queenie swallows.
“Then, like fate, I saw you at the party at Quigley, I followed you. I
wanted to talk to you.” I smile sadly at her. “Tell you about the scrunchie.
But you kissed me.”
Her lips part but no words come out.
“I wanted to say something after, but you started trash talking Aussie
cricket. Then I gave you post-kiss consent and I…couldn’t. You were even
prettier up close and near.”
“Then you asked me to kiss you at Mo’s,” I say the next words, true
words, simply. “And you owned me. As much as cricket owns me.”
She cries again.
“And I spent all this time…all this time…trying to make you see that.
Feel that. Trust that. Because I know I’m not enough.” I put a hand on my
chest. “I am not worthy. I’m a fucked-up addict whose own dad doesn’t
love him enough to want him. That’s why I never asked you why me.”
A hot tear chases down my cheek too. I wipe it away.
“Because you won’t want me if you were given a choice, will you?” I
give her the first piece of my broken heart. “You told me I only fix things.
But Queenie…” I give her the last piece. “Who will love me if I don’t make
them? If I don’t do things for them to remind them, I am here?”
Another sob spills out of her. I feel its answering echo in my brutalized
soul.
I get up. Slowly. My bones creak like I’ve played a ninety-over test
match innings. But this match, I lost before the first ball was bowled.
“All I know of love is need, Queenie.” She looks stricken when I say it.
“To be needed is to be loved. Maybe I need to ask you, would you want me
if you didn’t need me. But we both already know the answer to that, don’t
we?” I attempt a small smile. It feels artificial to me.
I hold my keepsake box in my hand. It doesn’t contain the memory of
her anymore. Maybe it’s for the best.
People leave. People leave me. It’s what always happens. Holding onto
them is not a good idea. It’s certainly not healthy, is it?
 “The agreement…”
“The agreement’s over, Queenie.” I tell her what she needs to hear.
Maybe what she’s always needed to hear. “You’re free of me.”
And I walk out of the house that had become a home because it had
Queenie in it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘SAVE YOURSELF’ BY SENSE FIELD

I CHANGE and pack an overnight bag ten minutes later and text the one
person who will take me in, no questions asked. My tears have decreased
although my eyes are gritty and sandy.
When I walk out of the cottage; it’s empty. I send a text to Noah and the
boys to tell them I’m spending the night away. It’s the responsible, adult
thing to do.
Noah doesn’t respond. It shatters me.
Thirty minutes later, I drive up to a proper beach mansion on the edge of
the cliffs.
Rohit Chachu stands at the door, outlined by the patio light.
I fling open Lizzie’s door and run headlong into his arms. A fresh round
of sobs wrack me. Wreck me. It gets worse because the door opens wider
and Mischa’s there too. Worry in her eyes, concern in her hug.
“I called her when I heard the tears in your voice,” Chachu says softly.
I hold the two people who are my family and utterly break down. And,
in between bouts of enormous, body-shaking sobs, I tell them what I can.
Meeting the professor. The fight. All the ugly things I told Noah.
Chachu’s white-faced and tight-lipped as he listens to it all. But he hugs
me and kisses my forehead before leaving me with Mischa.
She says nothing. Just holds me. Silent and comforting. My best friend.
I spend the next two days in bed, on the couch. Napping. Staring listlessly
at the window. Watching the clouds drift by the cliffs.
Rohit Chachu plies me with food and tea. Paneer pakoras and salads and
pizza.
I cry even when I eat it all.
Everything reminds me of Noah. Of the things he’d said. The things
he’d done. His final words to me. Everything reminds of how badly, how
terribly badly I’d fucked up something so good and precious.
Because I am afraid.
I’m afraid of him. Of the hold he has over me. Of the person I’ve
become with him. Brave and bold. Fearless.
I also cry over my past. The young woman I’d been. Self-righteous and
so certain. I walked into my professor’s office ready to bring him down
because it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t do it, so I cry for my loss.
I’ve been so lost…so fucking lost for so long. I didn’t just lose my way,
I lost myself. My self.
The good parts, the bad parts, the failed, weak, cowardly parts. The
ambitious, successful, important parts. Everything was swept under the
enormity of what happened.
And I never grieved her, the young woman I’d once been. I just buried
her like an ugly, dirty secret and transitioned into aimless waitress.
I grieve her. She deserves better than what I’ve become. What I’ve
made of me.

On day three, Mischa yanks the sheets off me. I try and grab them back. But
she’s surprisingly strong. She throws them off the couch where I am
vegetating.
“You’re done moping like a Bollywood tragedy queen,” she says firmly.
“Shah Rukh is not coming to wipe your tears. You do it yourself.”
“Shah Rukh just might.” I try and stand up, but my legs have atrophied.
So, I kind of do a wobbly dance with her and the sheets. “And you’re not
the boss of me.”
“You’re not your boss, so I have appointed myself interim boss.
Chachu!” She yells. “She got up from the couch.”
 “Stop worrying about me so much,” I mutter. “I’m not a patient or
anything.”
“No, you’ve just welded yourself to this couch.”
I sit back down and weld myself some more. “So, what if I have? It’s
my body, my choice.”
Mischa rolls her eyes and actually shoves me. “Will you stop being so
fucking dramatic and get over yourself?”
My jaw drops. “What did you just say?” I ask her incredulously.
“You heard me the first time. You’re not deaf.” She wraps an arm
around me. “You have to forgive yourself for being human. For making a
mistake.” She sniffs delicately. “You have to fucking shower. You smell,
woman.”
I laugh weakly. “Thanks for being honest.”
“I always am.” Mischa sighs and drops her head on my shoulder. “I
know you think you failed Dolly and yourself and all of womankind
because you couldn’t get Professor Washington convicted but listen to
me⁠—”
She shakes her head when I start protesting. “Listen to me. It’s not just
on you. The entire system, the institution failed there. And it’s appallingly
common. Most sexual assaults go unreported, Queenie. You know the
stats.”
I do know the stats. It’s heartbreaking and unspeakable. And it’s unfair. I
say as much.
“Life’s not fair,” Mischa is predictably brisk. “When’s it ever been fair?
Was it fair Noah lost his mom so young?”
I shake my head. “No…”
“Was it fair you discovered you didn’t like medicine so much as
science, once you started studying medicine?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Was it fair of you to keep your parents in the dark about all this for
almost a whole year?” Misha skewers me with a hard look.
“No. I just…didn’t know how to tell them any of this,” I confess softly.
“I thought they’d blame me too.”
“We’ve done a piss-poor job of raising you if you really think so,
bachcha.” Chachu folds his arms and stands in front of me. At some point,
he joined the conversation too.
 “I…” I worry the couch cushions and answer them diffidently. “I
wanted to prove to myself… to you all. That I’m tough. I can handle it.” I
look beseechingly at him. “I’m an adult and adults don’t need help.”
Chachu laughs. He laughs so hard, tears run down his face. “Sweetheart,
if you think adults don’t need help, you’re a fucking child. We all need help
all the time. We need people. We need support. Friends. Partners. Lovers
who believe in us.”
He sits down on my other side and takes my hand. “What happened to
your friend, Dolly…what was done to you as a consequence of it, is
terrible. Horrible. But how long are you going to use it as the reason to not
live your life?”
His simple, pragmatic question breaks down all my defenses. Tilts them
to the floor like a wave crashing through a sandcastle, drowning it. Leaving
the earth new and clean.
“I haven’t…” I stop talking. Stop trying to defend myself. “I haven’t
been living my life. My true life. My real life,” I admit to them. “Because
I’m scared, I’ll fail at it too.”
“If you do, then you pick yourself up and do it again. Till you succeed at
it. That’s adulting,” Mischa answers boldly. “Not this.”
“Alright, alright.” I sniff at her. “I get your point. I get it.” I gave her a
wry smile. “You should be a lawyer. Or one of those life coaches. You’re
wasting yourself in sports medicine.”
“If I fail at sports medicine, I’ll consider becoming a life coach,” she
answers tartly.
I hold both of them. And then look hopefully at Chachu. “Chachu, do
you think…do you think we can talk to Amma-Appa? And Jo?”
Chachu blinks suspiciously red eyes. “Yes, yes, of course.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘BE YOURSELF’ BY AUDIOSLAVE

I DON’T WANT to cry when I see my parents on the grainy computer

screen. So, I try, really hard, to keep the sobs in. But then Amma, in a
flowing cotton dashiki, her hair in a turban to ward off the African heat
touches the screen and says my name.
Devika.
And the tears start flowing.
Jo joins the video chat and groans. “Can you at least apologize properly
before crying for forgiveness?”
I laugh through my tears. Trust my younger sister to cut through the
bullshit.
“Chumma iru, Jo,” Amma shushes Jo. Keep quiet. “I’m so worried
about you, kunju. She blinks back tears. “Can you please tell me what has
been going on?”
So, I do. I tell her everything that happened since Halloween. She starts
crying halfway through my narration but doesn’t interrupt. Not one even
when Appa shows up and clutches her shoulder. Hard.
“And now, I’m at Rohit Chachu’s,” I end softly. “Trying to figure it out.
It’s been hard, guys. But I’m better now. Really.” I smile reassuringly at
them.
“Why didn’t you tell us all this before?” Appa asks, aghast.
“Because.” Amma shakes her head, her eyes glassy. “It hurts to talk
about all this over and over again. Especially when you’re not sure if you’ll
be believed.”
 Oh fuck. Amma knows. Jo sniffles too at her words. Amma knows how
it feels. Really.
“I’m sorry,” I reiterate for the tenth time. “I’ll never keep another thing
from you ever again.”
“You better not,” Amma grumbles.
“Yeah, so I have to…have to tell you, I want to take up neuroscience.
Not medicine. I want to be a neuroscientist. Help uncover the mysteries of
the mind and brain and not cut people open on operating tables,” I finish in
a rush.
This time, Appa recovers first. “Alright. And how do you plan on doing
that?”
I share my game plan with him and, by the time I’m finished, Amma’s
not totally mad. I take it as a good sign.
Jo’s miffed I didn’t turn a full one-eighty and choose some other field
than STEM. Like writing. Considering I’m reading all the books in the
world.
“I enjoy reading books as a de-stressor. Books are my happy place. I do
not want to make my happy place my job and have it turn into an unhappy
place,” I tell her gently. “And I am not such a good writer, in the first
place.”
My answer pacifies her a little. Then she brightens and shoots me a
wicked smile. “And what about…you know?” She waggles her eyebrows so
hard, my parents frown at her.
“Are you having a seizure, Jo?” Appa asks, worriedly.
Mischa sits down next to me and waves to my parents, her favorite
people in the world. “Actually, I think, Jo is trying to mime the existence of
Noah Dumaine.”
I blush as my parents turn laser eyes on me.
“Who’s Noah?”
“What are you doing with him?”
I hesitate for a second and then tell them, “Noah’s my boyfriend. My
roommate. I lived with him at his place. The place he owns. The truth is,” I
rip the band-aid in one shot. “He is the man I love. If he’ll ever have me.”
I talk another hour with my parents, giving them an edited version of the
events that led me to falling in love. It’s the first time in the whole year I am
fully vulnerable with my family.
I start feeling whole again. Like I am Queenie fricking Madhavan. The
Hellcat of Barrons Bay.
I also make another call, emboldened by my conversation with my
family. This call is even better than the one before. At the end of it, I
haven’t just gotten up from the couch. I am pacing around it.
I take a full deep breath and hear a door close because Chachu needs to
go to camp.
The door remains closed. Because that’s all it is. A door.
I think of calling Noah. Texting him. Asking him how he is. Wanting to
know how he is. Whether he slept. Whether Fox’s hamstring is still
troubling him.
But I don’t.
Our agreement’s over. He owes me nothing anymore. And after what I
said to him, I doubt he’ll ever want to talk to me again. Even if I do love
him. Unafraid and unchained.
So, I have to do the rest of it myself. I want to, I choose to do it all for
myself. It’s time to do it for myself.
And I will. I will do it all and become the woman he believed me to be.
I’ll do it because I believe in me too.
Finally.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘DARE YOU TO MOVE’ BY SWITCHFOOT

I AM NERVOUS.
I don’t know why as I walk into the coaches’ office on the second floor
of the stadium. It’s a tiny, cramped room – quarter the size of the dressing
rooms they’re used to. But they have wedged three desks and filled it with
papers and game day tape and playbooks and haha…bobbleheads of
themselves.
All three of them are in their office for this official meeting with me.
I was going to request one – come clean about the whole arrangement
with Queenie and take my chances with them – when they called me to set
it up.
I tug on the black blazer I wear over the simple white Henley and
formal pants. Somehow, it helped to dress for the meeting instead of
showing up in sweats.
“Aah. Dumaine. You’re on time.” Padric slides off the desk and perches
on it instead. “Punctuality is an underrated virtue.”
“So’s honesty,” Rohit intones from behind the middle desk, on a chair.
I just cross my hands in front of me and give them a small smile. I don’t
have the capacity for small talk. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep and
my body hurts. I’ve been either practicing or working out. Both Fox and
Ares know the short version of what happened and have been real mates
about it. And still…
And still it hurts.
“Good morning, sirs,” I begin.
 “Kevin Sangster’s a mate of mine from our state league days,” Aiden
cuts in casually, crossing his legs at the ankle. He’s checking something on
his ever-present clipboard.
Fuck. I try to keep the surprise off my face. Word travels fast in the
rarefied atmosphere of professional cricket.
“So, it’s true then,” Padric murmurs. “You’re joining Melbourne’s T20
league?”
“I’m considering it,” I reply honestly.
“You’ve still not signed the contract?” Rohit queries. His chair creaks
when he leans back. “I thought you’d be on the first flight out of here with
all haste.”
“I have a cup to play for, sir. And Kevin knows camp doesn’t end for a
few more days. He’s okay with my decision either way.”
“There’s no guarantee playing the Triskelion Cup is going to get you a
call from the Australian Cricket Board, kid.” Padric is thoughtful.
“He’s aware of that. He’s not stupid, Paddy.” Aiden finally puts his
clipboard down. “And I think he knows we aren’t stupid, either.” The man
pierces me with a knowing look.
I try and search for a reason they all want a meeting with me. Whether
the reason is good or bad or fucked up. I honestly cannot think of anything.
I can’t even bring myself to care.
“Am I in trouble, sir? Did I do something wrong?” I ask them, point-
blank.
After the last four days of self-reflection and misery I am not in the
mood to play mind games.
I’d rather know the truth and adjust my plans accordingly. If the coaches
think I am not fit to be a player in the international team it is a bitter pill to
swallow. I’ll never get over it in this life.
But I’ll not stop living my life.
That’s one thing I know about myself. I’ll go on. Mum would hate it if I
wasted away, chasing after something futile and reckless. And I want to
honor her every way I can.
After all, she loves me.
Aiden glances at Rohit. Who apparently has to take the lead. “It has
come to our knowledge …” Rohit clears his throat. “You have gone above
and beyond with protecting one of our own, in a legal matter.”
I cock my head. Thoroughly confused.
 “The legal notice sent to Veronica Washington?” Padric prompts. “Ring
a bell?”
I blink. “Yes, but that was ages ago.”
Rohit leans forward, steepling his hand. “Why did you do it? You’d just
met Queenie, my goddaughter?” His beetle-black eyes are grim. And in
them I see the truth. She’s told him about us. About the fake dating
arrangement.
This is my moment of reckoning.
“Why did I do what?” I hedge for more time.
“Protect her reputation and erase all mention of the video from the
internet?” Aiden asks somberly.
“Because it was the right thing to do,” I answer instantly.
“Because you were in it too?” Padric asks.
I look down at my hands. “The only thing I’d have lost is my spot at
camp if the video was widely circulated. I’d have done anything to avoid
losing my spot at camp.”
“That’s not why you did it.”
I shake my head. “She’d have lost so much more if the video went
public. Her reputation and her good standing in this community. She’d have
been humiliated and mocked and shamed…for something out of her
control.” I look up at them. “This video would be one of many things to
happen to me. But it would have followed her all her life. I didn’t want that,
sirs.”
Padric smiles. “That’s… very fucking noble of you, Noah.”
“I wasn’t being noble, sir,” I tell him. This time I address her godfather,
her beloved Rohit Chachu. “I wanted her to like me. To want me. So, I
fixed this problem for her. It was a win-win, in my head.”
Except she doesn’t see it that way. She sees it as me controlling her. And
maybe she’s not wrong. And I fucking hate that.
“I see,” Rohit murmurs.
“Whether you wanted to be noble or not, it was a gentlemanly thing to
do, Noah,” Aiden says quietly. “I am proud of you for making that choice.”
I blink. I don’t know what to say to this gruff compliment.
“So, you’re going to stay for the duration of The Cup then?” Padric
unfolds his hands.
“Of course, sir.” I search their faces for an inkling of their mindset, the
reason why they even wanted this meeting. “I hope it’s not a problem.”
 Rohit shakes his head definitely. Then he says, “Would you still have
done what you did, given what you know now?” He looks at me
calculatingly.
And I know he knows. He knows about the fight between Queenie and
me. That things are over between us. He knows she’s gone. She’s not
coming back.
And I…I have nothing to lose. So, I give him the honest answer. “I’d do
it all over again, sir. Because she’s worth it.” I incline my head.
Rohit cracks a smile then. A wide, full-faced grin. He stands up and
extends a hand to me.
I shake it in faint disbelief.
“You’re going to make a fine cricketer the world will be proud to watch,
Noah. I think you’re going to dazzle us.” He places his other palm on top of
mine.
Padric shakes my hand next and winks. “Don’t fuck it up now, kid.”
Aiden bumps fists with me and says, “About damn time we Aussies
produced someone who does the right thing when no one’s watching. Good
luck, Dumaine.”

I walk out of the office in a daze. I am not exactly sure what they saw in
me, what the whole meeting was about. But I’ll take the handshakes and
stamps of approval. I didn’t know how much I needed it, craved it until I
actually got it.
Fox and Jace are waiting for me in the tunnels. The two Archer brothers
have actually come by the cottage a couple of times to learn the game.
They’re shit at it, but I love the enthusiasm. It keeps my mind busy to teach
them the basics and off…of her.
Which I am grateful for.
“Well?” Jace demands, pushing off the wall.
“He’s not been asked to leave the camp,” Fox says confidently.
“How do you know?” Jace wants to know.
“He’s not crying into his jacket.” Fox punches my arm playfully.
“I’m actually not sure what happened in there,” I say blankly. At their
enquiring looks I elaborate with, “They know about the Marvels’ offer.
Kevin’s a friend of Aiden’s apparently.”
“Of course, he is,” Fox’s statement is dry.
“And? What else?”
I run them through the brief interrogation with the coaches. Neither of
them can make much sense of it.
“Maybe it’s a test,” Jace says uncertainly. “Like a test of integrity?
Maybe they want to see how good a person you are?”
“It’s cricket. It’s sport. Not the Nobel Peace Prize,” Fox argues against
it.
“But then why would they bring up the video thing?”
“Maybe because they wanted the truth. They don’t like lies. Lies create
a vacuum the truth cannot fill,” Fox suggests logically. “Besides, this is an
actual scandal that was averted. In the first year of camp. It’s a PR
nightmare for them.”
“Maybe,” Jace agrees.
“Whatever it is, they all shook hands with me. Even Coach Devgan,” I
say brightly.
Jace nudges me on the shoulder. He’s a good kid. Spunky. A little lazy
for my taste, but he has a good heart. Except when he gets that gleam in his
eye Ares gets. Indicating an appetite for mayhem and chaos. “Go, you!
Fucking god of cricket.”
Fox laughs. “Oh, that’s going to stick, isn’t it? Make you insufferable.”
“Fuck you, De Rossi.” But I say it with no heat.
I should be happy. I really am. I should be elated, even. Instead, I’m
walking through water. Everything’s a little hazy, a little out of focus.
Sounds are muffled and tinny. And I’m floating. A little above my body.
No…not my body. My heart.
Because my heart aches. It just aches. It aches for all the things I had
and lost, and I’ll never have now. If I ever did. I don’t know how to make it
stop. How to fix the aching.
I just endure it. Breath by painful breath.
“So…have you talked to Queenie?” Jace asks casually. Fox elbows him
in the stomach. He just glares at my mate. “I just asked the question on
everyone’s mind. Why did you hit me for it?”
“Because it’s not polite,” Fox snaps back.
“Polite doesn’t get the job done.”
 “I haven’t talked to her. No.” And I’m not sure I ever will. I am not sure
she’ll see me again.
“She’s not come back to Ma’s Pantry, either.”
“I see.” But I do not.
If she isn’t at the diner, where is she?
A light goes off in my head. Rohit Devgan’s place. Of course. Now I
understand some of the more cryptic things he’d said in the interview. But it
still did not explain why the coaches wanted to meet me in the first place.
“Queenie will kill me if she comes to know I told you but…” Jace
hesitates. “She paid for all the pies we ate, out of her own pocket. Like a
regular customer.”
I stop walking. Think back to the countless pies we all have had this
summer. Two, sometimes three per night. Every single night. It’s not a lot,
but for a struggling student it sure is not nothing.
“Why did she…”
“Because she feels sorry for us,” Jace answers slowly. “We’re like her
lost causes, aren’t we?”
“Speak for yourself, mate. I’m very well-found.” But even Fox is
thoughtful.
“She did that?” I think back to when she started bringing extra pies
home, because Ares was eating my share.
Jace nods. “Simon wanted to pay for them once, but she said it’s on the
house. Then he saw Pestroni charge her for them. It’s why he loves her, you
know. Because she takes care of who she cares about. Simon, not Pestroni,”
Jace clarifies. “I love her too.”
Fox looks over at me, expectantly.
I shrug. Although my heart, my floating in water heart, starts beating.
Sluggishly. Like it’s just learning how to do so. A new and tender thing.
I don’t answer him.
“Jace,” I make up my mind over a decision I’ve wrestled with. Am I the
man she thinks I am or the man I know myself to be? “Will you let me
know if you think Queenie needs me?”
Jace nods. “Sure, man. Although…why?”
I shrug. “Just, let me know. Please?”
I grip Fox’s shoulder then. And give him a half hug. “You two go ahead.
I have something I need to do.”
“What’s that?”
 I slide my phone out and thumb it open. I scroll to the contacts section
and show him the number I’m about to dial.
Calvin.
“There’s someone I need to talk to, alone.”
Fox smiles tremulously. He nods. “Alright, mate.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit dial.

Dad picks up before the first ring is done. “Is everything alright? Are
you alright?”
“I’m alright, Dad. I’m fine.” I hesitate and then plunge ahead, “I called
you because I missed you. And I wanted to tell you something important.”
“I miss you too, son,” he whispers shakily, before I can talk. “Every
damn day. And I wish I could tell you how much I miss your mum. Every
damn day. It’s just I couldn’t live with the loneliness and emptiness of my
life after she was gone and…” He takes a ragged, raw breath.
I swallow a hot ball of tears. Grip the phone tighter.
“I never wanted to alienate you, Noah,” he continues. “I curse myself
every day because that’s what happened… because I met Bel. And Bel…
she misses you too. She’s so sorry for everything, son.”
“I know.” I know that now. I can see it in the emails and the texts from
them. The calls I don’t answer. The way I kept myself apart from them.
Isabelle isn’t the wicked stepmother from the fairytales. But a real, flesh
and blood, mature woman who made my father happy. And she’d tried hard
with me too. Planning birthday parties and movie trips. She’d shown up for
all my matches too till I ordered her not to come because she wasn’t my
mother.
She is not my mother. But she could be someone else who cared about
me. If I let her.
“I’m sorry…” I say hoarsely. “About Bel. And Thalia. And what I said.
How I left things all those years ago.”
“You were, still are, just a child, Noah. My child,” he sounds tired. And
old. And like my dad. “I’m sorry. I did not listen to you enough. I couldn’t
love you enough.”
 “I thought you didn’t love me at all,” I confess in the lowest voice I
have. It’s barely above a subvocal whisper. “That I reminded you of mum
and you didn’t love her anymore because she died.”
My dad cries. He breaks down over the phone.
I lean my shaky head on the tunnel wall. And grip the phone with both
hands.
“If you felt like that, as Bel would say, then it’s entirely on me. Because
I’m the adult and I had to look after you. Fix things for you. I’m so sorry,
Noah. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Is fixing things a Dumaine family trait?” I ask through my veil of tears.
I wipe roughly at my eyes.
“I couldn’t fix Sarah, could I?”
“She loved us, didn’t she?” I ask him, pathetically hopefully. “Mum
loved us?”
“She loved you with every fiber of herself, Noah. And you…” He
speaks through his tears. “You’re the best part of her. She’d be so proud of
how you’ve overcome all your struggles. All your trials. And I’m so proud
of you. I saw a video of your century, the world record one, and I⁠—”
“Stop, Dad, you’re going to make me cry,” I admonish him gruffly.
“I miss you, Noah. I want to see you.”
“Well, come by Ma’s Pantry if you really want to.” I tease him.
He chuckles. “Done.”
“Actually, if everything goes according to plan, then I’ll be in Australia
in a few weeks. And you can see me all you want. You and Bel and Thalia
too,” I offer generously. Cautiously.
“They’ll love that. Just love it.” My dad sniffs. Then, “I love you,
Noah.”
I close my eyes, and the damned tears come anyway. Two hot streaks of
remembered pain and grief, misplaced anger and unfair hope.
My heart starts beating again, inside my chest.
“I love you too, Dad. I love you too.”
When the call ends, I feel like a new man. A man reborn. One who’s not
so broken. No…I’m still broken. But I’m learning to love the broken parts
of me. To show the broken parts of me to others and hope they’ll love me.
For who I am. Not what I can do for them.
Yes, my love is an action language. A doing verb. But I deserve to be
loved exactly as I am.
First by me. Before anyone else.
And finally…finally…I begin to do just that. Love myself. As I am.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘RETURN TO ME’ BY MATTHEW RYAN

AS I PARK Lizzie under the portico, a light rain starts. I enjoy the water on
my face, catching a raindrop on my tongue. Somehow, feeling cleansed by
it. Washed anew of the tragic events of earlier this year.
And, at the same time, I am reminded, viscerally, of my first night and
the thunderstorm with Noah. How he’d touched me and made me come
apart, heart, body and soul, in the open. Fox and Ares could have walked in
on us. And I would not really care, as much as I did being with Noah.
Now I know it was love.
Love gave me that focus. Love gave me that courage. That recklessness.
And the weirdest part? It wasn’t just loving Noah. It was loving myself
too.
I stand there for a long moment and see myself in my mind’s eye.
Perched delicately on the bike’s handle. Laid out like a sacrifice for him. A
feast. He looks ready to devour me.
I love who I am when I am with Noah.
Free and a little bit reckless. Human. Perfectly, delicately, undeniably
human.
And I spent a lot of time, a lot of time, denying that. In the end, I
punished him for it. Because being human was not in my skillset, my
vocabulary. I was the elder daughter, the straight A overachiever, the would-
be doctor. None of those things prepared me for being fallible, making
mistakes, fucking up.
I let out a huge, shaky breath. And walk up the steps to the house that
has, somehow, become home in the few months I’ve been here. If I became
an adult in the dorms of Albany Hall, then the cottage is where I learned to
survive and thrive as an adult, in all my glorious dysfunction.
Now, I’m beginning to understand, it’s more important to survive
adulthood with my heart intact than it is to become one. Balancing my
checkbook did not automatically grant me adult wisdom. Living with other
adults like me, new and a little less shiny but incredibly determined, did.
I do not know how to thank the boys for it.
I twist the key I’d somehow carried with me during my hasty flight. It
catches the light coming from the massive windows, as I step in.
“Hey.”
Noah’s husky voice catches me off-guard. I grip the key tight as I jerk
my head up. I swallow against the heat filling my throat for seeing him after
4 days.
He looks the same. Healthy. Lean. A definitive sports animal. PGSOFS
personified.
Nothing like the broken, lost man I’d turned him into, in my haste to…I
shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” I say rustily. The key digs into my palm. “I should have
called, checked in to see if you were…if it was okay for me to come.”
“It’s no problem. This is still your place.” He shoves his hands in his
grey track pants. They slide past the hip and give me a glimpse of his
Adonis Dimples. I want to look at them so badly.
I focus on his face. His beloved face. “It’s not. It’s yours,” I say softly.
“And you were kind enough to let me live here, no strings attached. I never
understood, not really, what a big deal it was. Until I left.”
His eyes go starless. “Queenie⁠—”
“I am not…” I shake my head. “I’m not here to do anything except
apologize to you, Noah.”
“You don’t have to—” He takes a step forward from the kitchen.
I move toward him. A magnet drawn to its inevitable polarity. Is that
why I’d picked him from hundreds of people at the party? Because I was
meant to find him? Only him?
I’m a scientist, logically that is an empirical improbability. But I begin
to wonder if it isn’t fate.
“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you the other night. It is never okay to
lash out in anger and hurt and I did both. You didn’t deserve it.” I look
blindly at him. “In fact, you opened your home, your heart, your life to me.
And I selfishly, thoughtlessly made you pay for it. I’m sorry for that,
Noah.”
He closes his eyes. His deep breath moves through every one of his
defined abs.
I still keep my eyes level on his face. Watching it for the minutest
expression change. I know him a little too.
“I’m sorry I was such a pain the first few days I was here, when you
wanted to help me,” I go on, stoically. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you
when you first told me what happened between us at the drive-in. I’m sorry,
I never gave you a chance.”
He shakes his head. Drops of water fall on his shoulders. “Why are you
telling me this now?”
I shrug. “Mischa yelled at me for like an hour straight once I finished
crying. And made me see how badly I’ve treated you. For no…” I take a
trembling breath. “No fault.”
“You cried?” Noah takes a step forward again.
I take two. “It’s not important. It was actually cathartic. I needed to…let
go,” I whisper.
My eyes are huge on my face. Round.
We’re almost halfway to each other. And I wish…I wish with all my
heart I could run to him. I could ask him to forgive me, beg him to take me
back. It would negate all the work I’ve done so far. Negate all the words I
so thoughtlessly threw at him.
All the heartbreaking things he told me. Who will love me if I don’t
make them? If I don’t do things for them to remind them, I am here?
“And you’re okay now?”
I nod. Then I shake my head. Give him a shaky smile. “I’m getting
there. How are…” I lick my lips. “How are you?”
“I’m okay too. I…” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I talked
to Dad. Like, really talked to him.”
“That’s nice. Wonderful, Noah.” I smile at him, genuinely happy. “I
hope he was thrilled to hear from you.”
“He was.” He lets out a husky chuckle, a little surprised. “I didn’t think
he’d be. I’ve been a right little shit to him and my stepmum.”
“You’re not,” I defend him instantly. At his piercing look, I falter. “I’m
glad you made up with your father. I…” I hesitate and then plunge ahead, “I
talked to my folks too. Told them everything.”
 “That’s great,” he is immediately supportive. “You shouldn’t have to
carry that burden alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I murmur. “You were with me.”
“I…” Noah squares his shoulders. “Why are you here, then?”
“I…” I love you. I am in love with you. I want to tell him. Shout it
across the length of this room. I love you. I drop my gaze. Like the newly
discovered human I am. “I forgot something and came to pick it up.”
“Oh.”
“So, I’ll just…” I indicate the stairs.
“Yeah. Sure, you can do that.” He gives me a tiny smile. It doesn’t reach
his eyes. “Fox and Ares are out so it’s just me.”
“Oh.” That makes it infinitely harder for me. Knowing I could run into
his arms, snatch this small moment, if he’d let me. And maybe I’d know
some peace.
“Alright then—” He moves back.
“Wait,” I blurt.
He freezes.
I don’t have anything to make him wait for. But – “Do you want some
pie? I could go to the diner, get some for you three?”
He smiles. Sadly. “We know about the pies, Queenie. We know you buy
the pies yourself, from your paycheck. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I wanted to be part of the group. Contribute.” Unbidden, a single tear
rolls down my cheek. I angrily wipe it away. I will not use tears to sway
him. It’s undignified and unfair.
“Don’t you know, Queenie? You always were. Because we wanted you
with us.” He turns away from me and then stops. “Sorry, the bedroom’s a
bit of a mess. I haven’t had time to clean it up since…I haven’t been back
there.”
So, he’s not slept in the bed without me? My heart twists. It should not.
But I am not a good person, I’m human, so it does. I am happy he can’t find
peace without me either.
“That’s okay. I’ll clean it up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’ll do it anyway.”
Noah nods once, over the back of his shoulder. And then disappears into
the kitchen.
 I walk up slowly, thoughtfully. And I think again of the words he’d said
to me.
Who will love me if I don’t make them? If I don’t do things for them to
remind them, I am here?
Maybe, telling was overrated when it came to love. Maybe, sometimes,
for some special people, you just have to show them.
I run up the stairs because I knew, exactly, how to show Noah how
much I love him. And I don’t feel so hopeless, such a lost cause anymore.
I take the win.

“…Yes, Amma,” I roll my eyes at Mischa as we exit Lizzie Bonnet on the

sidewalk opposite Ma’s Pantry, the next evening. “I understand. Please
don’t worry about me. I promise I’m safe.”
“You understand nothing, Devika. Wait till you become a mother and
I’ll tell you not to worry about your baby,” my mother, Dr. Lata Madhavan,
MD (Obstetrics) FRCS and latest DWB member, sniffs disdainfully.
“Fathers worry too,” my father, Dr. Anand Madhavan, puts in across the
call.
I smile. But I let them fuss some more over me. Insult me only very
slightly and insist on a million orders and requests. I hear everything
meekly and with rapt attention. Because I deserve it.
I wasn’t honest with my parents, my rocks, and now they don’t know
how to trust me. But, to their credit and my everlasting love, they still love
me. And not just love me, they wholeheartedly support me. Even when I
told them about switching my specialty from medicine to neuroscience,
they were fully amenable.
Either way, the Madhavans are a unit again. United and supportive.
One.
I hook my arm through Mischa’s and enter the diner. She grins at me.
“You look happy. Like cat-who-swallowed-the-canary-level happy.”
“You know.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s only now that I’m happy I
realized I was miserable all these months. I should have told Amma and
Appa everything a long time ago.”
 My heart pricks in an exquisite pain. Because that’s not strictly true. I
was insanely, incandescently, perfectly happy when I was with Noah
Dumaine, the most perfect of men. Well, not perfect but perfect for me,
nonetheless.
I embrace the pain. If the pain is the cost of loving him then I’ll take it.
As I always do, I think the words I didn’t tell him during our last
awkward encounter. What I’m not going to ever be able to tell him in all
good conscience: I’m sorry, Noah. I love you. You’re the love of my life
and I’ll never tell you that.
“Preaching to the choir, Q,” Mischa remarks drolly, intruding on my
thoughts.
“When did you become so wise, Meesh? Aren’t you six months younger
than me?” I tease her.
She smiles and there’s a tinge of remembered grief in it. “I am a crone
in a young woman’s body. An old soul.”
“That you are.”

The diner’s almost empty. There are hardly any customers. It’s almost
closing time. Eleven pm. The regulars are quietly playing chess in one of
the back booths.
Jace and Simon are having a pie that I paid for. They are growing boys
who are ravenous. I always felt bad about not giving them enough food. So,
I started buying them dessert. Same with Fox and Ares and my Noah.
I guess my love language is indulging in a healthy dessert.
An angsty hip hop anthem blares from the jukebox. Something about
keeping on rising. Kind of appropriate for how I’m feeling.
I wear my Ma’s Pantry apron with a feeling of pride and nostalgia. This
place, these people, gave me something I never thought possible. A safe
space to lick my wounds. To heal from them. To become the woman, I
hoped to be. Strong, stalwart, and dependable.
I’m not perfect by any measure but I’m damn well going to try.
I take over cleanup for the last time and start the wipe down of all the
stations.
 Mischa’s cleaning the coffee machines and washing the glasses behind
the bar.
The door tinkles, signifying a customer. And I look up eagerly. My face
freezes because I’m confronted by a vision from the future.
It’s a silver-haired man with the most perfect nose and a tapered chin.
He has jet-black eyes and the shoulders of a swimmer. He wears an
expensive greatcoat over his lemon-colored linen shirt, casual jeans, and
Timberlands.
He’s…distinguished and exudes quiet power. It’s unsettling.
“Hi, there,” I tell Calvin Dumaine, Noah’s father. “The diner’s about to
close for the night. But I’ll be happy to get you a water or a piece of pie if
you’d like.” My voice is mercifully even, even though my heart thuds fast.
“You are…you must be Queenie.”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m the girl from the video.”
“My son speaks very highly of you.” Calvin comes in, hands in the
pockets of his coat. “I was told…he told me, he is always hanging out here.
So, I thought I’d take a shot at meeting him…” He waves a hand at the
place. “Here.”
“Yes, of course. Please. Sit. I’ll…I’ll just be a moment.”
Calvin takes a seat in one of the booths. I gesture to Mischa to take care
of him.
I whip out my phone and call Noah. My hand shakes a bit, but I steady
it. It goes to voicemail, which I expect.
But I deliver the speech I’ve rehearsed in my less sane moments. “Hi,
Noah. It’s me…Queenie. Devika.” I clear my throat and continue, “I hope
you’re well. I know you are. I saw you yesterday. I am just…I’m trying to
get my shit together so I can start becoming the someone you might need
someday. If there’s even the remotest possibility of it.”
I laugh nervously. “Anyway, it’s not why I called. Although, it kind of
is, because I am too ashamed to tell you all this face-to-face. Look at me
being a coward all over again. And I’m making jokes about it too,” I laugh
again. Like a lunatic.
Calvin looks enquiringly at me.
“So, anyway, the real reason I called? It’s to tell you your dad’s here.” I
smile widely, uncertainly. Hope it translates through the airwaves. “In
Barrons Bay. At Ma’s. He’s having strawberry pie and enjoying it, just like
you. I think he’s nervous about seeing you, so he hasn’t come to the cottage
yet.”
I wind down. “I…I hope you’ll come see him. You don’t have to see
me. I’ll be leaving soon. Tonight’s my last shift at Ma’s Pantry. Take care,
Noah.” And the words slip out before I can stop them. “I love you. So
much.”
The machine beeps, signaling the end of the message. And I end the call
before I lose my nerve and delete the whole thing.
I press a fist to my stomach. It’s trembling again. Why did I tell him
that?
I love you is not a thing to say over the phone to your fake boyfriend
who broke up with you for real because you went ballistic on him. It’s
going to freak him out and I’ll lose him forever.
Not that I deserve him.
He truly is too good for me, with my Hellcat ways.
But I don’t regret saying it. I spent so much time hiding my truth,
refusing to face it I am now determined to be honest, even if it hurts.
Especially if it hurts.
Besides, it is love…my love for him. It’s a gift. Given to him without
conditions and strings. He doesn’t even need to accept it.
Maybe I should leave him another voicemail outlining all these facts.
Stop spiraling, Queenie.

I walk over to Calvin’s table. “It’s all good?”

“Yeah. I thought you said…” Calvin plays with the fork. “Noah’s going
to be here.”
“If he doesn’t come in fifteen minutes, I’ll drive you over to his house
myself,” I promise him. “The house he bought.”
Calvin pauses with his fork on the table. “You…His house…?”
“There are daisies in the gardens. Like your late wife loved,” I tell him
softly.
His eyes, so like Noah’s, but with crow’s feet at the edges indicating a
life lived, sheen brightly. “That’s lovely.”
“Your son’s lovely. The loveliest.”
 Calvin nods. “He is.”
“Okay.”
I don’t know what else to say to him. So, I go back to wipe down. Five
minutes later, the door tinkles again.
I look up, slow and deliberate.
“Well, Miss Madhavan,” Professor Washington says coolly, shaking his
head from the rain pouring down. “What do you want?”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘NOBODY WANTS TO BE LONELY (WITH CHRISTINA
AGUILERA)’ BY RICKY MARTIN

“YOU’RE A BERK,” Fox grumbles as he wrenches the keeper’s gloves

from his wrists. It’s a smart and efficient way to stretch out his hammies,
which were beginning to bother him quite a bit. It’s the flipside of being an
athlete, your body starts to break down a lot faster and you’re supremely
prone to injury.
It was one of the main reasons I got hooked on the pills. I was afraid the
injuries would take away my ability to play. My main reason to just be.
Now, though, I know better.
Yes, I’d have mourned the loss of being a cricketer. Wearing the Baggy
Green and representing my country on the international stage. But, if I had
let my family and friends in, I’d have made it through. Eventually. If I had
listened to the damn therapist who kept giving me emotional tools to deal
with the unexpected trauma and PTSD.
Watching Queenie struggle valiantly, alone, made me realize this. If
nothing else. You should not have to deal with your problems alone if you
did not have to.
Sharing misery is misery halved.
Go figure.
Ares chuckles roughly, bringing me back from my musings. “Look at
him. He doesn’t care, man.”
I give him a mild look. Because I know he wants to rile me up. Ares is
just itching for a fight. He has been since he found out Queenie left. I didn’t
want to give him any more details till he prodded and pushed them out of
me but…
“What do I not care about, man?” I ask politely.
“Queenie came home yesterday!” Fox practically throws the gloves at
me. I catch them full on my chest. They slide to the floor, unattended. “And
you didn’t tell us.”
“You refused the pies she wanted to get us!” Ares grits out. Fox growls
at him. He returns the look belligerently. “What? I can miss her and miss
the pies too. It’s not mutually exclusive, is it?”
I shake my head at their juvenile theatrics. “No one is stopping you
from talking to her, you know. It is a free country.”
“We can’t do that,” Ares says.
“Why not?”
“Because you thick-headed berk,” Fox emphasizes. “She’d ask us about
you, and we can’t tell her anything about you. It’s the Bro Code.”
“What? Bros before hos?” My lips twitch momentarily. Although my
heart jumps anxiously at the idea of Queenie caring about me. Asking about
me. How she’d looked, with the single tear glistening down her cheek. How
she’d apologized to me for everything that happened between us.
I’d wanted to tell her, I’d not take anything back, Queenie. I’d let it all
play out exactly like it did because you were there. With me. But I didn’t. I
just let her walk away because it is what she needed.
“NO!” Ares throws a ball at me. I catch this one before it hits me.
“Fuck, no.”
“We can’t tell her you love her, you’re in love with her, before you do.”
Fox throws his hands up in exasperation.
I stop walking. Stop breathing. I eye my brothers, my best mates,
warily. “How did you⁠—?”
“You’re not a mystery wrapped in a puzzle, mate.” Fox rubs a hand over
his face. “It was plain as day she was incredibly special to you. But that
day, the Fourth of July day, when Ares told me how you defended her from
that arse Marty Van Joost, I knew you were in love.”
“I—” My mouth hangs open.
“I knew you were sunk the second Queenie showed up and shoved the
ridiculous agreement on your face,” Ares says smugly. “She’s the Girl from
the Café.”
“Diner,” I correct him automatically.
 He waves a tattooed hand. “Semantics. Point is, why didn’t you tell her
yesterday, when she obviously came to make up with you, that you love her
forevermore?”
“It’s not that simple. She…her college…” I trail off half-heartedly.
“Those are details. Unimportant.” Fox waves away half my concerns
away. “You can make compromises for her till she finishes studying. Then,
she’ll be moving to Australia with you. Right?”
It sounds so simple, so easy when he says it. It sounds workable. A
happy ever after within my reach.
“Unless she’s right and it was about control? Wanting her on your terms
and not as she is?” Ares asks shrewdly.
I shake my head. Tired. Defensive. “I never had a choice about wanting
her, you know.”
“Then, what are you waiting for, man?” Fox grumbles. “Stop being a
berk and go get the girl.”
What if I’m not enough? I almost ask him. But the answer comes to me
anyway. If I am not enough for her, I'll live with it. It won’t be the end of
my world. I’ll heal from it. eventually. With the help of the other people for
whom I am. With my brothers, my mates.
“I love you two berks,” I say softly.
Ares blinks. Fox wipes off an imaginary tear. “Drama king,” they
chorus together.
I open the kit bag and reach for my phone. I have a voicemail from
Queenie. I listen to it eagerly. And color floods my face, by the time I’m
done.
My head spins from knowing my dad is here. Within touching distance.
He came to see me. He left his job and came to see me.
And she loves me. Queenie loves me. She told me first. She truly is the
bravest, most kickass woman I have ever known, bar none.
A grin breaks out on my face. The biggest, shit-eating grin.
Fox gets a text on his phone. He frowns. Ares gets a text too. He checks
it, with Fox hovering over him.
“Check your texts,” Fox tells me grimly.
“Hey, I⁠—”
Ares snatches my phone. And does it himself. “Yep, Jace sent him the
text first.”
I take my phone back and see the text for myself.
 Queenie’s here at Ma’s. So’s this older guy, early fifties. Looks like a
professor type. I don’t like his face. She might be in trouble.
“I have to go.” I read through it again, even as I heft my bat. “Queenie
needs me.”
“She needs all of us,” Fox says firmly.
Ares throws Fox the bike keys. “We’ll ride triple-seater. We’ll reach
there in four minutes.”
I feel a swell of pride and of love, consuming, abiding love at my
family. Because that’s who these two boys are. My chosen family. And
Queenie’s too. Now that I know she loves me.
Fox is right, everything else is details. I can work it out.
I’m Noah fucking Dumaine.
The thought stays firm and rooted as we race through the quiet night
toward Ma’s Pantry on a roaring bike.

Queenie

At long last, I face my nemesis. The voice from my nightmares. The reason
I truly believed I didn’t have a future, much less one of my choosing.
“Sit down, Professor.” I indicate a seat. “Have some pie. I’ll be with you
in a minute.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Mischa gasp. And look in urgent
distress at me.
I give her the tiniest shake of my head. Jace whispers something to
Simon at the other end and then starts typing on his phone.
Washington takes his time settling on one of the stools at the bar.
Mischa doesn’t even look at him as she furiously cleans the milkshake
machine. Her face conveys all her disdain and displeasure.
I love her more than I ever have in that moment.
I take a moment to look at Calvin. He’s plodding through the pie. But
he’s here. Halfway across the world. Hoping to reconnect with his son. I am
finally talking, really talking, to my parents who are in Rwanda, helping the
Rwandans set up civil hospitals in a former war zone.
 We are, all of us, whole people. A little battered, a little broken, but we
are whole.
And no one, but no one, will ever make me feel less than that ever
again.
I walk over to Professor Washington. Extract a sheaf of papers from my
apron I’d stashed there for safekeeping.
“What is this?” He asks, with a smarmy grin. “Another paper for me to
grade?”
“It’s actually a signed statement by Dolly Alderton detailing the incident
on Halloween. She’s also sent a copy to the admissions office and the
dean’s office,” I reply coolly. I tap the second paper. “That’s mine.”
A roar of a bike shatters the night. Someone is courting a speeding
ticket.
I tap a third and a fourth. “And those are statements from a few other
female students from last year and the year before. They outline the way
you coerce and manipulate young woman, students under your charge and
care, to perform sexual favors for you in exchange for grades. And if they
didn’t agree, like Dolly didn’t, you attack them.”
The bell tinkles, signaling yet another customer. I don’t look away from
this man who almost succeeded in destroying my self-belief before it could
be fully formed.
“Some of them succumbed to you, then. Like Mira Haysneck. And
some of them fought, like Romy Nevilla. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“No one’s going to believe you.” He snatches the papers and starts
going through them feverishly. “This is bullshit. Slander!”
“I don’t need anyone to believe me anymore.” I smile at him.
Benevolently. “I just want to be free of you, Washington.”
“You bitch—” His face contorts into an ugly mask. And he lunges for
me.
I have my fist curled into a punch, ready for him.
But he’s dragged back across the stool and onto the floor by a strong,
stalwart, dependable arm. He’s shoved on the floor and held there by a
cricket bat to his throat.
“I’d stay there if I were you, mate,” Noah says pleasantly.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘NUMB/ENCORE’ BY JAY-Z, LINKIN PARK

I LOOK up in stunned surprise. My mouth drops open. I forget to breathe

for a moment.
Noah’s here. He’s here. And his cricket bat is on Professor Washington’s
throat. Digging into it.
Two more figures join him. They’re holding cricket bats too, like maces,
on their shoulders. It’s Fox and Ares.
Grateful, terrible tears fill my eyes. Thank you, I mouth to him. He is
still looking at Washington with murder in his eyes.
Washington glares balefully at me. “You fucking —”
“Before you say another word, mister,” Calvin calls out in a cold, cool
voice. “You should know I’m the Head Legal Counsel for the De Rossi
corporation and I’m recording every single thing going on here.”
He holds up his phone higher and says, “Say, cheese.”
I laugh weakly. “Thank you, Calvin. Your pie is on me.”
Noah pushes the cricket bat deeper into his throat.
Washington gasps, turns an ugly shade of purple as he tries to dislodge
it.
Jace and Simon flank Ares and Fox on either side. They have no
weapons, but they are strapping teenage boys with brute strength on their
side. Mischa stands next to Jace, resolute like a tiny avenging angel.
Having them around gives me strength. Feeds me courage. Fills me with
hope.
I kneel down and look Washington in the eye. Because I can see him,
clearly, for what he is. A weak, horrible excuse for a man. A nothing man.
He cannot destroy me.
“Kutte. Ulloo ke patthe. You bastard. Suar ki aulaad—” My voice gets
stronger with each word I recite from the Jab We Met monologue. “Did you
really think you could get away with it forever? Did you really think you
could silence me, silence all of us forever? You’re nothing,” I say softly.
“You’re less than nothing.”
I pat the papers he’s clutched in one ugly fist. “And very soon the whole
world is going to know it too. I’d suggest enjoying your last moments of
anonymity, Professor. You’re going to be very, very infamous now.”
“Fuck—”
“One more word and I’ll bash your head in till your skull cracks.” Noah
is lethal. Homicidal. His eyes are completely obsidian, starless pricks of
light. “Just one more, Washington.”
I shake my head. “Noah, no! Don’t.”
“A better punishment would be for me to record his sworn statement,
son,” Calvin says. “The University is going to have no choice but to
terminate his employment then. And that’s what we want, right?”
Noah looks in disbelief at his dad. Then he smiles. Like the sun coming
out from an eclipse. “Yes. that’s what we want. Thanks, Dad.”
Exquisite pain lashes at my whole chest when I see Noah’s smile. I
welcome it. Embrace it.
If this is love, then I belong to it forever. It can have me. The end.
Washington pushes the bat away when Noah eases off the pressure. He
sits up wheezing and choking and coughing. He’s red-rimmed and drool
falls of his mouth.
It’s weird but I feel pity when I see him now. Reduced to this state by
his own hand.
“This is for Dolly and me, you bastard,” I whisper.
Then I wipe my hands off the apron and get up. Untying it as I do so.
I face the gang. “What are you…how did you…how did you get here so
fast?”
“Jace texted that you needed us in the group chat,” Ares answers.
I turn hopeful, pleading eyes to the only man who matters. The only
person, really.
“I got your voicemail,” Noah says shortly. “And I’m in the group chat
too.” His lovely eyes are curiously, carefully blank.
I don’t blame him, of course.
 “But…you…you’re all standing here.” I gesture helplessly at the circle.
“This was supposed to be my moment, you know. This was my
showdown,” I tell them.
“Don’t you know?” Jace slings a friendly arm around my waist. I can’t
stop looking at Noah. “We are the Justice League to your Batman. You can
take down the bad guy by yourself, but we’re always going to be there to
help you.”
“You’ve got it wrong, mate,” Noah says casually. “She’s Catwoman.
And a hell of a one, at that.”
I sniffle once.
Calvin joins the group. He squeezes Noah’s shoulder once. Hard. A
wordless message passes between father and son. Then Noah nods. Calvin
smiles.
He kneels down where Washington is starting to crawl away. “Where do
you think you’re going, good sir? We have lots to talk about.”
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.” Fox and Ares heft the
asshole up while the professor starts cursing a blue streak. Jace and Simon
follow them to a secluded booth at the back.
“I’ll make coffee,” Mischa says briskly. “We’re going to need it.” And
disappears.
Leaving Noah and me, alone. In the middle of a crowd. Just like the first
time we met.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘THANGAMEY’ ANIRUDH RAVICHANDER

WE SPEAK at the same time.

“Are you okay?” He is gruff.
“Thank you, so much.” I am soft, melting. I shake my head. “You first.”
“Are you okay?” Noah repeats.
“I’m great.” I smile wanly. “It’s been a rollercoaster of a week. But I’m
great now.”
He leans his bat against his leg. Regards me quietly. Worlds in his
unfathomable eyes. Worlds I want to get lost in. Find myself in.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For coming.”
“I thought you’d be mad,” he says. “You’d see this as another attempt at
me fixing things.”
“This is different,” I whisper. I clench my fists because the longing, the
craving to touch him, just touch him anywhere is tearing through me.
Leaving me naked and defenseless. Undone.
“Different how?”
“Because this time I’m fixing things for me, too. And you’re right there
with me.”
“That’s what I was doing all those other times too,” he reminds me
brusquely.
I nod. I wipe a useless, overwhelming tear away. I don’t ever want him
to be swayed by my tears, however heartfelt they are. I want to do this on
equal terms. As partners. “I know. I always knew it.”
“But you said…”
 “I was wrong. I was mad and hurt and I was wrong, Noah. Please,
believe me.” I gasp out the words on a strangled breath.
I can’t look away from him. I don’t want to.
“The world’s ending surely.” Noah’s kissable mouth twists wryly.
“Queenie Madhavan admits she’s wrong.”
“Don’t get too used to it,” I say tartly. “It doesn’t happen often.”
He takes a step toward me.
I want to lunge toward him, rush into his arms, cling to him like a vine
and never let go. I move a tiny inch.
“You said…in the voicemail, you said…”
“Yeah. I said a lot of things. I had a whole speech prepared.”
“It’s your night for speeches.”
“I meant every word. Every single word.”
“Even…the last ones?” he breathes.
I swallow but hold his gaze. “Yes.” I swallow. Then, “I love you.”
The words take flight, take wings, butterfly wings. They land in the
space between us. Light and floating. Fluttering. A new hope. A new
beginning. No matter what happens next.
“You love me?”
I nod. “I’m in love with you. You’re it for me. I’m twenty-two years old
and I’ve found the love of my life.” A wry smile twists my trembling lips.
“Go figure.”
Noah takes another tiny step toward me. “How do you know I’ll be the
love of your whole life?”
“I don’t.” I take a tiny step forward. “But I do know I will love you
today. And I will love you tomorrow. And I’ll do that every today. And
every tomorrow. For fifty years.”
He lets out a breath. It’s torn. Jagged at the edges.
“You hurt me,” Noah whispers.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I thought…I thought I was alone in what I felt. That you were just
going along with it because you owed me…”
I have to touch him then. I just have to. I can’t go another second
without connecting with him. Making him feel me. See me. The real, whole
me.
I grab his free hand. And life starts coursing through me again. Blessed,
beautiful, amazing life. Hot and free.
 “I was so lost and scared and…afraid, Noah,” I admit to him. “You were
making plans for our future. Our beautiful, amazing future. And I didn’t
know if I could face myself in the morning.”
“So, you overreacted.”
“Big time.” I dare a tiny smile.
He doesn’t smile back. But he doesn’t tug his hand away. I take courage
and move a tiny step closer to him.
Now our shoes are touching each other, toe to toe. Now I have to crane
my neck to look up at him.
See his beloved PGSOFS face.
I was wrong yesterday. He’s not the same as he was. He’s changed by
me too. His face is a little gaunt, the cheeks are a little sunken and he has
circles under his devil black eyes. I touch the thin skin there. He lets me.
I fall in love all over again.
“I love you,” I say again. “I’m in love with you. And every time I asked
you why me, it’s because I couldn’t believe you…PGSOFS you would want
to be with me. It wasn’t for anything else. Honest.”
“PGSO what?” He blinks, bewildered.
“Pretty Great Specimen of Facial Structure,” I answer.
“That’s just genes, Queenie.” But he smiles, a tiny little PGSOFS smile.
“Actually, I’m changing it to Pretty Great Specimen of Future Star,” I
say loftily. “The ‘Cricket’ is silent.”
Noah chuckles. “Who are you and what have you done with my prickly
Hellcat?”
I shrug. “I started communicating. Talking to my parents. Getting out of
my own head and believing in myself. Stood up to my bully. Something a
very wise man once told me to do.”
“He sounds very wise indeed.” He puts a hand on my waist.
My heart leaps out of my chest.
“Why did you come here? Was it just to meet your dad?”
Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes.
He nods. “Yeah. I couldn’t wait a second more to meet him.”
I nod. And some of my euphoria fades away. But I accept his response.
“That’s great then. I’m really happy for you.”
I try to step back from him when he tightens his hold on my waist.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m letting you get back to your dad.”
 “But I thought you had a whole speech prepared. That you were too
afraid to tell me face-to-face.” His face is wreathed in smiles. All over.
Even his ears seem to be smiling.
“I thought you didn’t want to listen to it.”
“I never said that. Pay attention, desi girl.”
“Then what are you saying?” I hold onto his arms because he jerks me
up. Just a little.
“I’m saying, we have to work on your overreactions. They are entirely
disproportionate to the situation. Even when some of it is warranted.”
“Yes, we can work on them.” I promise him recklessly.
I lick my lips. Because his eyes are beginning to heat up. And his chin is
dipping down toward mine. And his heart’s speeding up too, under the
letterman jacket. Because I can read his eyes, and I see things in them…
they give me hope. Joy. Fulfilment.
“What is it about you?” he murmurs. “Why can’t I stay away from
you?”
“I don’t know. I hope you never do,” I reply honestly. I hold him a little
tighter. Not wanting to let go. Not able to.
“And if I say, okay, then?” he murmurs.
“Are you saying okay?”
“You’re going to make me say the words after making me suffer the
torments of hell?” he demands.
I sniffle and grin. “I am your Hellcat, you know.”
“I love you,” he says simply. “Most ardently.” Noah quotes Pride and
Prejudice for me. “But one word from you will silence my affections
forever⁠—”
My lips tremble. I crash them against his before he’s finished speaking.
My fists grip him tight. Tighter. So tight I leave grooves on his skin. But
he’s grabbing me back. My waist. My skirt. Higher up.
“I’m twenty-four years old and I met the love of my life six months ago.
Thank God.”
I laugh against his lips, at the heartfelt words. “I better be for the next
fifty years, mate.”
“So bossy,” he whispers. Then he bites my lip.
I moan. “We wasted six months, Noah. Six whole months.”
“We have the rest of our lives to make up for it. And by we, I mean you.
On your hands and knees. Maybe on your back. Maybe...”
 I shove ineffectually at his chest when he continues talking dirty while
kissing me. I kiss him back. His jaw. His chin. His cheeks. His perfect nose.
Wet, sloppy, messy kisses. Tiny, reckless, perfect kisses.
“I love you,” he says between kisses. “I love you so damn much I’m
scared…”
I place my palm on his mouth. “It’s okay.” I vow softly. “I know. I’m
not going anywhere. Not ever.”
He takes my hand off and kisses the cove. “Promise?”
“Well, I’m going to finish my degree at Thorndon and Oxford has an
amazing neuroscience master’s program. So, I might be going to Britain.” I
wait anxiously for his response.
It is predictable. And pleasing. “We can shag in the courts then. I don’t
mind. We can show those prudish Oxford dons a thing or two.”
I laugh and he swings me around. I clutch at his neck and let him hold
my weight up. Secure in the knowledge he’ll never let me fall. Or even if he
does, he’ll pick me up again too. We both will.
When he slides me down, to cheers and whistles, I blush and hide my
face in his chest. He holds me close, sliding his hand over my back.
Soothing me. So, he notices finds the design on my back.
“Are you wearing…?” He spins out and checks out my outfit.
I’m in my Ma’s Pantry denim skirt with the white lacy uniform shirt. I
pull the shirt over my head. For the last time.
His eyes widen. To comical proportions. “What…”
I have on his pink and black Barrons Bay jersey under it. Then I slowly
turn around.
And he breathes my name. Queenie. Like his heart is being squeezed
out of his lips.
Because this jersey is sequined and bedazzled too.
This one too has Dumaine with an apostrophe S done up in India colors.
And it has his jersey number 22. But, below the 22 is one more word.
Girl. And Girl is sequined in the blue, red, and white of the Australian
flag.
Noah raises bludgeoned eyes to me.
“What…?”
“I can’t betray my country for you, Aussie boy. But I can’t betray my
heart too,” I say softly. Cupping his cheeks. “And my heart’s yours. I’m
yours. Your girl. And I’ll tell the whole world every single time if you let
me.”
He dips his forehead to mine and heaves out a shaken breath. “You’d do
that for me?”
“I’d do anything for you,” I answer. “You’re everything to me, Noah.”
“Can I do that for you too? Anything?” He sounds so worried. “You
won’t think it’s me trying to control you or…”
I stop his words with my kiss. “Stop talking and kiss me, idiot. You get
the girl. This is your big hero moment.”
“But—”
“I don’t know if we’ll never fight or be always in sync with each other.
What I do know is…I want this. I want you. I want to fight with you and for
you. I hope you want the same.”
“I just want you, Devika Madhavan.” He cups my cheek in one hand
and looks deep into my eyes.
My random stranger. My irrevocable fate. My man.
It’s not even the first time we’re kissing with each other. Or the
hundredth. Clearly, my knees haven’t got the memo. I hold tight to his
waist, his shoulders.
“Then kiss me.”
He dips his head close and brushes his lips against mine. “Hey, desi
girl.”
“Hey, Aussie boy.”
“It’s very nice to meet you. And.” He leans in and whispers the magic
words in my ear. “For the record, I give you post-kiss consent to kiss me
anytime. Okay?”
I laugh. And he laughs with me. My foot pops up, like it does in the
movies. And my spine melts into him. And I kiss him. Like he said I could.
And I vow to exercise my right to consent every single day for the rest
of my life. No, our lives, I correct myself mentally.
Our happy ever after, messy, sweet, perfectly imperfect lives.
And you know what? It’s pretty damn easy to do when I set my mind to
it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘TUM SE HI’ BY MOHIT CHAUHAN

I AM IN A BLUR, a daze as I kiss Queenie, the love of my life, so tight not

even air can get between us. When we finally break apart, her eyes are
shining. The whole galaxy beams out of her.
“I love you,” she whispers again. As if she knows I need the
reassurance. Even though I’m beginning to believe her. Believe it. Our love.
“I love you too.”
She smiles, a funny, broken little smile. “Good.”
A throat clears behind us. I whirl around and face my father. The man I
had punished for as long as I’d punished myself.
Queenie lays her head on my shoulder, her arms around my waist. A
warm, comforting bundle of love and warmth around me. I try and look for
words, for something…
“Noah,” Dad says brokenly.
Somehow, without me being aware of it, I lurch forward, he does too…
and we are holding each other tight. Endlessly. I breathe in the scent of the
man he’s always been – expensive cologne, quiet luxury, and sweat. I
remember the hundreds of other times he’s hugged me. The night mum
passed away he spent the whole night holding me. Sobs racking his huge
frame. As I tried valiantly to not cry.
He's hugged me absently and fondly, in every way possible.
“Dad.” My voice cracks too. Right down the middle. Like my cold,
lonely heart. “Dad, you’re here.”
“I had to come. After your call. Bel has come too, but she thought…”
He leans back and gives me a worried look. “She knows you need time to
process⁠—”
“I don’t,” I assure him quickly. Immediately. “I want to meet Bel. And
Thalia. Is she here?”
“She’s in school. But she wants to talk to you too. She’s dying to,” Dad
tells me gruffly.
Wetness pools in my eyes. I knuckle it away. “I’d like that. I’d like that
heaps.”
Queenie squeezes my waist. My anchor. My beacon. I hold her tight,
squeezing her tight to my side.
“Have you met Queenie, Dad?” I ask him softly.
Queenie laughs and so does Dad. They share a conspiratorial look. “We
actually have. She’s a keeper, isn’t she?”
“I’m keeping her for sure.”
Queenie blushes and stammers out a greeting. I let her voice float and
wash over me. But I just look at my dad. At the small and big changes in
him. His hair greyed the year mum was being treated and he’s never
bothered to color it. His shoulders, always so broad and lean, are a little
more rounded. Like the weight of the world is a bit too much for him. And
his face is lined, with fatigued eyes, but he’s still Calvin Dumaine. Lawyer
to filthy rich billionaires.
I tune back in when Queenie eagerly points at my chest. “And he might
even get selected this week. After he plays the Triskelion Cup.”
“It’s a big might. A huge one, love,” I murmur. For form’s sake.
Although I don’t deny the idea is tantalizing. The only one I have wanted
for so long. Except, I might still play professional cricket with the Marvels,
won’t I? And maybe…maybe it’s enough. For a start.
“It’s a certainty.” Queenie grins. “I told Chachu he needs to select you if
he wants to be in my life.”
“You did not!” I am incredulous.
She grins again. “I didn’t need to. Although, I will if he doesn’t.
Triskelion needs a winner right out the gate if they want this horribly
exclusive camp to be successful. And you, Noah Dumaine, are a winner.”
Dad chuckles and hugs her and murmurs something to her. She dimples
prettily and casts me a shy look.
As I look at my girl holding my dad, all our friends in the background,
with a lovely melody playing on the jukebox I think, I just might be. I just
might be a winner, after all.
 What do you know?
Queenie goes back to Coach Devgan’s place that night. But she calls me
the second she hits the bed, and we spend the whole night talking to each
other. Silly nothings. And deep truths. And everything in between. We make
plans for our future, our shared future and hope it will come true.
I’m going to bloody well fight till it does.

Queenie

The next ten days, the last days of summer, pass by too quickly. I try to hold
onto each of them, each minute and second, in the palm of my hands. But I
only have memories.
Like, the memory of watching Calvin Dumaine weep unabashedly when
he watches his son jog out to the pitch and swing an opening boundary in
the first Triskelion Cup match. The stands are only a quarter full, but our
cheers ring to the rafters. Up to the sky and beyond.
The Barrons Bay Challengers win the match, of course.
And Noah, sweet, romantic, dramatic Noah, throws rocks on my
bedroom window in Chachu’s house later that night. Climbing the drainpipe
to get into my room. I finally pull him in, shriek-yelling he is going to
injure himself pulling this dumb stunt.
Our kiss, so deep and luscious and endless, is a perfect slice of heaven.
I even meet Noah’s family. Isabelle Dumaine is a sweet but strong
woman who keeps her man in line. But she is also fashion-obsessed and
wants to buy me business casual outfits for lunches with the De Rossis
when I visit them in Australia. It’s proof of how much I love Noah that I
agree with her and smile dutifully when she talks about pencil skirts and
stiletto heels. She means well but I am very much a comfy pants and
sneakers kind of girl, and I am not changing for anyone, not even the
billionaire De Rossis.
The Dumaines leave after three days of laughter, tears, hugs, dinners,
and love. It is beautiful to witness the healing of a frayed relationship that
never truly broke.
 I move back to the cottage that night. Much to Chachu’s grumbling.
And the mafia don look he gives Noah when he hands my bag to him. But
Noah is nothing less than deferential and respectful with him. Same as he is
with my parents that night on video chat.
Amma-Appa are very surprised to see me introduce a buff Australian
cricketer as my significant other. But they take the news well, all things
considered.
Ares and Fox eat all the pies I bring home.
Fox crushes me into a bear hug after the second match, the T20 match,
because I catch the ball he hit for a six, for the winning Pennington Knights.
Both teams are tied for the Triskelion Cup now, having won one match
each.
After he puts me down, he smacks a kiss on the cheek too.
Noah shouts, “Take your hands off my girl, you barbarian. Go get your
own.”
Fox winks at me. “Why settle for the rest, when I can kiss the best?” He
comes in close again, but I push him back. He steps back immediately,
respectfully.
He sounds charming, like he’s just messing around and this is Fox, so I
don’t mind at all. But then he looks behind me, spotting someone and the
mask slips for a moment. Revealing a hard, unyielding man with stony eyes
underneath.
I frown. Turn back to check out who’s there. It’s just Mischa, talking to
Ares near the boundary line.
It has to be my imagination because Fox hasn’t even met Mischa so far
and has no reason to feel strongly about her. I have no time to explore this
unsettling thought any further because my man sweeps me into his arms.
The next match, a five-day test match, will decide the very first
Triskelion Cup winner. It’s three days later. All of which, Fox spends away
from the cottage because Ares and Noah call him the ‘great betrayer.’
I don’t have much time to worry about Fox because I have so much
school reading to catch up on. If I am to rejoin classes for the fall semester,
I need to complete assignments, take extra quizzes and try and join the
other students who are already ahead of me in the neurobiology courses,
which is going to be my undergrad specialty.
I even made my first appointment with Thorndon’s counsellor to talk
about the Dolly incident. One of the main reasons I behaved the way I have
is because I never properly processed what happened to my friend. To me. I
just reacted and resisted dealing with it. Which worked, until it didn’t.
Now, I owe it to myself to do the inner work. Noah deserves it too.
Mischa, too, is busy with finishing her reading and assignments for the
summer, so she doesn’t come to the matches anymore. The Archer boys
show up when they can, work schedules permitting.
So, I attend the fifth and last day of the test match, with my textbooks
and highlighters and only absent-mindedly pay attention to the score.
Life, this summer, is finally perfect.
“Can I talk to you, Queenie?”
I freeze, my highlighter stopping on the section of the amygdala in the
textbook I’m reading. Swotting, like Noah teases me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have jinxed the gods and used the P-word.

I look up cautiously, slowly.

Veronica Washington sits a seat away from me. She looks as unlike a
Barbie as I do. Her hair is straggly, and her eyes are puffy and rimmed red.
She has no makeup on, and her Varsity Cheer sweatshirt has holes. She
looks a wreck, in short.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask her, immediately.
Tears fill her eyes and spill over. “You’d ask me that after what I’ve
done to you?”
I hesitate. I don’t know how to answer her. Yes, she was horrible to me.
And it hurt. A lot. But that doesn’t mean I am okay with seeing her brought
low. That’s not me as a person.
But, a tiny part of me is vindicated. Seeing her brought low like this,
with open pores.
“I…” She bites her lip.
“Do you want water?” I pass my bottle to her.
She toys with the cap and speaks to it, instead of me. “Dean Granger
told me what happened last week. She showed me the statements from
Dolly and the other students. I…” She swallows, hugely. “When I
confronted Dad, he admitted to everything. He said he’d gaslit you,
destroyed your reputation around campus so no one would believe you,
because he was afraid of all this coming out. He apologized to me…to
me…” Her pink mouth twists bitterly. “For lying to me all this time.”
Veronica raises her eyes to me now. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know. I
couldn’t know but it’s no excuse for what I did to you. For my part in it.”
I nod; my throat thick. Both at her obvious contrition and agony and my
memory of the last few months.
“I have cut off all contact with him. And I’ll be providing whatever
testimony the Dean’s office wants me to, against my father. I’ve moved out
of his house too. I don’t…I don’t want…” She shudders. Deeply.
I go on instinct. I move one seat closer to her and put my arm around
her shoulders, in a sideways hug. “I’m sorry, too. I really am. This is not
your fault. And I hope…I hope…” I swallow too.
I don’t know how to console her. What do you say to the daughter of a
serial abuser and assaulter? How do you provide them with any kind of
safety?
“But it is my fault. What I did to you. How I treated you. The way I
turned my friends, the other students against you…it is my fault.” She
wipes at her streaming eyes. “And that video? God, that video. If I’d sent it
out, I’d be no less than that evil monster.”
I sigh out a shaky breath. “But you didn’t. You listened to Noah. And
you didn’t.”
“I was shit scared of Noah. It’s not the same thing.” She’s still pitiless,
except now it’s turned on her.
“Veronica, listen to me.” I shake my head when she starts to protest.
“No. Listen to me. Your dad is the monster. The real villain. Yes, you played
your part. You were an effective mini-villain. But I don’t think you’re a bad
person. You just trusted the wrong person. Your father,” I emphasize gently,
“Who you are supposed to trust. He…he…abused you too, right? By
constantly lying to you. By making you believe he was the victim.”
She nods, slowly. “Yes, but…”
“But what you need is therapy. Lots of it. I know I do. This is too much
for the human brain to handle.” I give her a tiny smile.
Veronica searches my face intently. “How can you forgive me so easily?
I was vile to you.”
“I spent a lot of time holding a grudge against you. Against myself.
Against the system. Your dad. And I stopped being happy. Being myself. I
don’t want to waste any more time doing that. I just don’t,” I answer baldly.
“Maybe I’m stupid to reach out to you. Maybe you really are your father’s
daughter. But that’s on you, Veronica. I won’t make it about me anymore.”
I don’t need therapy or the wise words of a medical professional to tell
me this. Whatever I choose to do, is on me. What I choose to believe and
how I choose to act is on me. And I choose to act on faith. Seeing the best
in others. But, more importantly, trusting myself when they don’t turn out to
be what I want them to be.
That is what this last year and especially this summer has taught me.
I can be a failure, but I’m still okay. I’m still enough.
She shakes her head and wipes at her tears again. She’s messed up and
imperfect. There’s even a slight chip on her front incisor. “I am not my
father’s daughter. I won’t ever be again.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I squeeze her shoulder.
The stands cheer and I look at the field. Someone’s hit a boundary off
deep square leg, on the other side of the stadium.
“Come on!” I yell and clap. “Let’s finish this. Come on, Challengers!”
I sit back down.
Veronica gives me a small smile. “You really love him, don’t you? The
captain? Noah? Teddy told me you’re here for every single one of his
matches.”
My heart thuds wildly, then settles against my ribs. “I really do. One of
the reasons I am not wholly mad at you is because you brought me him and
I love him with everything I am. So…” I trail off.
“That’s nice.” Veronica reaches out and squeezes my knee with her
bony hand. “I’m happy for you, Queenie. I really am.”
As I settle on my seat, I choose to believe her. Now it’s up to her, to
prove me wrong.
And, with that realization, the last little bitter, vengeful, vindicated part
vanishes. Healed by this wild catastrophe of a summer.
Veronica stays for a little bit longer before leaving me with a knee
squeeze and a sincere goodbye.
Now, this is the strangest thing to happen all summer. Moronica is not
such a moron, after all.
Ares takes a wicket, and I am immediately swept up in the game. I
abandon my reading and concentrate on the game.
It’s over twenty nail-biting minutes later. I scream and cheer because
Noah and the Barrons Bay Challengers have won the very first Triskelion
Cup.
It’s not even a real cup; it’s a freaking bowl – which the coaches joke
about. But they hand the cup to Noah and his team, and they are cheering
him too. I know my uncle and he is proud of this wonderful young man.
As he should be.
My Noah is the best!

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘THE ALCHEMY’ BY TAYLOR SWIFT

MY JAW ACHES from smiling so damn hard as I watch my boys, my

team, my mates hold the Triskelion Cup and cheer through the mostly-
empty stadium. It doesn’t matter because, we earned this victory. We played
as a team; I was a good captain. I made this happen for them and with them.
But, really, playing the Cup is just part of the reason why I’m happy.
I’m secure.
One of the other reasons is cheering me like mad, her sexy tits bouncing
in the jersey which has my name on the back. My jersey. My girl. She’s on
the phone to my stepmum, Isabelle, telling her about my win, tears in her
eyes.
And the other reason is I now know that my parents, my family, is
supportive of me too. That they love me. They want me.
Although Dad and Bel only stayed for a few days, I spent every moment
with them. It was a lovely, if slightly awkward reunion. For so long, I’d
thought of Isabelle as the villain to my story, it was a shock to see the
redhaired bombshell as she really is. Dad defers to her, just like he did to
mum. Mum was a quiet presence, a gentle breeze. But Dad bent to her too.
Bel is different; she’s louder, more present. But she loves my dad, flaws and
all.
I am now healed enough to be grateful to her for that. Instead of
blaming her.
I’ve even become fast friends with my little sister, Thalia. She gave me
pointers on batting grip on the first video call. She has red hair like Bel,
black eyes like Dad and me, and an opinion on everything. Like my mum.
 She’s a delight. A Dumaine. My sister.
I think of all this, of this summer and the cascade of decisions that led
me to this moment. Where I hold the Triskelion Cup. Where I am a captain,
a skipper who led from the front, no matter the challenges.
And I’m proud of myself. I’ve made it. On my own.
And I’ll do it again and again till I reach my eventual goal. I know this
now.
And, then comes the moment. The one I’ve struggled and slaved and
worked all summer for. The selection announcement.
“This summer has been a revelation,” Padric begins. “When you all
showed up on the first of June, you were thirty-two individual players. With
your unique skills and talents. You were looking out for yourself.”
“But, somehow, and this is what I love about this game,” Aiden
continues. “You became a team. You took hits, you practiced, you
strategized, you planned, and you fought. You played this little cup like it
was the World Cup finals and I could not be prouder of any of you
gentlemen for this effort, this gamesmanship. Well done, boys. Well done.”
We all cheer and hoot for each other. I lock arms with my mates, Fox
and Ares, and absorb this feeling.
“But, along with the cup, we announced a prize, didn’t we?” Rohit takes
up the speech. “The player of the season, the MVP who’s shown the most
promise. He came back from an injury and a personal issue that should have
derailed his life.”
I stop breathing.
“He has shown what it means to captain effectively,” he continues.
The cheers and yells begin. My ears start ringing.
“To lose graciously. To never lose hope despite the loss and yes…”
Rohit smiles. “To score a record-breaking century. He’s a true leader of the
Barrons Bay Challengers…so, for his contributions to the game of cricket
this season and because he is an exemplary man as well as an extraordinary
player⁠—”
I put a shaking hand to my heart.
“The official selection of the coaches’ committee, Paddy, Gilly, and
me…is Noah Dumaine. Captain of the Barrons Bay Challengers.”
The shouts and screams deafen me because I cannot believe what I just
heard…
 Queenie

I scream, cry, shake, and almost throw up as I watch Noah get hoisted on
Ares and his teammates’ shoulders. He is grinning broadly, too stunned to
react.
I just send a quick group text to my family, Noah’s family and my
friends – Noah’s new fans – that he’s the MVP of the season. But the words
swim and my hands tremble.
The rest of Chachu’s announcement is lost in the cacophony of
celebration. Noah’s finally allowed to walk to the presenter’s podium and
shake hands with the Australian Cricket Board official who was present at
the match.
He runs back to his campmates, and they parade him around on their
shoulders. The rivalry between the Knights and Challengers is over, for this
year at least.
I can’t bear it anymore. I can’t stand being apart from him.
It is totally against the rules, but I climb the three-foot high boundary
line and run toward the team.
Noah sees me, and he climbs down from Fox’s shoulders and runs
toward me. Immediately. Gratifyingly immediately. He catches me off the
ground and whips me up and around and I laugh at him through my happy
tears.
Call me a sentimental sap.
“This is all because of you, do you know that?” His sweaty forehead
touches mine, because I’m on my toes and holding him so tight. “You’re the
reason I get to live my dream.”
“That’s all you, Noah. You did all of this by yourself. I did nothing.”
“You gave me a reason to believe in myself. How do I thank you for
that?”
“Promise to believe in me?” I ask him softly.
“All my life,” he vows.
Our kiss, endless and luscious and without tongue, is met with cheers
and whistles from the players. And groans from the three coaches.
But I don’t care. I’m living my dream too. And it’s just beginning…
OceanofPDF.com
 TWELVE YEARS LATER

OCEANOFPDF.COM
 EPILOGUE: NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LOVER’ BY MEGHAN LINSEY

I AM IN UNSPEAKABLE PAIN.
I thought hitting the winning runs and winning the World Cup final
again would make the pain go away. Or receiving the Player of the
Tournament trophy and answering questions about my game tonight would.
Or when I collected the trophy and posed with my mates in front of the
banner that read WORLD CHAMPIONS, champagne spraying all over us.
Or the afterparty in the dressing room where many tears were shed, and
many oaths of fealty and everlasting friendship were made.
Turns out even a world cup champion cannot outrun the pain and
consequences of a broken thumb. It hurts like a motherfucker.
“OUCH!” I whine while my doctor checks the wrapping around the
splint. “Can you be gentle with me? It hurts.”
The doctor gives me a stern look. “No one asked you to play through
the pain and possibly do permanent nerve damage to win the game. Of
course, it’s going to hurt.”
“It was the last two overs of the bloody final. What did you expect me
to do? Take an injury call?” I am all righteous indignation. “What kind of
captain do you think I am?”
“The reckless kind of captain. Who always pushes himself beyond his
limits,” the doctor responds tartly.
I grin. “That makes me your kind of captain, Hellcat.”
 My Hellcat pushes me back on the cloud-like bed at The Calliope. It’s a
seven-star De Rossi Luxury hotel opposite the MCG where the teams have
stayed for the duration of the world cup.
She places one knee on my side while still holding my hand in her
capable hands. “You cannot sweet talk your way out of this one, Aussie boy.
This is a serious injury.”
But she kisses the splint and the white bandage covering my poor,
abused thumb. “This is precious to me.” She smiles her scary Hellcat smile
– doe-eyed heat and dewy lust. “My clit will never forgive you for messing
with her favorite toy.”
“Your clit…what?” I laugh, delighted and more in love than I have any
right to be after a decade of being with my girl.
Queenie nods. “I’m selfish about what’s mine. And this?” She taps my
poor thumb gently, caressing it softly. Pouring all the love she feels for me
in the touch. “This is all mine.”
“What about my…bat?” I run my uninjured hand over the jersey I’ve
requested she wear before we leave for the afterparty celebrations in the
lounge downstairs.
As with all her other jerseys, starting with the Melbourne Marvels, this
one is bedazzled with Dumaine’s Girl. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep
because I’m too wound up from an upcoming match or when I miss her
because she is off at a neuroscientist’s conference in London or New Delhi,
I watch old match highlights. They never fail to pan at least once to my
woman wearing my jersey and cheering like a fucking maniac for me.
Every time, I fall a little bit more in love with her for it.
She laughs now. Pushes her short curls back. “What a one-track mind
you have, captain Dumaine.”
“It is…” I cup her tit and kiss the nipple. “Singular.”
“I can’t keep falling for your sweet talk.” She sighs and gives me more
of her weight. Since she’s wearing just her panties and the jersey, my cock
surges a little into the apex of her thighs.
“You can, love,” I encourage her. I bite her nipple through the jersey.
“Just one more time.”
She makes my favorite sound. A strangled gasp-moan.
She takes off my champions green and yellow tee shirt, now sticky and
dirty with champagne, sweat, dirt and mud. “I’m laminating this shirt.” She
kisses the collar, even as she makes an ewww face.
 God, I love this woman.
I cup her delicate jaw and look at her. Memorizing her face all over
again. There are a few grey streaks in the jet black of her hair. And a few
lines on the sides of her eyes and her lips. Her eyes don’t smile as often as
they did when we were younger and full of shit.
But, inside and outside, in every way that counts, Dr. Queenie
Madhavan-Dumaine, PhD in Neuroscience and Research Fellow at Oxford
and RMIT, is the same. My brave courage warrior goddess.
Whether it is tackling her undergrad degree at Thorndon and graduating
as valedictorian or flying back and forth between Melbourne and London
while she did her masters’ and doctorate on the long-term effects of
motoneuron diseases.
The day she received her degree from Oxford was the first time I missed
a match – a decider in the India-Australia series. It was a no-brainer for me,
of course.
Watching Queenie be feted on her big day was more important for me
than it was for her. Because it made all the years of hard work and sacrifice
worth it.
The second match I ever missed was the day we got married, two years
later. It was a quiet, intimate ceremony even though I kind of sprang it on
her. It was the only time Fox, Ares, and our other mates and families could
coordinate diaries and schedules.
Missing the T20 league final was a small price to pay to watch
Queenie’s face drain of all color when she woke up to our entire gang
shouting, “You’re getting married today, Queenie!”
These moments and many others run through my mind as my wife leans
down and kisses me. Softly. Sweetly. Perfectly.
“Open up,” I order her. Even as I ride her through my sweaty, dirty
uniform pants. And she undulates like a fucking dream over my waist, my
thighs.
She doesn’t open up. Instead, she says, “My heart stopped when that
fucker Van Joost tried to mutilate your thumb.”
“Better him than your precious Indian team. I’m sure you’d have
cheered the demise of my thumb then.”
She smiles, low and pleased at my peeved words. My wife becomes
Switzerland during India-Australia clashes and diplomatically says, “May
the best team win.” To media personnel who always hope for a
controversial statement, our mates in both teams, and even our family.
But I know her. She hopes for a tricolor victory, anyway. Especially
when her beloved Chachu is coaching the Indian team.
And you know what? I play a little harder having that knowledge.
Whatever the result, Dumaine’s Girl celebrates with me. And I love that too.
It would be easy to call our life together perfect.
But the truth is, we work at it. Every damn day. Between our demanding
professions, our personal commitments, having family in three bloody
countries – India, England, Australia – our life is a whirlwind. But,
Queenie’s surprisingly calm in the middle of chaos and we somehow only
have a few barnburner arguments every year.
Two years ago, my wife even dragged me to a marriage counsellor
because I was withdrawn after an ACL tear threatened to end my career
before I was ready to take the step. Queenie let me mope for two months
before we went to therapy, and I was forced to work through our issues. I
would never tell her because she’d use it to win every argument, but I am so
glad she pushes me to be the best man every damn day.
I’d be a withering wreck without her.
“I told you, Noah.” She interrupts my walk down memory lane by
brushing her nose with mine. “It’s you.” She holds her palm above my
head. “Then everything else.” She lowers her hand. “Except my country.”
Her palm goes two inches above my head.
I raise her palm higher. “That is you for me, you know.”
She shakes her head. “Only when you want to fuck me, sweetheart.
Don’t think I don’t know what you want.”
She isn’t wrong. But I’m not going to tell her that.
We now make love with her on top of me, more often than not, because
my knees are showing signs of early arthritis.
One of the disadvantages of playing elite sport for a long time? A thirty-
year-old body degenerates to a fifty-year-old’s sooner rather than later.
But I have no complaints because the last decade has been kind to me.
More than kind. Not only have I played the game of my heart on every
continent and every level possible, I have won all the tournaments and
series I possibly could.
They call me a God in the making.
 I don’t know about that. All I know is I love cricket. My family. My
woman. In that order, exactly. Except right now. When nothing matters
except Queenie and the sweet hot heat and heart of her.
“Queenie, baby,” I plead with her. Edging the jersey up. “I’ve been such
a good boy. I even won a World Cup for you.”
“You won that for your giant…” She strokes my hard cock into painful
arousal. “Bat.”
I laugh and try to surge into her through the panties and my jock guard.
But she shakes her head. And slides off me with a last kiss on my
parched lips. “Shower first. Party and food next. Sex later. Much, much
later.”
“You’re a hard woman to please,” I call out after her.
She drops the jersey on the floor of the expensive hotel. Cups her full
breasts with her hands as she gives me a sultry look from lowered lashes.
“On the other hand.”
I jump up, on the ready.
“You’re so easy,” she teases me. Then, she runs into the bathroom and
slams the door on me.
I groan and lie back on the bed.
My phone rings. Loud and insistent. I consider throwing it away. It’s
probably yet another contact of my agent who wants to either sign a brand
deal with me or get me on a podcast or do a sponsored platform post. And I
am not interested.
I pick it up desultorily.
Open the door, mate. The message reads.
Only four people would dare to disturb Queenie and me. Because only
four people know we are here, in the penthouse suite of The Calliope. The
rest of the world thinks I am cooped up in the rooms allotted to my
teammates on the twelfth floor.
I wrap a lush dressing gown around my waist and lope to the door.
From the bathroom, Queenie screeches a Taylor Swift song. My love is
many things – accomplished scientist, amazing wife and partner, dutiful and
fun daughter to both sets of parents – but a singer she is not.
I shake my head and open the door.
A phone is thrust in my face.
“Well fuck!” Simon Archer emphasizes from the screen. “I knew I
should have come to watch the final myself.”
 “Hello to you too, mate.” I invite the phone-holder, Jace Archer and his
hulking giant of a younger brother, Cade, inside. I peer around them but the
corridor’s empty.
“Congratulations, Noah! This is incredible. And we’re so damn proud of
you. Hope the thumb’s okay.”
“Thanks, Simon. The thumb will survive.” Hopefully.
The Archers and us cricket players are now firm friends. Family even,
considering how each of us defers to QBee and her annual vacation-
planning skills. QBee is closely followed by the other partners’ who take
their lead from her. And none of the men have the heart or, honestly, the
balls to contradict them.
“Did he punch you in the face?” Ares bounds into the room. Holding a
champagne bottle longer than his long arm. “Did he?”
Jace grins, shakes his head. “No. He very nicely said, Thanks, Simon.”
“Pay up.” Fox holds out a hand, strolling inside with a baby strapped to
his strapping chest. “Pay up, mate.”
“Have we decided to hold the party here?” I muse, mostly to myself.
“We can.” Ares hoists the champagne bottle high. Bumps me with it.
“As your coach and best friend, I give you full permission to get the party
started.”
Queenie’s voice screeches so loudly as she sings the hook to ‘Cruel
Summer.’
To a man, everyone winces. Fox even protectively covers baby Harry’s
ears.
“Maybe we should—” Cade points to the door.
“Yep.” Ares slides back out, tucking a fiver in his billionaire best
friend’s hand. The bet winnings. He keeps the champagne on the bed for
me.
“We’ll see you in half an hour?” Jace asks.
“I love QBee,” Simon sighs on the phone. A woman yells something off
screen at him. And he calls back, “I love you more, moonshine.”
“Half an hour,” I affirm.
They all troop out the way they came.
My phone continues ringing. But this time I switch it off. Then, I shuck
the robe and walk to the bathroom.
Queenie’s almost finished with the shower. She’s drying off. I know the
map of her body – the contours, the stretch marks, the cellulite and the
curves. And I am still mad for every inch of her.
Just like she knows the ridges, bumps, scars and stretch marks on mine.
And can’t get enough of me.
We’ve seen each other through everything, good, bad, terribly ugly. And
we’re still here.
“Did I hear you talking to someone out there?”
I shake my head and try to step out of my pants. “There’s no one else,
desi girl.”
She helps me with undressing, competent and depressingly impersonal.
She even opens the shower faucet for me.
But the kiss she gives me is sweet. Endless. Perfect.
“There’s no one else but you,” I whisper against her lips.
Then I kiss her once more in our happy ever after.

The Happy Ever After Continues…

Hey, awesome reader! Thank you for racing to Noah and Queenie’s
Happy Ever After. And I am sure, you’re aching for more! Worry not, I got
you covered. Click on this link and get your instant fix of more Noah and
Queenie – in an exclusive bonus scene available to my Postmate Gang –
The Writer Gal Letter subscribers Click on this page.
Wait! There is still MORE for you. If you don’t know, I love writing
interconnected stories and worlds and lives. Because that is the world I live
in and I want to visit this world as often as I can. So, This Wild Catastrophe
is actually a core part of the ArcherVerse, which belongs in the AartiVerse.
The Archerverse begins with Simon Archer’s epically angsty second
chance, marriage of convenience, morally grey billionaire romance. It’s
called Heartbreak Vows. And it has a very different and grown-up Simon
(yes, QBee’s Simon) doing unconscionable things for…reasons. Go on to
read a sneak peek. Heartbreak Vows is available in Kindle Unlimited and
paperback.
Other characters introduced in Noah and Queenie’s book are waiting
for you in their own sneak peeks. I don’t want to say much more. So just
read on for upcoming Aarti V Raman releases and your next hot favorite
couple, okay?! And if you want to be the first to know when Fox and Jace’s
books are coming out, sign up for The Writer Gal Letter – it’s the first place
all the info comes to.
OceanofPDF.com
 EXCERPT FROM HEARTBREAK VOWS
AVAILABLE ON KINDLE UNLIMITED AND PAPERBACK

Lia

I never wondered what it would be like to talk to Simon Court Archer again.
I’ve done a pretty good job convincing myself he isn’t real. He’s not the
shy, older boy I fell in love with anymore. The man he’s turned into over
the last eight years is what myths are made of.
Legends and fairytales with unhappy endings.
Simon Archer, billionaire stock trader and businessman, is an unknown
entity in downtown Manhattan. Mostly because everyone thinks they know
everything about him. All the media profiles on him, the news clips, and
podcasts devoted to how he does business all claim knowledge of the most
powerful man on Wall Street today.
The college graduate I was so desperately crazy about is not this Simon.
That young man had different dreams. He wanted to make money trading
stocks, yes, but not at the speed of sound. No, he was going to help run the
family business after his dad retired and be a responsible, decent
businessman.
The CEO of Archer Enterprises, along with his brothers, is a dragon
who eats companies for breakfast.
My Simon was vulnerable with me. I was insanely protective of him
when he trusted me with his hurt. Until I wasn’t, couldn’t be.
 This Simon is bulletproof. The myth created from rash deals paying off
in ten-figure profits. He has this insatiable ambition to stake his claim over
every stock exchange in the world.
So, I’ve never pretended for a moment to believe he is rea,l like the
other Simon.
It’s also why I thought meeting, okay, ambushing my ex at his office
was a good idea. Because, in my desperation, I did not expect to actually
talk to him.
I wanted to. I have to.
Simon’s company is the only one invincible enough to take on the banks
and give HON the first aid – financial and business - it needs to get through
this nightmare.
But this was all theory as I conspired to meet him.
Wishful theory.
Now, it’s happening. He’s here. And I can’t stop looking at him.

No thoughts form in my brain. Save a thought so ridiculous I can’t give

voice to it.
My brain is processing the fact of him – sleek and powerful – with
lightning speed. I take in the thief’s black suit in bespoke Italian silk and the
slash of bloodred tie with tiny pink roses at the borders. His soft brown hair
is longer now, curving over his well-shaped nape almost to his lean
shoulders. His watch and shoes are a simple black, a severe contrast to his
healthy tan. He even has the slightest hint of silver at his temples, which
just adds to his power.
We stand with the length of his humongous office between us, so I
know he isn’t taller than the six feet he’s always been. But somehow, in the
clench of my stomach, in the tremble of my fingers, he is.
Taller.
More.
There.
If gravity was a person, it would be Simon Court Archer.
Because the second I lay eyes on him he is all there is. Nothing else
exists but him.
 People give off auras making them attractive, charismatic, seductive.
Powerful.
Simon exudes the very earth on which I stand. He simply is. Like
gravity.
We have to talk. I have to make the first move here, but I can’t. I am
frozen, stuck to the floor. Unable to take my first breath in this new gravity.
I smile past the frozen muscles of my face. Wish I could push the
wayward hair off my cheek. “Hello Simon,” I begin. “I hope you’re not too
shocked to see me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even blink his extra-thick lashes.
I did not expect that.
The assistant hovers next to me, unsure.
I try again, although my voice is thinner than it usually is. I keep my
hands loose at my sides. “I know it’s a surprise, my ambushing you like
this,” I go on. “But I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, we are old friends.”
I stumble a little over the last word.
He is preternaturally still.
I wish I had his sense of calm. But then again, if you’re gravity, you can
afford to be still. Everyone else has to bow down to you.
I incline my head in a sort of half-bow. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s a
shock, I can see that. But⁠—”
“Close the door, Giselle.” Simon speaks at last. “Thanks.”
His voice electrifies me. It’s deep. Like the ocean at night. A roar and a
whisper at the same time.
Now, I can’t stop staring at his sensually full lips. Forming words.
Good god. I am so completely out of my element here. And it’s only
been a minute since I met him.
Giselle, who even resembles the model she’s probably named after with
miles of teased blond hair and a stacked hair, touches my arm. “Can I get
you anything, Ms. Rai? Coffee. Water.”
“I’m good.” I am so breathless. Unable to look away from Simon.
“Thanks.”
“What time’s my next, G?”
“Twenty minutes, Simon.”
A sharp green arrow pierces through me when she provocatively says
his name. It’s nonsense. I don’t care what this assistant does with my ex.
But the bolt remains, lodged right under my heart.
 Throbbing. Aching.
He raises one long finger; I don’t know why.
“I’ll warn you a minute before, sure,” Giselle murmurs.
Aah. That’s why.
Simon’s a busy and important man. For him, time is literally money.
Every second of his schedule is accounted for. Of course, he only has
twenty minutes before his next meeting.
The door closes with a soft whoosh, and I am alone with him.

“Come in, Ophelia. I’m not going to bite.”

I suppress a shudder at his predatory words. And walk farther into his
office. It’s a beautiful room – done in ivories with splashes of green, navy,
and brown. The patio outside is a lush forest.
I can see all of Park Avenue glittering at street level from the glass wall.
Cars and people moving like ants while this man surveys them all. As befits
a mythic legend.
I am slightly dizzy.
“It suits you.” I have to talk to stop the uproar of my senses.
I’m in utter overdrive. Something I never expected. My insides are
waking up all at once, demanding attention. Hungry. Like I really am on a
new earth where the old rules don’t apply.
“What?”
I wave a hand at the glass wall. “This. King of everything. Suits you.” I
even work up a smile to go with my compliment.
He doesn’t respond. I’m halfway across the room, so I notice his face
even more clearly. And it is not as …pretty as it once was. The cheekbones
are filed down to sharp points, so his jaw almost juts out in an angular slash.
Almost. Because the waves of hair save it from being too aggressive. His
nose has a slight bent, so it’s not aquiline-perfect anymore. And his hair is
now styled to fall in waves on his forehead.
In theory, he is a grown-up, filled-out version of the man I left a week
before my eighteenth birthday. He’s not just ridiculously handsome
anymore.
He’s…gorgeous. Utterly breathtaking.
 But his eyes are placid blue. With chips of grey and stunningly black
pupils to define the blue.
They are so frighteningly blank; I can’t read them. At all.
This is not a man. This is the myth, the monster, the dragon who eats
companies for breakfast.
I’m chaotic when I realize what a colossal error of judgment this
surprise meeting is.
I don’t know how to deal with this man. I am not capable of it. Most
people aren’t.
“Simon,” I begin shakily.
“Your family. They’re well?”
“I—yes.”
He continues staring.
It is unbearable to withstand the laser-blue scrutiny. Like a cloudless sky
with no bird in sight. Just you and the blue. I am flayed naked with his gaze.
The balance of power between us is laughably uneven.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
“I…” I lick my lips. They are dry. How did they become dry?
His eyes dip to them. Magnetic in their attraction.
I’m hot, burning up with color creeping up my cheeks. Flushing my
neck, the valley between my breasts, the small of my back. I want to fan
myself very badly. Do something, anything to break this force field between
us.
“I’d like that water now,” I husk out. “Please.”
He moves to the wall in three economic strides and presses a button. A
cleverly concealed sideboard slides out noiselessly. It is such a tech marvel;
I finally get over my breathlessly unbalanced reaction.
I take a full breath since I first saw him.
I also take the opportunity to walk the rest of the way over to his desk
and place my file on it.
When I straighten up, he’s right next to me. I can smell his expensive
cologne, wind, and ocean, and sandalwood. It goes straight into me, like
osmosis. I’m dizzy with it. Or maybe it’s just his nearness.
I almost jump. “You’ve got cat feet.” My smile stretches like taffy over
my jaw.
“Water.” He holds the glass out to me.
 I take the Baccarat tumbler from him, taking care to not touch him. It is
not easy because my pulse is shivering with an anticipation I shouldn’t
have.
I gulp the water down while he stands. Right. Next. To. Me.
I am hyperaware of the way his open suit jacket brushes the side of my
blazer. Of the two inches between my hand and his. The way my suede
boots touch his wingtips.
I try to control the chaos inside with the cold water. It helps. Somewhat.
When I drain the glass, I catch him staring at my naked throat,
swallowing the last of the water down. The water vaporizes. I almost shake
my head, to make him stop looking at me with this terrifying focus.
But I don’t.
If I do it, I’ll only make him aware that I’m aware of it. It’s a weapon he
possesses against me.
And I’m way too defenseless already.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Shocked,” he answers. “Like you said.”
“I didn’t mean to⁠—”
“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing, Lia.”

My name on his lips, it rips something frozen deep inside me apart. Like an
open wound gushing blood. I want to clench my fists, as if to protect myself
against it, but I don’t.
“I did.”
I knew exactly what I was doing. Once I fully grasped the depth of the
mess we were in, I also zeroed in on Simon Archer as the only man who
could realistically help clean it up.
So, I asked HON’s head of finance to set up this appointment under his
name with Archer Enterprises. Because the man was in a senior position
with a swollen, seven-figure net worth, he’d been given access.
I then called in a favor and had them switch out the appointment names
without informing Simon. Because I didn’t want this traced back to me.
“Cade did this,” Simon says. “Jace won’t let your family near me.
Especially you. Cade’s an unsentimental bastard.”
 I don’t respond to his comment. He is right. Jace and I were best friends
before I betrayed his family. He’d not willingly put me in the path of the
man I hurt the most. It was Cade Archer who set up this meeting. Under
condition of anonymity and plausible deniability.
“Are you angry?” I can understand if he is bitter. Enraged.
Things ended terribly between us. The five times I’ve since seen him at
a social function have been with my family and Jeremy as a buffer. I’ve not
been alone with him since he left for his last semester of grad school.
“Angry?” He repeats, with no inflection.
“I’m sorry…”
“Fifteen minutes,” he says brusquely.
I blink. The first I have in minutes. “What?”
“You have fifteen minutes to say whatever you’ve come here to say,
Ophelia. You’ve wasted five already.”
“I wasted…” I take a deep breath.
His brisk, businesslike tone succeeds in making me find my balance, my
center again. The chaos subsides.
I become cool and professional too. My facial muscles close up till they
form the mask I always wear for important meetings.
Juliet calls it The Barrons Look. Distant and certain at the same time.
“You’re right. I’ll just say whatever I have to say then.”
“Please.”
He inclines his head too, and strands of his beautiful hair fall forward.
My fingers twitch with the urge to touch them, brush them back. But his
bow is an insult to me. I know it, and he knows it too.
When he looks back at me, I can finally see something.
It’s bored interest.
I will make bored interest work.
“Archer Enterprises has investment stakes in almost all businesses - IT,
robotics, automation, security, shipping, mining, construction,
infrastructure…you’re everywhere.”
“I think I know my own portfolio, Lia.”
“But you haven’t yet made a bet in fashion.”
He stills even more. “I haven’t made bets in vertical farming too.”
“Yes, but fashion’s ubiquitous. It’s everywhere.” I nod at his jacket.
“Your Van Der Meer pocket square is a case in point.”
“It is?”
 I nod again. “Yes. It’s a bold pink choice. And you didn’t have to wear it
with the red, but you wanted the pink roses on your tie to pop. So, you did.
Fashion’s everywhere.”
“Maybe it wasn’t me.” He is thoughtful. “Maybe it was my girlfriend
who picked this outfit.”
Another green bolt throbs in ugly tempo under my heart. So, he has a
girlfriend. Good for him. He deserves someone to make him happy.
“Or it was my stylist because I had an interview and a photo shoot,” he
continues easily.
“Whoever it was, they made a clear fashion choice.”
“Making me wear pink.”
“Highlighting the pink against all that unrelenting black and stunning
blue,” I correct him.
“Stunning blue?” He is puzzled.
“Your eyes,” I explain softly. “Pink pops well against black and blue.
Primal colors but with a softer touch. It’s a great outfit. My compliments to
the stylist.”
Color heats my cheeks again from the direction of this conversation. I
didn’t want to compliment him. But if it gets his attention, I’ll take it.
The interest in his eyes turns from bored to definite.
“You’re well and truly in it now.”
We both know he means my interest in fashion and House of Niamh, so
I agree. “Yes. I am. It’s why I am here.”
“To style me?” He quirks his luscious lips.
I blink again, because unruly thoughts come forth. To style him, I’d
need to undress him first and…I can’t afford to indulge my thoughts. “No.”
I shake my head. “To make a deal with Bulletproof Archer.”
“Now I’m intrigued.” He cocks his head to one side. “What deal do you
have in mind, Lia Rai?”
“I need you. Your help,” I improvise quickly.
“You need my help.”
“Yes. Your help. Archer Enterprises should invest in fashion, in House
of Niamh. Because we need it.”
“You need Archer Enterprises to invest in House of Niamh?” He barks
out a laugh. “How desperate are you to come to me, of all people, for
help?”
 I lick my lips. Because every insulting word is pure truth. “I am
desperate. Incredibly. Extremely. The banks are going to release a statement
this week declaring us a high-investment risk.”
“So? Buy the banks off. Do what your family always does. Make the
problem go away by distancing yourself from it.”
I wince. Yes. It is what we do. What I did to him. When things got hard,
I distanced myself from him. He has every right to be bitter about it.
“We…aren’t able to make such a move at the moment,” I reply
reluctantly.
He cocks his head again. “So, it’s true then. HON’s money chest is
empty. You are in no position to fight for your place in the market.”
“No.” Shame suffuses me at the admission. “No. We are not. HON is
not. If the banks release that statement, it’s game over for us.”
He doesn’t need me to spell it out for him. How the bank’s credit rating
would basically ruin HON forevermore, destroying a century-old fashion
brand. He understands big finance better than I ever will.
“What’s the loan amount?”
“Seventy.” I swallow. “Million.”
“How did the board allow things to get this bad?” He murmurs, almost
to himself. “Your family’s the Board. And the rest of them are yes-men.” He
answers his own question.
“How did it come to this, Lia?”
“Kaizen Investments shut down three months ago.”
“Yeah. That drawdown was a bad day for everyone.” Except him. He’d
gone long, investing more in Japan, and short on China, betting against the
world’s largest economy. It had paid off for him and sucked for almost
everyone else in the world.
I am a communications major with a job in PR but, over the last few
months, I’ve absorbed enough of basic finance to know what Simon does is
nothing short of alchemy. Magic. People don’t operate in the stock market
like he does. They don’t know how to.
“Don’t tell me your family was stupid enough to believe Kiko Kaizen
and his stories.” Simon’s contempt for the man is obvious. And well-
founded.
I sigh. “My...fa…people fucked up, Simon. And unless we do
something drastic, we are going to go out of business. Like next month. I
can’t let that happen,” I end simply.
 “You can’t,” he repeats.
He looks over my shoulder.
“I don’t see Toby Whitaker, HON’s CEO, here, Lia. Or any of the Board
members.”
“Yes, that’s because…”
“What? They sent you here to me.” He concludes the worst. “To do
their dirty work for them. They know we have history and want to exploit it
for their benefit.”
“No!” I explode. “My family…no one knows I am here, Simon. I came
here in my own capacity.”
“In what capacity?” he demands.
“As a major shareholder in House of Niamh. As an employee who
works for House of Niamh. As the great-great daughter of Cordelia
Barrons,” I answer with quiet dignity. “Representing the family that runs
the company.”
“Ran it into financial ruin, you mean,” he says tonelessly.
Tears prick my eyes. Not because he spoke the truth, but because the
Simon I knew wouldn’t say such damning words to me. He’d tell me the
truth, always. But he’d not be so unfeeling about it.
“So, I’m here. Just me,” I say plainly. “With, yes, given our history. To
ask you, no…beg you to help me. You’re the only one who can do it. If
Archer Enterprises invests in House of Niamh, we’ll be…we’ll be,” I
pounce on the word associated with him. “Bulletproof.”
He goes back to silence.
It unnerves me. Goosebumps erupt over my hands and neck. This
Simon says so much with his silences than most people do with eloquent
speeches. It is awe-inspiring.
“Simon?” I prompt him.
I have hope against hope. He’ll do the right thing. The decent thing.
He’ll help me no questions asked.
“Okay,” he says.
That hope buoys me. “Okay?” I am stunned. Shocked into joy. I did it. I
did the impossible. Confetti and balloons burst in my head. “Okay? You’ll
do it. Oh my god, Simon. I …”
He shakes his head. And the balloons start popping. The confetti turn to
ash. “You misunderstand me, Ophelia.”
“I…I have?” I ask uncertainly.
 Hope deflates, leaving me a hollow shell. “Yes.” His voice is soft,
almost hypnotic in its cadence. I sway toward it. “You have.”
“Then what did you mean?”
My eyes are huge on my face. Hopeful and defeated at the same time.
But I have to ask. Even though I know, I know I shouldn’t.
Because now…now his eyes aren’t blank anymore. They’re blazing. An
inferno of banked emotions. Now they are alive. With menace and
something beyond rage.
Now, he intends to make me pay the price for daring to make this deal.
“You said you’ll beg for me to help you. So do it,” he suggests.
It’s my turn to go blank. I can’t process his words. I watch his sensual
mouth talk. The words come out. The muscles on his cheeks and neck
move. I watch all the tectonic fury in his eyes almost burn me. The pink
roses on his tie are incongruous against the devilish danger he is.
“Do what?” My shirt is sticking to my back with sweat, even though the
room’s a climate-controlled seventy-five.
This time, his eyes stay level on mine when he says, “Beg me. On your
knees. At my feet.” He gazes at his shiny shoes. “At my mercy. Beg, Lia.”
My vision edges to black and I lose my breath. Green darts mingle with
the black and turn an ugly, vicious red. My own anger rears its snake-like
head. Trembling with righteous wrath.
“You’re wasting valuable time here, Ophelia.” With each scornfully
offensive word he says, the anger overtakes my shame, the panic, the other
thing I refuse to name. “Either bend the knee and beg me with that princess
mouth or⁠—”
I don’t think. I just do it.
I fist my hand and it flashes up and out toward his perfectly sculpted
cheekbones.
He catches me a microsecond before I make contact with his nose.

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EXCERPT FROM FOX AND MISCHA’S
BOOK

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 PLAYING FOR KEEPS BOOK 2

Twelve Years Ago

After Queenie and Noah Leave the Diner

Mischa

I like the diner when its quiet and hushed. When it’s just me and my
thoughts and the dulcet tones of Adele weeping about finding someone like
you. I can think now that the crowd has gone, and the machines have
stopped whirring.
I don’t get much alone time. Or quiet time.
When you’re the eldest sister to three younger sibs all under the age of
fifteen, not to mention the oldest daughter to a single mom – alone is a
luxury that does not exist. Much like fifteen-dollar fancy chai lattes or the
latest trendy clothes and accessories.
So, I make do.
I’ve learned to make fancy coffee in the espresso machine I nagged Joe
Junior to buy last summer. The customers are grateful for the options, they
pay handsomely for the privilege. And I can drink my swirly cappuccinos
without worrying about the monthly grocery budget. It’s a win-win, in my
book.
 I wipe the coffee machine slowly, drifting my hands over it.
Competently, dreamily.
Summer’s almost over. Fall is not yet here. And time has no meaning in
the last few days of vacation.
My best friend glows from newfound love and the best kind of love, in
my opinion. Self-love.
It was hell watching her this last year. I could have pushed and ripped at
her when she was in a fragile state. It might have helped. Who knows?
But the truth, that I learned from personal, agonizing experience is…
you have to come back from some wounds yourself. You have to heal them
yourself or they will bleed inside, slowly and painfully. Pricking ever so
often over the scarring reminding you of their existence.
I hum along with Adele. “Never mind I’ll find⁠—”
The bell tinkles, signifying a walk-in customer, as I finish with,
“Someone like you.” I paste a professional smile on my aching jaw. “I’m so
sorry, but we’re closed for the⁠—”
I stop talking. The words freeze on my lips. The blood freezes in my
body. I am hot and cold all over.
There, standing just inside my quiet place, my safe space, is a ghost.
Golden-haired, grey-eyed, six feet of pure masculine perfection.
Dressed in board shorts and a flapping shirt that might as well be a five-
figure suit. Australian to the bone and a billionaire to boot.
My ghost’s sensual mouth twists in a parody of a smile.
“Social media is a funny thing,” my ghost drawls. “I would have found
out you were Queenie’s best friend if I was on it. Wouldn’t I?”
I clench the wipe cloth in my clammy palms. “Hello, Fox. It’s nice to
see you again.”
Fox saunters over to the bar.
I force myself to breathe and continue cleaning the machine. Every
instinct for self-preservation and survival inside me screams RUN! Danger,
RUN! I stand my ground.
He settles on a stool.
“We’re closed for the night,” I say evenly.
“I’m not here for food.”
“Then why are you here?” I whisper. It’s a tiny break. A weakness I
display in front of this man. This ghost that haunts me after so many years.
“I want answers, Mischa. Don’t play dumb.” He smiles again. Grimly.
 My heart twists when I see his lips. Once upon a time, I’d wanted them
on me. I used to dream of Fox De Rossi kissing me. Devouring me whole
with his sexy lips and strong body.
It is insane what a young, naïve girl could want, knowing it is bad for
her.
“What answers are you looking for?”
“Well.” Fox grips the bar, as if physically stopping himself from
vaulting over to my side.
Chills come over me again at the idea of Fox near me. Touching me.
“Well, what?”
It is hard looking into his depthless stormy eyes. Especially when they
contain the eye of the storm right now.
“I’d like to know.” His accent stretches know to ‘hknow’. “Exactly what
lie you told my twin, so he killed himself a day later.”
And, just like that, with those few words, my quiet time is destroyed.
My ghost becomes flesh. I remember what I have tried so hard to forget for
so long.
I’m Mischa Bhargav. And I’m a murderer.

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EXCERPT FROM JACE ARCHER’S
BOOK

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 THE ARCHERS BOOK 2

Manhattan
Black Lavender Restaurant

Jace

“Do you know what you are?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”
“You’re a sociopath.”
Three words. Muttered with all the venom a twenty-two-year-old
Botoxed blond lingerie model can muster in her size zero body.
I dab my lips daintily with the napkin. Place it neatly on my lap. Use the
correct knife and fork (it’s very important to use the proper silverware at the
most exclusive restaurant in New York) to spear a precise bite of seared
squab in my mouth. The squab is cooked to perfection with a blend of
spices and topped with four hundred pound saffron imported from the fields
of Kashmir, India.
I didn’t know this before Chef Rogelio himself came out of his kitchen
to impart this little nugget of knowledge to me.
I wonder how many fields of saffron are available in Kashmir, India. To
buy. To trade. To make profit off of.
“Did you hear what I said, Jacob?” Karla hisses at me.
 I nod, without bothering to look at her. The food is delicious. Divine. Of
the gods. I have more squab and swallow it before answering her. “Yes, of
course, I heard you. I’m not deaf yet.”
“Then what do you have to say for yourself?” She fiddles with the
single lettuce leaf she has been playing with as she ‘eats’.
Karly excused herself twice to go to the bathroom after she had the
lobster roll appetizer I massively indulged in. I’m sure the toilet looked like
the purge once she was done kneeling against it.
Poor models. Having to barf their food to maintain their figures. So sad.
“What do I have to say for myself about what?” I take the next bite of
the squab and hold it to Karly. “You must try this. It’s buttery goodness.” I
smile kindly, conspiratorially at her. “Totally worth vomiting later.”
Pretty tears fill her grass-green eyes. “You really are a sociopath, Jace.
You have no feelings at all. How can you sit there and put food away like a
barbarian when I’m trying to talk to you and you won’t listen?”
I stop eating. Give her my full attention.
The tears stop magically.
“I don’t need my hands or my mouth to listen to you, dearest Karly.”
When she goes to open her blowjob-worthy mouth, I shake my head. It’s
my turn to talk now. “And I have heard everything you had to say. I’m a
sociopath. I’m evil. I’m now a hungry barbarian too. But what you don’t
know about me is…”
I lean forward. And she, like a magnet, mimics my pose. I catch her
slender wrist. Just the tiniest pressure and her bird bones would break. It
would be so sad, considering she has a brand endorsement with a matcha
company later in the afternoon.
I smile.
“Jace…your smile…” Karly murmurs. Fear slides into her petulant
expression, revealing the veneer of survival underneath.
“You don’t know this about my smile, Karly,” I continue quietly. “This
smile is what I use to destroy boardrooms full of shitty, powerful men who
don’t give me what I want. Do you understand me?”
I let go of her delicate wrist.
“I—”
“And the reason I put food away like a barbarian is because I grew up
hungry. Starving. Like a feral alley cat.” My smile disappears. “You don’t
want to know what I do when I’m really hungry and someone stops me
from eating.”
I’m now Jace Archer. Sociopath. Evil. A barbarian in a twenty-
thousand-dollar suit who will tear anyone apart for his next meal.
Karly swallows. She’s a dumb botoxed blond. But she’s not totally
without self-preservation. “I was just saying⁠—”
“Karly, I’m not done talking.” I’m patient but it’s running thin.
“Who is she?” A husky, tearful voice exclaims from behind me. “Who is
she, Jace?”
Before I turn three things happen in quick succession.
One, Karly’s Barbie doll eyes go impossibly wide. So much so I can see
the glue she used to stick on the fan-like lashes on her eyes.
Two, my chin is grabbed delicately, forcefully by a not-so-delicate hand.
Three, a sexy, female, seductive pair of lips fix themselves on me. And
kiss me so hard I have to close my eyes or forget breathing.
When I get my breath and my lips back, I find a pair of glittering black
eyes. Mad eyes full of a witch’s secret power. And those eyes? They want
me dead.
“I thought I was your girlfriend. The love of your life,” the mad witch
says, mournfully. “Isn’t that what you told me last night? When you poured
champagne down my⁠—”
“What is she talking about, Jace?” Karly shrieks. A single, capricious
tear rolls down her model-thin cheeks.
I lay the fork down with regret. And, for the first time, in a long time, I
give up a perfectly divine meal.
All because I have walked into some alternate universe where a mad
witch is plotting my demise, and an anorexic model is crying real tears.
“I—”
“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about,” the mad witch says imperiously.
“I’m Dori. And this man.” She shoots me a poisonous glance draped in
molasses sweetness. “Is the love of my life.”
Her lie is delivered with such panache, such conviction, such passion
that I almost believe her. I am the love of her, Dori’s life. I have to be. No
other alternative exists.
Except, I’ve never met this woman before this second.
I would know if I had. She’s a stunningly pretty mad witch, with a
heart-shaped face, wide eyes and a cute button nose over those beestung
lips she’d used to kiss me a few seconds ago.
I’d remember her face. Those eyes.
She’s lied so convincingly I feel reluctant admiration and respect for
her. Even if she is an utterly random, completely unknown, mad witch. Who
just showed up out of nowhere and dropped this bomb at the table of the
most exclusive restaurant in all of Manhattan. Seriously, the wait list at the
Lavender is year-long.
And people call me a sociopath.

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 THANK YOU

If I was to truly make a list of every single person who made this book
happen simply by encouraging and talking me up when I was at my lowest
(I’m looking at you, August/September 2024 Aarti), the pages of this book
would exceed beyond publishing capacity.
Instead, I’ll first start by simply thanking EVERY SINGLE READER –
Bookstagrammer, Newsletter Subscriber, KU and Paperback Reader – who
encouraged me by sliding into my DMs, my emails, my sales reports and
telling me I matter. My words matter. This story matters.
Next up, my adorable and long-suffering family that puts up with me
every time I write a book and lose my mind. I promise to be better next
time, fam. (No, not really )
Julie Soper, the kindest, the best, most badass soul sister I am so pleased
to call mine. None of this would have happened without you. But you know
that already that. So, I’ll just say thank you and I love you!
My team, Deb, Merril, Priyanka, Anushka from Lovelit PR, who have
gone above and beyond the call of duty and delivered so much for me I am
amazed and humbled. I get to work with the best team in the whole freaking
world. Fight me.
The beta readers – Devika, Merril, Nikita, Shama and Riya – whose
invaluable inputs and insights have resulted in an infinitely better-written
story for Noah and Queenie. The delay was needed, loves.
 Special thanks need to go to the AMAZING Aarti’s Awesome Reader
Gang on Instagram – who lost their minds and (im)patiently waited for me
to send them the ARCs so they could read the book in full. Hope you all
love it, gang. But even if you don’t, you are the GOAT – Gangest of All
Time.
Lastly, and always, thank you to my dear reader. Every time you pick up
an Aarti V Raman book, you make it so I get to write the next one. And the
next one. And the next one. Whatever I am is because of you. Always stay
mine, okay?
Xx
Aarti

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 ALSO BY AARTI V RAMAN

AVAILABLE ON KINDLE UNLIMITED AND PAPERBACK

This Wild Catastrophe

(An Enemies to Lovers Small Town Cricket Romance)
Amazon US, Amazon CA, Amazon UK, Amazon Australia, Amazon India
No Other Love
(An Indian Small Town Second Chance Romance)
Amazon US, Amazon CA, Amazon UK, Amazon Australia, Amazon India
Heartbreak Vows
(An Enemies to Lovers Marriage of Convenience Billionaire Romance)
Amazon US, Amazon CA, Amazon UK, Amazon Australia, Amazon India

RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRES
Claim – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Ignite - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

MILLIONAIRE FOES
In Love With Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IS
In Debt To Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Engaged To Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
In Bed With Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
A Millionaire Foes’ Reunion – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Seducing Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Deceived By Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Betraying Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Inherited By Her Millionaire Foe – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

FILTHY RICH GEEKS

You Won’t Be Mine – US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
The Pieces of Me - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Tell Me Your Secrets - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
 Love The Way You Lie - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
A Filthy Rich Geek’s Wedding - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

THOSE DANGEROUS ROYALS

Renegade - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Chaos - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

HER MERCENARY PROTECTOR

To Love Honor and Avenge - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
To Love Honor and Betray - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

BOXSETS & ANTHOLOGIES

The Millionaire Foes Boxset (Books 1-4) - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
The Millionaire Foes Boxset (Books 5-8) - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Filthy Rich Geeks Boxset (with an exclusive Geeks’ Origin Novella) - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
Wealthy Gods (A First in Series Boxset) - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN

STANDALONES
Days of Our Lives - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
The Perfect Fake - US, CA, UK, AUS, IN
The Worst Daughter Ever
Score

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 ABOUT ME

Aarti V Raman is a USA Today bestselling romance author and TEDx

speaker.

She primarily writes contemporary romance with passionate angst and

dizzy heat and sometimes twisty thrills. Her heroes are hot, smart and
possessive and her heroines are like her – smart, career-oriented and kind of
a hot mess. These stories are set in a lush, luxurious world of danger and
peril aka code for billionaires ;)

'The Worst Daughter Ever', Aarti's desi chick lit novel is an Amazon Top 10
bestseller, among 23 others to hit the Amazon International Top 100
bestseller charts. This chick lit dramedy has also been optioned for a screen
adaptation. Her bestselling Millionaire Foes series is part of the Writers on
the Moon Project, bound in a time capsule to go to the actual moon.
This perennial romance writer is also an aspiring screenwriter, and young
adult urban fantasy enthusiast.
Aarti lives with her large and extended family in a version of her three
favorite words - happy ever after.

Find me everywhere:
Newsletter
 Tiktok
Instagram
Facebook
Facebook Group

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Copyright © 2025 by Aarti Venkatraman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording
or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author and publisher. Copyright fuels
creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you
for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not
reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are
supporting writers and allowing Aarti to continue to publish books for every reader.
Piracy is not cool! Please don’t do it.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in, scanned, printed, pirated, interfaced, or used to
train AI models of any kind. And no AI model of any kind has been used to create the text or design
of this book.
Aarti Venkatraman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. This is a work of
fiction in entirety and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover and creatives designed by Merril Anil with no use of generative AI.
First Edition, Version 1.0 March 2025
Outreach by Debdatta Dasgupta and Priyanka Mukherjee
Formatting by Debdatta Dasgupta & editing by Aarti Venkatraman

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