She had not planned for the rain. Or for him. Naina stood under the broken awning of the tea stall, the chill seeping through her cotton saree. When Rajiv’s umbrella appeared over her head, it was not chivalry that struck her—it was the absurdity of familiarity. They had been colleagues for seven years. She knew his coffee order, his habit of whistling off-key, the precise shade of gray of his Monday trousers. But she had never known the scent of his skin when wet.
4/5 stars