Page 97 of Cross the Line
‘Willow?’ he questions after another second, his tone full of disdain.
I breathe a small sigh of relief that he’s there, regardless of his attitude. ‘Yeah, I’m Dev’s social media—’
‘I know who you are,’ he cuts me off. ‘Is there a reason Mr Anderson isn’t answering his own phone right now?’
‘He’s . . .’ I trail off, watching Dev up on the stage, taking in his grin and his honestly pretty great moves. ‘He’s a little busy right now. Can I take a message?’
‘No.’ Howard’s tone leaves no room for argument. ‘I’ll call back in the morning.’
‘Wait!’ I shout so loudly that the people seated near me turn and stare. ‘Can I at least know if it’s good news?’
He pauses for so long again that I wonder if he’s hung up, but then he finally says, ‘It is.’
Oh mygod. This really is the phone call Dev wouldn’t want to miss. ‘Okay,’ I breathe out. ‘Please, just . . . hold on one second, okay?’ I shoot to my feet and wave to the boys on stage with my free hand, hoping to get the attention of at least one of them. ‘He’s going to want to hear this as soon as he can.’
‘I don’t have all night,’ Howard grumbles, but I barely hear him.
Somehow, Dev is the one who spots me, and the second he looks my way, I point to the phone and shout, ‘It’s Howard!’
That’s all it takes.
He’s jumping off the stage a second later, landing like a true action hero, then he’s sprinting toward me. Dev has the phone out of my hand before I can blink, skidding to a halt and lifting the device to his ear.
‘Howard? What’s going on?’
The music is still booming, and the other boys are finishing the routine, a little half-assed, but at least they’re doing it. I keep my focus locked on Dev, though, watching his every shift in expression.
‘Is it official?’ he asks. He presses his lips together as he listens, his face unreadable. ‘All right. Yeah. Thank you, Howard. I appreciate you calling.’
My heart pounds so hard it threatens to break free from my ribs. The anticipation makes it hard to breathe. ‘So?’ I prompt. ‘What’s going on? What’s the news?’
Another beat passes. The music comes to a deafening crescendo. And then Dev smiles, wide and bright and beautiful.
‘I’m going to Mascort.’
CHAPTER 30
Dev
Following five gruelling hours of negotiations over a video call last night, Howard sends the Mascort contract in the morning.
I sign it with both of my parents standing behind me. My mother showers me with kisses and blessings while my dad squeezes my shoulder, tears shimmering in his eyes. Alisha would be here too if she wasn’t busy getting her make-up done. Somehow, she wasn’t pissed at me for stealing just a sliver of her spotlight. Still, I’m determined to make sure she gets all the attention today.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. Alisha hides away as the baraat begins. The music from the procession is loud enough to be heard from all the way down the street. And then it’s finally time for the wedding day to begin.
I head out of the house to join the guests who have already settled in their seats and greet the ones from the groom’s side that are trickling in. When the groom himself finally arrives, my mother greets him first, and after invoking a few traditions I’ll never understand – like grabbing his nose – she escorts him to the elevated mandap.
The four-post dais is wrapped in red, white and pink roses, and dozens more cascade down from the draped cream silk covering it. Before it are six ornate chairs – two facing the crowd and two on each side. They’re perfectly placed around a spread of items on the red and gold rug. It’s beautiful, just like every other aspect of this weekend.
I scan the growing crowd, which will be two hundred people strong when the ceremony starts, looking for one face in particular.
At the tap on my shoulder, I turn around.
Willow is wearing the deep orange sari I saw hanging up in her room the night I sneaked in, and the colour brings out the warm brown of her skin. She’s standing next to her parents and Oakley, which means I can’t say the things I desperately want to, and I certainly can’t let it show on my face either. No matter how hard it might be, I can’t give us away. Not yet.
I’ve been accused of being a romantic. A sap. But how could I be anything different? I grew up on Bollywood movies with men spinning around in fields of flowers, singing about how the girl they love is more beautiful than every daisy, rose and tulip in the world. How the fuck am I not supposed to tell Willow that she’s brighter than all the stars in the sky? How can I look at her and sayyou look nice, when I want to scream from a snow-covered mountaintop that just the sound of her voice could raise me from my grave?
And yet I force myself to clear my throat and say, ‘You look nice.’
