“I’m working,” I say innocently.
Her fingers fly over the keyboard again, and I try. I really do. But I can’t focus. Not when she’s sitting two feet away, her hair slipping out of that bun, brushing against her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear. She chews on her bottom lip like she always does when she’s deep into something. And for the life of me, I cannot remember what file I was just opening.
Her stomach growls loud enough to break the silence. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Obviously. If she were someone else, some other employee, I would have been impressed with the amount of dedication she is showing. I mean, I am impressed with her too, but I don’t like it when she ignores herself for work. I have voiced my opinion, but I was shut down by ‘Learnt from the best.’ I couldn’t even argue.
“Okay, let’s take a break,” I announce, closing my laptop as I get up.
She smirks, “What?” She turns towards me. “Already tired?”
I sigh, “Hungry.” Before she can throw some smartass responses, I ask further, “What do you want to eat?”
“Umm,” She exhales, and then her entire face breaks into a bright smile. “Ice cream?”
I chuckle, “You want ice cream for dinner?”
She grins, unapologetic, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Not just any ice cream. The best choco-chip ice cream in the world.”
I raise an eyebrow, amused despite myself. “In the world?”
She nods earnestly. How does one not like her? I don’t think it’s humanly possible.
I stare at her for a second. “Should I call room service?”
“No!” she says quickly, almost horrified. “No. Room service ice creams are... sterile. Too perfect. It doesn’t have a soul.” She’s already shutting her laptop, grabbing her phone like she’s been waiting for this all day.
“You have to believe me. There’s this small shop nearby. It’s not fancy, but it’s legendary.”
I stare at her for a second longer. “You’ve had this ice cream before?”
She fumbles with her phone and doesn’t meet my eyes. “No, I mean yes.”
Her voice goes up at the end. I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been to Jaipur before?”
She freezes, eyes widening slightly before she recovers. “Yeah. I mean…my relatives live here.” She gives a nervous laugh, waving her hand like she’s shooing away my curiosity. “Stop looking at me like that.”
I hum, low and suspicious. Liar.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my wallet and slipping on my jacket, “let’s go then. I want to see what kind of ‘soul’ your ice cream has.”
We leave the resort, the air outside warm and thick with the scent of frangipani and something sweet from the nearby street vendors. She walks ahead, not waiting to check if I’m keeping up, her steps light, almost like she’s skipping. I follow, hands in pockets, not saying much, mostly because I’m trying not to ruin this. Whatever this is. She’s cute. Too cute.
The shop is tucked in a quiet corner of a narrow lane, glowing under a single yellow bulb. It's nothing like the polished elegance of the resort—we’re standing in front of a small, slightly faded counter with hand-painted signs and mismatched plastic stools nearby. But she looks at it like it’s the Taj Mahal.
“I told you,” she says, practically vibrating with joy. “This is it.”
She orders without hesitation. Then look at me. “What do you want?”
“Vanilla.”
She makes a face. “Basic.”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s boring.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What would you suggest then?”
She grins. “Hazelnut brownie chunk.”
