Vows of Misfortune

14.

I just needed to find Romir, give him the lunch box and then leave as soon as possible.

One guy was hurrying past me, flipping a wrench in the air and catching it when I stopped him. "Excuse me." He skidded to a halt and raised his brows expectantly. "Do you work here?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do. Do you need help with your car?"

"No, I'm actually looking for Romir. He works here."

Realisation lit up in his eyes. "Romir? Oh shit, you're his wifey!"

Wifey? Ew.

"Yeah, that's me!" I played along. "He forgot his lunch box so I just wanted to come here and give it to him."

"I wish I had a wife," he said randomly, "what a lucky dog." He gestured for me to follow him with a flip of his hand. "Come on, he should be working on a car inside somewhere."

As soon as I stepped inside, and I literally mean as soon as I stepped foot into the workshop, the guy clapped his hands, the sound echoing in the air. "Yo, guys guess who's here?!" Everyone turned their attention our way and I stilled. Oh shit. Their gazes were all on me. I gulped. "Romir's wife!"

All of a sudden, there were hoots and cheers and I blinked like I was being blinded by a camera flashlight. I had no idea what the heck was going on. Why were they cheering like we were a celebrity couple or something? Were they teasing us? So many questions.

"Word travels fast here, foreigner," the man whispered to me. I raised an eyebrow at him. The hell? I wasn't a foreigner. Who even says that? Just because I was an NRI didn't mean I was stupid. Also, if we were going down the racist route here, wasn't Romir technically the foreigner?

The guy was more of a European than me!

I tried to forget the irritation itching at me and forced a smile. "Right," I drawled. "I've been to India a couple of times and I speak the language at home. I wouldn't call myself a foreigner."

"I didn't mean to offend." He gestured over to Romir who had the hood popped open of a car, one leg propped up onto a chair as he leaned in and expertly tweaked things, muscles in his arm bulging. "There's your husband." He whistled. "Oi, Romir, look who's here?"

Romir turned his head, his black bandanna tied around his head. I could tell he wasn't entirely impressed with seeing me there. His thick brows lowered further over those sharp eyes of his.

He placed whatever tool he was holding onto the chair he had his leg against. He wiped his hands against a rag cloth before chucking it carelessly onto the same place. He then gestured for me to follow him with two fingers.

The walls of the garage were painted a dark green and there were tools hung up on every single wall; the long light poles framed each one and guided my every footstep. The echo of engines being adjusted and revved, people talking and tools clanking against parts were all that I could hear.

All I could see were all his colleagues eyes on us.

Until he brought me to the very corner where no one could watch us.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I'm not too happy about it either," I said to him, "but here." I held out the lunch box.

Romir eyed it before letting his gaze flick up at me. Then he grabbed it and let it slap against his palm. "Thanks." He then placed the lunch box onto a table and walked past me to tend to the car he was originally working on.

The guy that had brought me inside slinked over to me. "When he told me that he had asked for a day off to get married, I thought he was joking."

"Not a joke at all."