Inheritance Of You

HUBBY DEAREST

But as I turned the corner into the sun-drenched kitchen, I froze.

It wasn't Maria.

It was Naveen.

He stood bathed in the sharp, morning light, his back to me. And he was... different. Gone was the armor of the bespoke suit. Instead, he wore simple red basketball shorts and a plain white tank top that clung to the sweat-slicked planes of his back. Every muscle was defined, from the powerful sweep of his shoulders to the taut line of his spine. His hair was damp, messy from a run, and the scent of clean sweat and fresh air mingled with the aroma of coffee.

He turned, and I saw the full picture: the damp tank top outlining the defined contours of his chest, his bronzed skin glowing in the sunlight. He tilted his head back, finishing a bottle of water, his throat working with each swallow. A single drop of sweat traced a path from his temple down the column of his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

I shouldn't have stared. But I did. This was a side of him I'd never seen-untamed, physical, real. It was disarming.

Getting ahold of myself, I moved to the state-of-the-art espresso machine, my bare feet silent on the cool marble. I pretended to be utterly absorbed in the process-selecting a pod, positioning the cup, the mechanical whirring a shield against the thick silence.

"Good morning," he said finally. His voice was rough and low, stripped of its usual boardroom polish, his accent softened by sleep or exertion. It rolled through the quiet kitchen, a deep, resonant sound that felt more intimate than it had any right to be.

"Morning," I replied, my tone as cool as the granite countertops. I kept my back to him, pouring steamed milk into my cup with a hand I willed not to tremble.

The silence returned, but this one was different. It buzzed with an unspoken energy. I took a sip of my coffee, the bitterness a welcome shock, and self-consciously tugged at the edge of my black satin bonnet.

I shouldn't have worn this.

The icy blue satin slip was one of my comfort pieces-soft against my skin, the delicate lace at the neckline and hem a small indulgence. It was short, brushing the tops of my thighs, and I'd chosen it for its familiarity, a small act of rebellion against the sterile perfection of this house. I hadn't expected an audience.

I could feel his gaze on me-a physical weight. It traveled down my body, slow and deliberate, pausing at the lace-edged hem where it met my skin. My pulse stumbled, a frantic beat in my throat. There was something in his expression I couldn't decipher-a dark, simmering intensity that could have been desire, or frustration, or a volatile cocktail of both.

I cleared my throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "See something you like?" The words came out sharper than I intended, a defense mechanism honed to a fine point.

His eyes snapped back to mine, and for a second, we were just suspended there-two strangers caught in a silent, charged standoff in a kitchen that had never felt so small.

He was the one to look away first, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost careful. "I can make breakfast."

I frowned, my suspicion a familiar shield. Since when did Naveen Malhotra offer to play chef? "No," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "I'm fine. I have a fitting at the studio."