Chapter 38: Flirting, Biryani-Style [Still Flashback]

Corner table. Hard wooden bench that could kill circulation in anyone’s butt. But the food in this café was life-saving, especially if you hadn’t eaten all day and were surviving solely on cheap coffee.

I set my tray down, slid my project board underneath the table, and sat. My spoon hadn’t even touched the rice when Reagan dropped into the seat beside me.

Beside me. Not across.

Beside me.

Like a possessive boyfriend. Like a low-level threat. Like a man who knew far too much and cared far too little.

He lounged back in the chair, one arm draping casually behind me, as if that was the natural resting place for his annoyingly perfect bicep. His fingers, God knows when, had already started toying with the ends of my hair.

“I can’t decide,” he murmured, voice low, lazy, and dangerous, “is this vanilla bean, burnt honey, or… a regretful impulse after binging too much Twilight?”

I sighed and shoveled Biryani rice into my mouth without shame. “Don’t pick a fight while I’m eating.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing my neck. “It’s beautiful though. Even if… I still prefer you before you joined a girl band.”

And without warning, because Reagan hated warnings, he kissed the side of my neck. Light. Quick. Enough to make the spoon in my hand tremble.

I laughed under my breath. But I didn’t move away. Because, yeah… when it came to Reagan Milano, I was an idiot.

“I’m eating,” I muttered.

He shrugged. “I’m admiring.”

Reagan and his comments. The kind that could make any sane woman reconsider her life choices.

“I’ve noticed you and Sebastian are awfully close these days,” he said, smile unchanged but his eyes sharp. “Always together, huh? Building models, trading looks across the table?”

I chewed slowly. “Sebastian helped me dig up references in the library. Something you’ve never done.”

Reagan smirked. “Because I’m busy making sure the woman I like doesn’t fall for a man who’s easier to read.”

My eyes rolled on autopilot. “God. If narcissism were for sale, you’d be richer.”

His fingers were still in my hair. Stroking gently, as if nothing else in the world mattered except the strands of this new color.

“And your hair…” his gaze lingered on it. “I don’t like it.”

I turned my head slowly. “Too bad, since I didn’t ask for your blessing while sitting in the salon chair.”

“I like you natural. The version before you looked like you were about to burn down an ex’s house.”

I leveled him with a flat stare. “That sounds like a compliment. But it’s dripping with crap.”

He raised a brow. “I’m just being honest.”

“So am I,” I shot back. “And my honesty says I want to feel beautiful in a way I choose. Not from the opinion of a man who can’t even go one week without causing chaos.”

He laughed softly, deep in his chest. And damn it… it was sexy.

“I like it when you’re mad.”

“And I like it when you’re quiet.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds. His face was too close. His long arm still stretched lazily behind me. Our breaths mixed in the air thick with shredded chicken and spicy potatoes.

Then his knee nudged mine under the table.

“Gretta Domingo,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “You know you drive me insane, don’t you?”

I scooped another spoonful of biryani into my mouth. “Yeah. And I also know I’m still going to eat, even if you’re seducing me like the devil in a leather jacket.”

He grinned.

:::

When our plates were finally empty and the air hung heavy with soy sauce and masculine ego, I stood and grabbed the project board that was barely holding itself together after today’s endless trek. Reagan snatched it right out of my hands, of course without asking.

The man had a hobby of touching my stuff. Sometimes I suspected that if I owned a cat, he’d walk off with it too.

“I can carry it myself,” I muttered as I headed toward the lab building.

“Sure. Just like you can live without sarcasm for five minutes.”

My eyes rolled on instinct. “Sarcasm is a survival mechanism.”

We walked side by side down the narrow path between faculty buildings. The afternoon heat pressed down at two p.m., the wind tossing my freshly highlighted hair so it gleamed like some rich family drama heroine plotting revenge with grace.

Reagan didn’t say much, but he carried my project board like it was his sworn duty. And because he was tall (and infuriating), his strides were twice as long as mine, so I had to speed up just to keep pace.

When we reached the architecture studio, it was still empty. Sunlight spilled in through the wide windows, bouncing off the concrete floor and long work tables that smelled like a mix of wood, glue, and the ambition of final-year students.

Reagan set my board on the table, not dropping or tossing it, but placing it carefully, as if it held the secrets of the universe or… someone’s feelings. Which, obviously, it didn’t.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his tone dropping into something more serious, “you’re the most diligent student I’ve ever seen. Annoying, yes, but… impressive.”

I smirked, crossing my arms. “You just realized that after two years of campus together?”

“More like… I only noticed now that I’m not distracted by your hair screaming” he gestured at my head, “‘Look at me! I just watched Legally Blonde!’”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “And I like being the center of attention. Sorry if that bruises your masculine ego.”

Reagan chuckled under his breath, then stepped closer. Too close.

His eyes locked on mine. God, I hated when he did that. Like he could see things I hadn’t even thought yet. Like he knew the version of me I quietly killed off every night.

“Don’t get too close to Sebastian,” he said suddenly, flat.

I blinked. Then laughed. “Sorry. And you are?”

“Reagan.”

“I know you’re Reagan. I mean, you’re not my boyfriend.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “But you know I don’t like it.”

“And you know I don’t care.”

He nodded slowly, and he wasn’t angry. Not offended. Of course not. This man had terrifying self-control. If he ever killed someone, I was convinced he’d smile while wiping the blood away with a handkerchief.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Investment management class. Might be boring. Or I might skip half of it.”

“Of course. Because you’re the definition of responsible.”

He leaned down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to the top of my head.

Fast, but enough to make my heart stop for a fraction of a second.

“Just a little while. Don’t miss me.” His voice was a low murmur.

I didn’t answer. Just nodded and stared at my project board. I knew he glanced back at me before he left, because his presence lingered a few seconds longer before it finally disappeared.

Once his footsteps faded, I drew in a slow breath and sat at the studio table.

Welcome to the world of architecture. Where you collect model scraps, academic sins, and… messy feelings for a man you’re not supposed to think about.

But then again, I’m Gretta Domingo.

And I always think too much.