For the next two days, BookNest felt unusually quiet. Not because business had slowed down — the usual parade of chai-drinking uncles, pastry-demanding kids, and grumpy students still came and went — but because Meera’s mind was somewhere else.
Or rather, stuck on someone else.
Every time the bell over the door jingled, a tiny, traitorous part of her hoped it might be him.
Aarav Malhotra. The Chief Minister of Rajasthan.
God, how stupid had she been?
She replayed their conversations in her head — the half-truths, the mysterious grins, the way he always dodged questions about his work. And all this time, while she thought she was dealing with some clueless government clerk, the man was literally running the state.
“I should’ve made him clean the toilet, Chintu,” Meera muttered, scrubbing an already clean table for the third time that hour.
Chintu, who was busy building a fort out of biscuit wrappers, didn’t look up. “You miss him.”
“I do not,” Meera snapped.
“You’re talking to the tables again,” Chintu pointed out.
Meera sighed, leaning against the counter. “Why do men have to be so… so complicated?”
“I dunno. I’m not a man yet. Ask Ramesh Chacha,” Chintu offered, munching a cookie.
Meera let out a weak laugh. “Yeah, maybe I will.
.
.
Meanwhile, at the CM residence
Aarav Malhotra was a mess.
He’d attended three back-to-back meetings, signed a dozen files, and survived a shouting match in the assembly — but none of it registered. His mind kept drifting back to BookNest, to a girl with wild hair, sharp eyes, and an even sharper tongue.
Lakhan Singh, his loyal PA, watched his boss with concern.
“Sir, you just signed a file approving fifty lakh rupees for ‘Street Cat Yoga Classes’.”
Aarav blinked. “What?”
Lakhan snatched the file away, sighing. “You’re hopeless, Sir.”
Aarav groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I have to fix this, Lakhan.”
“With respect, Sir, you might be a master of politics, but you don’t stand a chance against that girl. She’ll eat you alive.”
Aarav grinned weakly. “That’s what I like about her.”
Lakhan rolled his eyes. “At least eat something, Sir. You haven’t touched your food all day.”
“I don’t want food. I want her to forgive me.”
“Well,” Lakhan sighed, “in my village, when a man messes up, he makes it up with biryani. Big, fat handi of spicy biryani.”
Aarav sat up. “Biryani, huh?”
Lakhan instantly regretted opening his mouth. “Sir, I was speaking metaphorically—”
“Lakhan, call Chef. I need the best biryani this city’s ever seen. Mutton, saffron, the works.”
“Sir, this isn’t a restaurant apology.”
“It is now.”
Later that evening
Meera was closing up shop when there was a knock on the door. She frowned.
“We’re closed!” she shouted, turning the sign.
But the knocking persisted.
Grumbling, she yanked open the door — and there he stood.
Aarav Malhotra. No sunglasses, no smug grin, just a hopeful, sheepish expression.
And behind him, a confused Lakhan holding a massive handi of biryani.
“What. Is. This.” Meera crossed her arms.
Aarav cleared his throat. “I come bearing peace offerings.”
“I don’t want your peace or your offerings, Mr. Malhotra. Go run your state.”
“Please, Meera,” Aarav said quietly. “Two minutes. If you still want me gone after that, I’ll leave.”
Meera hesitated. A part of her wanted to slam the door in his face. The other part… the foolish, soft, stupid part… was curious.
“Two minutes. And if you wreck my floor with your VIP shoes, you’re mopping it yourself.”
Aarav grinned. “Deal.”
They stepped inside, and Aarav motioned for Lakhan to set the handi on the counter.
Lakhan sighed. “Sir, I’m going to lose my job one day because of you.”
Aarav patted his shoulder. “Not before you taste this biryani.”
Lakhan gave Meera a look that said good luck dealing with this idiot, then left.
Meera crossed her arms again. “Well?”
Aarav took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Meera. I should’ve told you who I was. I didn’t mean to lie — I just… I liked being around someone who didn’t care about my title. Who told me off, argued with me, and didn’t ask for favors.”
“You mean someone who treated you like a normal human being.”
“Exactly. And I screwed it up.”
Meera watched him carefully. There was no smugness this time, no politician’s charm. Just a man who looked exhausted, guilty, and surprisingly sincere.
“You hurt my trust, Aarav,” she said quietly.
“I know. And I’m not asking for you to forget that. I just… wanted to make it up to you. With biryani.”
Meera raised an eyebrow. “Is this some royal apology ritual?”
“Sort of. Lakhan swears by it.”
There was a long pause.
Finally, Meera sighed. “I’m only accepting this because I’m hungry.”
Aarav’s face lit up. “Thank God.”
“But this doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“Understood.”
“And you’re still mopping the floor.”
“Fair enough.”
She opened the handi, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of saffron and spices filled the room. Even Chintu, who’d been pretending not to care, peeked from behind a bookshelf.
“Is that mutton biryani?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Yep. Come here, champ.”
Meera served them both, shaking her head. “I must be insane.”
“Most brilliant people are,” Aarav grinned.
They ate in companionable silence, interrupted only by Chintu’s happy humming.
Halfway through the meal, Meera reached for a glass of water, knocking over Aarav’s cup in the process. It fell with a crash, shattering on the floor.
“Oops,” she muttered.
Aarav laughed. “See? Now you have to let me mop the floor.”
Meera looked at him, then burst out laughing.
“Fine. But you’re also cleaning the storeroom tomorrow.”
Aarav grinned. “Deal.”
And in that moment, with broken mugs, spicy biryani, and messy emotions between them — something shifted.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something they couldn’t quite name yet.
But it was real.
And it was theirs.
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