Chapter 3 – Crossing Paths Again
The music of celebration spilled out of the grand hall long before Amara stepped inside. Drums, violins, and the unmistakable rhythm of highlife filled the air. Laughter echoed down the corridor, mingling with the scent of jollof rice and grilled suya wafting from the buffet.
It was Ifunanya's cousin's wedding, and Amara had been dragged along against her will. Weddings weren't her favorite. Too many strangers, too many nosy aunties asking "So when are we eating your rice?" Still, she owed Ifunanya, and the thought of an evening away from endless spreadsheets wasn't the worst thing.
She adjusted her fitted wine-colored gown and smoothed her hair before entering the hall. The place glittered with fairy lights, golden drapes, and flowers that seemed too extravagant for a single evening. Amara found herself a seat near the back, content to watch from a safe distance.
"Amara!" Ifunanya waved from across the hall, already halfway onto the dance floor. "Come, now! Don't be shy."
Amara only laughed and shook her head. But as her gaze followed the swirl of dancers, her breath suddenly caught.
Standing across the room, tall and confident in a navy-blue agbada that seemed to command attention, was him.
The stranger from the bookstore. The man from the supermarket.
For a moment, Amara thought her mind was playing tricks on her. But no — it was unmistakably him, holding a glass of champagne, chatting with a group of men near the stage. The overhead lights caught the sharp planes of his jawline, and when he laughed, the sound carried, low and warm, even across the room.
As if sensing her gaze, his eyes found hers. And just like before, that infuriating smile tugged at his lips.
Amara's pulse quickened. Why here? Why again?
Before she could look away, Ifunanya reappeared at her side, breathless from dancing. "Guess who's here!" she squealed.
"I already saw him," Amara muttered.
Ifunanya's grin widened. "You mean Chike?"
Amara's head whipped around. "Chike?"
"Yes!" Ifunanya looked far too delighted. "Chike Obiora. My cousin's friend. He's been in Abuja for a while, but he just moved back to Lagos."
Amara's mind raced. So he has a name. Chike.
Ifunanya nudged her playfully. "He's single, by the way."
Amara shot her a look. "I didn't ask."
But it was too late. Chike was already walking toward them, glass in hand, his confident stride slicing through the crowd. Amara's chest tightened.
"Good evening, ladies," he said, his baritone smooth as silk. His eyes lingered on Amara a moment longer than necessary. "We meet again. I'm starting to think it's destiny."
Amara rolled her eyes, willing her heartbeat to slow. "Or just bad luck."
Ifunanya laughed and quickly excused herself, clearly intent on leaving them alone.
Chike slid into the empty chair beside Amara, his presence overwhelming. "So," he said casually, "do we keep pretending we don't enjoy running into each other?"
"I don't enjoy it," Amara replied stiffly, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
Chike chuckled softly, sipping his drink. "You're a terrible liar."
Before Amara could retort, the emcee announced it was time for couples to join the dance floor. Chike leaned closer, his cologne enveloping her senses.
"Dance with me."
Amara hesitated. "I don't dance with strangers."
He extended his hand, his smile maddeningly confident. "Then maybe it's time I stop being a stranger."
Her eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. Against her better judgment, her fingers slid into his.
And just like that, Amara found herself on the dance floor, swept into the rhythm of drums and violins, her heart betraying her resolve with every step.