The wind picks up, howling at both of us, but I raise my voice to speak over it. “And kind and thoughtful and patient,” I say. “Loving and brilliant and wonderful. Like you.”
He cups my face in his hands and we crash together, our mouths colliding with sudden force. I reach for him, grasping his soaked collar in my hand, anchoring myself and changing the angle of our kiss. He responds in kind, letting out a rough sound of approval.
A shiver travels down my spine.
“Are you cold?” he murmurs against my lips. And I laugh, shaking my head.
I skim my mouth along his jaw, planting kisses toward his ear. “I’m burning up,” I whisper, and now it’s his turn to shiver.
A bright light flashes, illuminating the fire in Nikhil’s eyes, but it’s not lightning this time. Relief sets in when I see the source: twin beams of a pair of headlights.
The approaching car lets out a quick honk, and I smile.
“Guess your assistant is back,” I say, giving Nikhil a quick peck, then turning back to the house.
But Nikhil stops me, his fingers catching mine. “He can wait for a bit,” he says, drawing me toward him. “We’ll be okay out here a little longer.” He smiles as he lowers his head. “After all, you and I have made it through worse storms than this.”
I relax into his embrace, quickly losing myself again in the feel of him. In the wayIfeel when I’m with him. The rain, the lightning, the car honking, the wind whipping around us—all of it fades away.
Because Nikhil is right. We have.
Epilogue
Eighteen Months Later
Houston Chronicle
A Tour of Houston’s Newest Inns and B & Bs
By Lina Richards, Staff Writer
Somewhere halfway between the hustle and bustle of Houston and the overcommercialized piers and beaches of Galveston Island sits a small, unassuming, newly opened inn.
In the wake of the devastating hurricane that wiped out a good portion of this area a year and a half ago, it hasn’t been uncommon to see newly renovated houses and businesses crop up around here. But as a locally owned and operated venture, M & N’s Inn by the Bay stands apart. Its owner, Nikhil Nader-Chopra-Wright, has spent all of his adult life in this part of Houston and bought the property before the storm ever hit.
“It’s been a passion project from the beginning,” he tells me. “It’s taken a lot of work, but it’s always been a labor of love.”
As he walks me through the lobby, past the cheerful pale green sign saying, “Welcome to M & N’s,” and up the handcrafted staircase, I can see what he means. From the refinished wood floors to the minute detail in the crown molding, it’s evident that Nader-Chopra-Wright has poured a lot of himself into this place. Instead ofthe neutral white, gray, and beige aesthetic popular with coastal bed-and-breakfasts, he’s leaned into deep, bright colors. He explains that this was an intentional choice and that the décor in the bedrooms is heavily influenced by designs associated with the region of India his mother immigrated from.
You might recognize Nader-Chopra-Wright’s wife, Meena Nader-Chopra-Wright, from her posters, billboards, and general campaigning around town. Ms. Nader-Chopra-Wright, who insists that I call her Meena, shows me around the exterior of the property, taking me out onto the dock overlooking the bay.
“It’s a mouthful,” she says with an easy grin. “Our last name. My campaign manager even suggested I shorten it to help with name recognition, but I like it too much.” She lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “It just fits us.”
Despite having recently lost the primary election for beloved local figure Congresswoman Garcia’s former seat, Meena seems to be in high spirits. I tell her as much, and her smile doesn’t fade.
“I’d known Elizabeth Jeffries would be a formidable candidate torun against, and she was. But now that the primary is over, I’ve thrown my complete support behind her. We need someone who carries Congresswoman Garcia’s legacy forward, not someone who takes us back, and I’m proud to support Elizabeth. I know she’ll do exactly that.”
Meena’s husband joins us, mentioning that this is his favorite spot on the property. The view of the water is stunning, and he notes that guests can fish off the dock or borrow one of the inn’s canoes and explore the bay—canoes that he happened to craft himself, his wife chimes in—but the reason this is his favorite spot is because it’s the place where he proposed to his wife.
“He proposed with a pair of sneakers,” Meena says with a laugh. “Can you believe that?”
Nader-Chopra-Wright drops an arm around his wife’s shoulders, the casual affection between the pair obvious and clear. He mutters something about how he never got to propose properly thefirst time around, and when I ask what he means, he waves itoff.
“I also gave her a ring,” he says, his cheeks turning a little red. “Just to be clear.”
Meena nudges him playfully. “He did, but the sneakers were my favorite part.”
She insists that Nikhil explain the meaning behind them. He gives her a look, rubs the back of his neck, then sighs. “I’d watched this documentary following different activists running for Congress,” he says. “And one of them mentioned that she’d spent so much time campaigning door to door that she’d literally worn holes in her sneakers.” He shrugs. “So, I bought Meena a couple pairs of her favorite ones. I bought myself a couple pairs too. It was right around when she was deciding whether she’d put her name in the running, and I just wanted her to know that I was with her. That I meant it when I said I wanted to share every part of our lives with each other.”