The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(103)

While I took the piece, Lucy pulled out something else from the basket – a second piece of cake. It was chocolate, with layer upon layer of delicious-looking mousse. My gaze shot to her incredulously.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She kissed my cheek.

“Kidding.”

When I grabbed her and squeezed her, she giggled with glee, then pulled away, vigilantly holding the chocolate cake in place.

“Careful, careful!”

Then, she pouted.

“I thought you wanted me to kid you.”

Now it was my turn to kiss her cheek.

“Clearly, you learn from the best.”

Placing the piece on the ground, she grinned mischievously.

“You haven’t even seen the rest of the picnic.”

The “rest of the picnic,” as it turned out, was delicious cake slice after delicious cake slice—all baked by Lucy herself, no less. There was carrot cake, vanilla cookie-dough with sprinkles, cinnamon-banana-nut, and, the best by far, angel food cake. We shared every piece, at my insistence.

By the end of it, we were laid out on the grass, giggling with how horrible we felt. Lucy poked my side.

“I had intended to save some for later.”

I poked her back.

“And when exactly did you plan on mentioning that?”

With a kiss on my cheek, she giggled.

“By the time we were through the third piece, I’d forgotten.”

I rolled around so our faces were inches apart.

“I’m not sorry you forgot.”

“Me neither.”

And then, my lips met hers and she tasted like cake, only I wasn’t sure which kind. Whatever it was, I liked it; I liked her. Lucy Morrison.

She broke out of my kiss, so that she could tell me, “Happy birthday. We’re only getting started.”

And the glint in her beautiful blue eyes told me that she wasn’t kidding, either.





Chapter Eighteen





Lucy




I couldn’t wait. The whole day, as we picnicked together, stuffed our faces with cake together, walked off the cake with a stroll by the river together—all of it was wonderful, sure—but still, I was restless. Excited. How Khabib would love what I had planned for him!

At home, getting ready, I had to concentrate to make myself stop smiling that stupid smile so I could put on some lipstick without smearing it everywhere. But it was hardly my fault; I was just so excited.

Finally, I had the chance to do something nice and wonderful for Khabib, not something I was hired to do, not even something I got to do in reaction to another one of Khabib’s generosities, no. This was all coming from me, for him. I wanted this to be the best day of his life, the best night. I wanted to do all this to show Khabib just how much he meant to me, just how sure I was that we worked together, that I could really see myself with him.

Sure, I was still under contract to his parents, but Ra’id had agreed to it himself—I would be done in less than a week now. Done and free. Free to love Khabib, tell him the truth, finally let my guard down. Free to do as I wished.

As I walked into the Taglyan Complex, I almost forgot that I was the one who had commissioned its pillars to be draped with blue sashes, Khabib’s favorite color. It was only 7 p.m., the start time, but inside, guests galore were already meandering about, trying the chocolate fountain, sipping fizzy drinks.

A hand around my waist startled me, and Khabib laughed.

I wagged a scolding finger in his face.

“You! I told you not to come until eight!”

Khabib’s smile was indefatigable.

“Need I remind you, little lady, just whose birthday it is?” He grinned wider. “Besides, I missed you.”

And, once he kissed my cheek, I melted.

“You’re right, sorry. I just wanted there to be lots of people here when you arrived.”

Khabib scoffed and threw his hand out, gesturing at the large crowd.

“Yeah, you’re right—what is this? There’s pretty much no one here.”

We laughed together and then the guests spotted him. Khabib spent the next hour or so talking to friends and acquaintances who couldn’t get enough of him. All the while, as I drank and chatted to guests myself, the delighted birthday boy kept circling back to me, kissing me, squeezing me, whispering in my ear—all when I least expected it, of course. Each time he came up to me, he seemed happier, more alive.

“How did you find Billy? You know, he was my billiards buddy when I first got to L.A.”

With a shrug, I smiled mysteriously.

“Can’t divulge my sources.”

Khabib threw his arms around me.

“Whoever the source, however you did this—Lucy, it’s incredible, it’s…I mean, just taste this.”

Just as his drink’s deliciousness was seeping into my mouth, the teal blue overhead circular lights came on, throwing the whole room into a stunning blue and gold glow.

Khabib turned to me, his eyes searching mine.

“Lucy, does this mean…”

The only response to give him was to stride up to the spotlight-lit podium, down the rest of my drink, look out to the crowd, and speak.

“I’m not one for speeches, but tonight we’re celebrating a very special man, so I’m going to do my best. In fact, Sheikh Khabib is more than just a special man—anyone who knows him can attest to this. He’s an innovator, an instigator, an inspiration. And to me, over these past few months, Khabib has become much more than that. He has defied every assumption I have made about him, challenged me in ways I never expected, surprised me, and delighted me. This man, Sheikh Khabib bin Samara, has been generous without bounds, and not just with his money and his time. With his heart, too.”