The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(110)

“I did lie to you, and for that, I’m sorry. But the truth is that I didn’t want to admit to even myself what was happening—that instead of me drawing Khabib to my cautious ways, he drew me to his fun-loving ones. That Khabib drew me into his engagement with life, whole-heartedly—that once I’d realized I was right there, in the dance of it with him, that it was too late.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. bin Samara, if you ask me if I love your son, the answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Now, Khabib’s parents were wearing different expressions, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I had said it, had said what had been building up in me while Khabib had been talking—since I’d met him, even.

Khabib and I had said our pieces; now, his parents would say theirs, whatever that would be.

The old Sheikh took his wife’s hand. Catching her eye, he nodded, then turned to Khabib.

“You are right, that we put Lucy in a difficult situation—” his gaze flicked to me, “And for that, we are sorry.”

As I opened my mouth to speak, he raised his hand.

“But you’re wrong if you think we are going to accept her.”

Another long silence. Under the table, Khabib grasped my hand. What we feared would happen was happening. Khabib’s father was shaking his head.

“No. We are not merely going to accept her—this woman who risked her job and her heart for you, this woman who somehow wrested you away from your self-destructive path. No, ‘accept’ would be an insult to such a woman.”

Khabib and I exchanged an excited glance. Could his father actually be saying what he seemed to be?

As if reading our thoughts, Ra’id nodded.

“No, we would not merely accept this woman for our son. We are honored.”

With one hand, Ra’id took Khabib’s; with his other, he took mine.

“Lucy, you may not have been what my wife and I at first envisaged for our son, but it’s clear that you care deeply for him. Despite your claims of being influenced by him, it’s clear you influence each other—one stabilizes, the other expands. Such is the way of well-matched couples. And I would be a fool to deny that I have noticed changes in my son these past few months—fewer negative tabloid articles, fewer frenzied calls from Mahir. You may not have meant to be a good influence on my son, but I think he and I can agree that you are.”

He squeezed our hands, then turned to Khabib.

“And, of course, I will return you and Lucy to your former positions, if you want them. Khabib, I don’t need to tell you how much of an asset you are— as a businessman, and as a son. I’m proud of you.”

Now, he took both of Khabib’s hands in his, his eyes full of tears.

“And, my son, I never apologized fully for your experience in the boarding school, for ignoring your concerns. For thinking I could craft a boy of my liking, without considering what you wanted for yourself. I believe many of your feelings of isolation are the result of my actions. I’m glad that you have found a woman that you can connect with, despite everything.”

Khabib’s mother took my hand, squeezing it. Her eyes were full too, happy.

“Welcome to the family, Lucy.”

I smiled and squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you. This is an honor. Thank you so much—for accepting me, for accepting us.”

She nodded.

“May you and my son stay as happy as you so clearly are.”

Then, all of us stood up and embraced. Khabib and I didn’t say it; we didn’t need to—that we knew we were going to be ridiculously, crazily happy.





Epilogue





One Year Later




KHABIB



I surprised her at work. It wasn’t my fault, really. There was a curvy blonde I could see in the window who looked just like her, and I had to make sure.

She was sitting in her new chair, looking adorably studious with a pen in her mouth, her head tilted to one side. No sooner had she seen me than was I on her, pressing her to the wall, dancing my lips all over her. She pushed me away with an excited gasp.

“Khabib!”

I pressed a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.”

Now, my kisses traced her ear, her neck, down further, delighting in her moans.

This time, when she pushed me away, she was firm.

“Khabib, we can’t. Not here.”

So, there was nothing to do but take her home. Luckily, everyone had gone home for the day, so I could carry my Lucy through the hallways unseen.

Outside, it was a quick trip to my front parking space and my sports car. Once I’d plopped her in the front seat and made my way to the driver’s seat, Lucy shot me a look.

“What’s gotten into you?”

And, right there, looking at her—my beautiful, rosy-cheeked Lucy—I remembered.

“I have something to show you.”

First, however, was driving home and chatting, laughing over the intricacies of Lucy’s new position in the marketing department, over our accidental swapping of lunches.

Then, at home, we had to feed the howling masses—the insistent pug and wiener dog. As usual, their friendship was tested by the doling-out of food, as greedy Bruno jostled an infuriated Oscar for his bowl of kibble. We had a nice dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables with mashed potatoes on my balcony, looking over the city, and then, in bed, I told her.