The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(79)

“I’ll call you. Stop worrying. I’m in a wheelchair, not a hospital bed, for God’s sake.” My mom rolled her eyes.

I frowned at her.

“You will be, if you don’t take care of yourself. You heard the doctors, Mom, you have to eat properly and not push yourself too much. Being laid off the way you were just wasn’t right, and that fall, this wheelchair—it’s all been horrible, but you can’t just let that be the end of it. Mom, you have to…”

“I know, Lucy, I know.”

Now, my mom’s easy smile had sagged, and I was sorry I had said anything. With a nod, she swept her hand in a “shoo” motion.

“I’m fine, and I will be fine. I’ll take the meds and follow the doctor’s orders to a T; you’ll see. Now, you go home and relax. Don’t you worry about me.”

We hugged again and, as I walked back to my car, I reflected that there was little chance of me not worrying. My mom had been the kindest, most supportive person in my life, and she was everything to me—of course I worried about her. Now, on top of that—thanks to this latest demand at work—there was a fight between my conscience and my heart, and no matter which won, I was going to lose.



*

At home, Oscar was waiting by the door with accusing eyes, his chubby pug body wiggling with anxious energy.

“Yes, you’re hungry, I know.”

He gave an affirmative bark, and before I had even put my purse down, I dutifully made my way to his bowl and doled out some more dog food for him. As he exuberantly chomped down the little pellets, I let my hand run over his chunky, happily-oblivious body. Yep, Oscar was right—eating was all you needed, really.

That was just what I needed to deal with my stress, too. Not using the gym membership card I’d gotten as part of my promotion, not one of those meditations my mom claimed would help my chronic worrying, not even a nice, long nap. No, a dilemma of these proportions called for some good old vegging out in front of the TV with ice cream for dinner.

As I watched some cheesy medieval movie, my trusty tub of mint-chocolate-chip cradled in my arms, my attention drifted in and out of what was happening on screen, back to today’s happenings at work, and Khabib. Only a few minutes after I’d started working, I’d caught him watching me with a slight smile. But then, there was Mahir and his unfair demands. And Mom.

My attention shifted back to the movie. It was nice, this ancient, fake world, where stress was dealt with by fighting—by men yelling, making threats, and even dying for what they believed was right. Maybe that was how they had dealt with things back then: released the stress of the mind by lashing out with the body, striking at whatever or whoever was in range.

Maybe, back in those violent times, things were easier, since right and wrong were as simple and separate as peasant and king.





Chapter Two





Khabib




This was going to be one interesting week; that was for sure. Mahir had said our father was the one who’d promoted her to be my personal assistant, which was hilarious. If he’d taken one look at her, spoken to her for all of five seconds, dear Father would’ve seen that this was his worst idea yet.

It was only her second day working, and already, I was hooked.

Lucy. Five foot nothing of curves and long blond hair that snaked down her back, as full and wavy as her hourglass figure. Most delicious of all was how oblivious she seemed to be of how attractive she was, the effect she had on people. Mahir looked constipated every time he spoke to her, probably because he was trying to avoid betraying the well-behaved wife and kids he had at home. Poor guy.

Lucky me, though. Having this cute treat with her office so close to mine had proven to be nothing short of delightfully distracting.

Although, I still had to be careful. My messing around might have been why Sharon was fired so suddenly, and I wasn’t eager to have Dad go the opposite route—hire an ogre for my next personal assistant as punishment. After all, I’d been upsetting my family enough with my escapades, always documented in the tabloids and online. If I was going to keep living the way I wanted to, I was going to have to be more discrete.

I shuffled some papers around on my desk, watching as Lucy got up, to go to the bathroom, presumably. God, would you look at those hips of hers!

I dialed our new receptionist, Donna, who had called a few hours earlier.

“You said you had some messages for me?”

“Yes, I...”

She sounded hesitant, scared. She should be. After all the mistakes she’d made these past few days, I was starting to wish I could clone Lucy and have her work reception and be my personal assistant, among other things…

Stay on task, Khabib.

I cleared my throat.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, it’s just this, uh, woman, Leona…she really wanted to get in touch with you, and I didn’t know if I should disturb—”

“You did the right thing.”

I hung up and frowned at my phone. Leona was proving to be a first-class psycho. Not one of the lesser psychos, who obsessively messaged me on social media, but one of ones who keyed my car and moaned to the tabloids after I broke up with them. Clearly, I would have to end things sooner rather than later.

I went to my window and looked out. Maybe I needed to slow down, chill out—take on fewer projects, fewer late nights, fewer women.