The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(84)

No, all I could think about and wish was that I was with the girl I hadn’t had yet—my personal assistant. Lucy Morrison.





Chapter Five





Lucy




I had the day off, since Khabib wasn’t going in to the office for some reason. It was a normal, boring day without the excitement of work or Khabib’s company. I played cards with Mom, and she gently chided me about what I was and wasn’t doing.

“Enough of this card-playing with me, why don’t you go out, do something fun? Maybe you’ll meet a cute boy! Ask your friend Sandra to go on the hunt with you.”

I could only roll my eyes at her, so she wouldn’t catch how much her words affected me.

“Sandra has a boyfriend. And I don’t have the time, energy, or prospects for one.”

“Okay, okay, I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to switch it up a little.”

Just like you did, Mom? I almost said, but didn’t.

It was true, though—Dad had been her “switching it up”, her flirting with badness. She’d told me the stories: them racing down the highway on his motorcycle, dancing on street corners, making love on the train track. Yes, Dad had been her “living on the wild side”, her fun, and we all knew how that had ended up. He was gone, and we were alone. Saying that, bringing him up, would be cruel and unnecessary. Mom had enough sadness now as it was.

Still, as I went through the rest of my day, Mom’s words kept coming back to me. As I went to my usual grocery store, picked up the usual bread, ham, eggs, and blueberries. As I walked Oscar on our same route, as he peed on his favorite tree. Back home, once the TV was on and I sat with a bowl of stir-fry, which I made for dinner every Wednesday, I dared to glance at my calendar, which didn’t have a single personal plan written on it—just work events. I sighed and curled up further under the blanket on my couch. Maybe Mom was right.

She was right, actually. But it didn’t matter.



*

The next day, I was back at work, and Khabib had us on a busy schedule. We went to the store I’d ordered his ties from on my first day. The shopkeeper was nice, almost too nice. As Khabib tried on his suits, the slim young man chatted me up.

“So, you’ve been working for the Sheikh long?”

I shook my head.

“Only a month or so.”

“Oh yeah? How do you like it?”

It was at this point that I noticed his gaze flitting to my chest. I turned away slightly.

“I’m really enjoying it actually; the Sheikh is a good man to work with, and my job is interesting, always changing.”

“Mhmm. He seems pretty lucky to have you all to himself.”

Thankfully, just then, Khabib emerged, clad in a deep purple suit that only he could pull off. He looked incredible, and my breath caught in my throat.

“This suit is extraordinary, no doubt about that. The only question is: can it be tailored further?”

The young man’s dark eyes slid to Khabib, and he shook his head.

“No way to know for certain unless you talk to Pa. He’s down in the shop.”

As Khabib walked off, presumably towards the shop, I followed him. At the door, however, he paused.

“You wait here, Lucy.”

“You sure?”

He nodded and, leaning in, lowered his voice.

“The owner’s pretty old. I don’t want to disturb his routine—or worse, give him a heart attack—with the sight of my stunning personal assistant.”

I giggled with my hand over my mouth, hoping Khabib couldn’t see the furious blush that was sure to be spreading rapidly across my face. Then, Khabib was gone, leaving me alone with the young man.

Walking to the door, he changed the “Open” sign to “Closed”, then revolved on one heel so that he was facing me.

“How about a private tour of our changing rooms, babe?”

Before I process what he was saying, he was grabbing my hand, pulling me towards the dressing room Khabib had just been in. I pulled myself away.

“What are you doing?”

His smile was unsettling, all spaced-out yellow teeth and glazed-over eyes.

“We have a good hour. Pa talks people’s heads off. I saw the way you were looking at me.”

I shook my head and tried to push my way past him, back out into the store.

“I think you’re mistaken.”

Now he was the one shaking his head.

“C’mon, you know you want this—”

“Excuse me.”

Standing at the door was Khabib, looking at him like a bull about to charge.

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry. I was just—”

“I saw what happened.”

Striding forward, he ripped off the suit coat and the shirt underneath, revealing his tan, muscled chest. He dropped both garments on the floor, then grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. As the young man muttered apologies, excuses, and blame on me, Khabib strode back to the door.

“Let’s go, Lucy.”

When I had joined him, he returned his fierce glare to the shopkeeper.

“You have lost my business, permanently. Goodbye.”

And then we were walking out of there, down the street. It was only once we were in the car that Khabib spoke.