The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(87)
He walked off a few paces, then paused.
“And, Lucy?”
“Yes?”
He shot me one of his megawatt smiles.
“See you tonight.”
“See you tonight!”
I hurried off to the bathroom so I could skip around its small interior unseen, whispering “Yes, yes, yes!”
*
Nighttime and the launch party came in what seemed like seconds. Seconds to finish up my work, race home, and get changed into the teal, jeweled wonder that was my dress. Seconds to feed and walk Oscar. Then, a split-second to fly out the door and into the limo that was picking me up, where Khabib was waiting inside.
At the sight of me, his grin became a jaw-dropped look of awe.
“Lucy, you look…”
I took a worried look down, to make sure my dress hadn’t gotten wrinkled or drooled on by Oscar or something.
“Is it all right?”
He nodded, his face still star-struck.
“You look gorgeous. That dress suits you even more than I thought it would.”
I flicked my gaze to my hands. I couldn’t bear looking at him as he said that; how I felt about him would be written all over my face.
“Thank you, Khabib. For this dress, inviting me, for everything.”
Leaning over to close the door behind me, Khabib stopped inches away from my face with a soft smile.
“Don’t thank me yet; the night’s not even begun.”
And he was right. The limo ride was comfortable and wonderful, with the two of us chatting easily, and the driver even offering us drinks at a stoplight. The car launch, however, was something else.
The second we got to the venue, I knew I was in for a big night. The Majestic Downtown Event Hall was almost unrecognizable, with the whole exterior transformed to resemble Samara Motor’s first fully electric sports car, the Samara Reseda. Its sleek noir exterior glinted more the closer you got, with lights that seemed to beam out in all directions.
At the wide-open doors, Khabib paused and turned to me.
“You ready?”
I nodded, and he squeezed my hand.
“Let’s go, then.”
Inside was a whirl of well-dressed people, waiters with hors d’oeuvres, and cocktail waitresses in Samara-logoed dresses. Around the edge of the room was a partition-separated platform, where people were test-driving the Reseda. Another one of the cars was on a slightly raised platform, its doors opened, people clambering eagerly inside. At the sight of the Sheikh, everyone seemed to come alive, greeting him like the prince he was.
Khabib greeted them all warmly, as if they were old friends. To the various questions fielded my way (“Who’s your pretty friend?”, “And who, may I ask, is this lovely lady?”) Khabib only smiled mysteriously. Each time he declared, “She’s the most important woman in my life,” the words sent a new torrent of butterflies rushing through me.
The dinner itself was sublime, with more food than you could ask for—sushi, lobster, filet mignon, lamb—with each dish more delicious than the last, which didn’t even seem possible.
Although everyone seemed to have something to say or some question to ask Khabib, his conversation and attention, invariably, returned to me. First it was chitchat about work, the people, the display. But then, as the spread of food before us was replaced with a spread of desserts—luscious cakes, tarts and pastries alike—Khabib turned to me with a knowing smile.
“So, you have a dog?”
“How did you know?”
He laughed, shrugged, took another sip of his drink, then raised it.
“I have my sources.”
I raised mine to his.
“Well, yeah. Oscar is my little pug. He’s grumpy, chubby, perpetually constipated, and I love him to bits.”
At this, Khabib’s drink shot out of his mouth. He began choke-laughing, attracting the attention of several people around us.
“Sheikh Khabib, sir, are you all right?” one of the suited men asked.
Still laughing, Khabib nodded.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
With one final laugh-cough, he turned back to me.
“Sounds like he’d get along splendidly with Bruno, my wiener dog.”
I tilted my head at him.
“No.”
“What?”
“You do not have a wiener dog.”
“What—why not?”
“You just…you can’t. You must have, like, a husky or something. No way do you have a hilarious little wiener dog.”
Now Khabib was tilting his head at me curiously.
“Why not?”
“Just—I mean, I figured…you’re a sheikh, the CEO of Samara Motors. You’d be the type to—”
“Have a fancy, expensive dog like all rich, successful people?”
There was a note of hurt irony in his voice, but I could only nod my head in agreement. Khabib shrugged.
“I like things that make me happy. Whether it’s nice cars or every ice cream flavor that was ever made, I like what I like because it makes me happy, not because it gives me status. When I saw Bruno, with his chunky little body like a wobbly hot dog with legs, I couldn’t help but love him.”
We laughed together, but after, Khabib was still regarding me with a hurt expression.