The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(89)

We were outside then, in the night, and Khabib’s hand slipped to mine, guiding me.

“Now, there’s something I want to show you.”

“I don’t know, Khabib…”

He was leading me past the lit-up windows of the Majestic, towards its abandoned, tree-filled back.

“That’s ‘Boss’, to you.”

Another chuckle and we were there at the edge of a hill. The Sheikh sat down, and I sat down beside him, looking out at the lights half-visible through the trees.

“It’s something, isn’t it?”

I let myself relax, taking the view in and trying to remember to breathe.

“It’s beautiful.”

His hand was still in mine.

“It’s silly but, being here, in your country—my country, now—I enjoy the wildness, sure, all the things I couldn’t do back home like the clubs, dancing, drinks…women. I enjoy it, sure, but it’s the simple things like this, the quiet majesty of nature, that I find myself drawn to, time and again, no matter what else I’ve been doing.”

In the quiet, I found my voice.

“I’m the same. The wild nights you talk about…they never attracted me, I never really enjoyed any of it—the drinking, dancing, that sort of fun—until I met you. Nature, though, quiet nights with Oscar or my mom…for me, nothing beats them.”

“Why not?”

Khabib’s fingers were clasping and reclasping mine, as if untwining the balled-up truth I didn’t want to tell him.

“I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess it’s because of my mom. Too much drinking and craziness gave her a boyfriend and me a dad who didn’t give a damn. She was always well-meaning, but she had it tough. She got her dream job but, years later, lost it for no good reason. She started drinking again, and then she fell, ended up in a wheelchair. She’s not drinking now.”

At this sudden, horrible admission, I pulled away my hand. Khabib caught me by the wrist.

“Lucy, I’m sorry.”

He was looking at me; I could feel him looking. But I couldn’t look back.

“No, I’m sorry. We should go back inside.”

Khabib turned my face to his. Then, I couldn’t look away, had to see. His gaze was flicking from my parted lips to my eyes, and his face came closer and closer to mine, then…

“You’re right, we should. I’m sorry.”

He took my arm, and led me inside without another word. The rest of the night was heavy with it, with what had almost happened, what I had almost let happen.

For the rest of the launch, I didn’t talk to him, could hardly look at him. Regardless, Khabib lingered by me for a few more minutes before giving up and doing the rounds, talking to all the people he was supposed to, saying all the things he was supposed to.

I didn’t know what to do, so I ate the pretty pastries that were just as delicious and unique as Khabib had claimed. I drank some more, watched as the people slowly filed out, steeled myself for what was coming. Once everyone was gone, Khabib waited a minute before coming over to me. And when he did, he looked sad.

“May I sit?”

I nodded, still not looking at him, and he sat down.

“Lucy, I…words can’t express how sorry I am. I never meant to disrespect you or take advantage of you. I just got carried away by the night, us talking.”

“It’s okay. I got carried away, too.”

I still didn’t look at him. As long as I didn’t look at him, when he was close like this, I would be fine.

“I…You probably want to go home now, right?”

I nodded again.

“Would you…want to take a test drive in the car with me first? I can drop you off in it; there’s just something I want to show you first.”

At my silence, he continued, “Please, Lucy, I really want to make it up to you.”

Standing up, I took a step back, then looked at him. No, I couldn’t say no to Khabib. Not now, and probably not ever again. Refusing the kiss had been hard enough. My heart felt heavy with guilt; the spying was getting to me.

“Okay.”

As soon as he took my arm, I knew I’d made a mistake. Every step we took only dug my crush in further. I couldn’t help but think about how delicious Khabib smelled, how comfortable my arm felt in his, how I wished I had let him kiss me.

Inside the car, it was worse. I sat in the front and was immediately aware of how close he was to me. How caring and funny he was, as he poked me to remind me to put on my seatbelt.

“If you die, I can’t ever make it up to you.”

The whole ride to wherever we were going was one easy conversation, one long laugh. Khabib seemed genuinely interested in me—my silly little scrapbooking hobby, how I still took Oscar to obedience courses time and again, even after he’d peed on one councilor, knocked one over with the force of his head-butt, and even frightened one into a corner with his exuberant barks.

When I explained, “Oscar just doesn’t like being told what to do. He doesn’t trust anyone other than my mom and me”, Khabib chuckled.

“What?”

“Your dog, you. That’s what I love most about you, Lucy. You see the best in everything.”

Suddenly, he wasn’t looking at the road anymore, but me. The light changed and the horn of a car behind us blared. Khabib jerked back to face the front, slamming his foot on the gas.