The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(92)

His response being equally astounding, I was speechless.

“Lucy, you still there?”

“Yes, I…”

“You don’t have to, of course. I don’t want you to feel under obligation to do anything just because I’m your boss. If you’d rather not pick things up where we left them, I will of course be disappointed, but I’ll respect your decision.”

Once again, I didn’t know what to say. What I should do was obvious; the words were swirling around in my head: “I’m sorry, Khabib, but I think it’s best if we keep our relationship professional.” Or, “I’m sorry Khabib, but while I really enjoyed last night, I don’t think it should be repeated.”

And yet, when I opened my mouth, something entirely differently came out.

“Yes.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’d like to see you again.”

He let out a delighted laugh.

“Great—oh, that’s great! What are you doing Monday?”

“You mean Monday night?”

“Yes. After work, I’ll take you out.”

“That sounds great, Khabib.”

“Wonderful. I’m looking forward to it!”

And then he hung up, as breezily happy as if this was just another plan, just another date.

Already, I felt better than before—and worse. I was more than excited to go out with him again. But I couldn’t keep lying like this—not even just considering the practical aspect of me sucking at lying.

No, I couldn’t take it. Not with the way he was starting to look at and talk to me. Could it be that the womanizing Sheikh was no more? Was he starting to have…feelings? For me?





Chapter Eleven





Khabib




As soon as the call was over, I sat down on the floor. Bruno trotted up to me, but I could barely look at him. Why had Lucy left so hastily? And her response just now, her excuse…it had just been that—a hardly-believable excuse. Couldn’t she have woken me up just to say goodbye? And on the phone just now, had I been imagining how on edge she had seemed?

Walking over to my desk, I opened up my laptop and began typing. “Lucy Morrison” hardly provided the results I hoped for; it was one of the most common names in L.A., apparently. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and went over every interaction we’d ever had, concentrating on last night’s.

The way she’d looked at me on the hill, then here in my penthouse—she had to care, didn’t she? Sure, she’d been cautious at first, but she had just been worried about her job; she would’ve been stupid not to be hesitant.

And yet, none of that accounted for the strangeness I sensed in her, her uncomfortableness around me. Something was up; that was for sure.

I went to the gym, but that didn’t help anything. Lucy wasn’t there, only one of the girls from a few months ago—Samantha, I think.

“I’ve missed you. Why don’t we go for a post-workout drink?”

I placated her, and, after my weights, went with her to the bar on the corner. Inside, the first few minutes of chatting was fun, but, by the time my beer was foaming on my lips, I was regretting agreeing.

Already, I was comparing Samantha to Lucy; I couldn’t help it. And Samantha, as beautiful as she was, was as different from Lucy as cats are from dogs.

As she spoke, I found that I was barely listening: “Ugh, why did we choose this place? The crowd is nothing like L’Orange.”; “Why haven’t you been returning my texts?”; “This bar is boring. Want to get out of here?”

I stared at her dazedly, as just what she was asking me finally surfaced at the same time as the answer.

“No. No, I don’t. Goodbye, Samantha.”

She stormed out of the bar, and I couldn’t down my drink and get out of there fast enough myself. Once outside, the fresh air hit me like a slap in the gut, but came with a realization that left a smile on my face.

I liked her. Lucy. Lucy Morrison. I really, truly liked her—a lot. And it was scary and reasonless and inconvenient, to say the least, but I did. I liked this petite blond woman with the shy smile and the goofy laugh. I liked her.

In my car, I cruised back home too slow, smiling as people cut me off, flipped me off, tailgated me. None of it really mattered. All that mattered was that I was seeing Lucy in two days, and it was going to be great.



*

My Monday date with Lucy was fun—we ate tacos until we could barely move and shared one of every flavor margarita—but our Tuesday date was fantastic.

I’d been invited to another Hollywood wrap party, and Lucy, after some coaxing, had agreed to come.

As we walked in, she turned to me and asked me the same question she had already asked five times before.

“Are you sure they won’t mind that I’m just in my work clothes?”

Taking a look at her so-called “work clothes”, I couldn’t stop the smile from forming on my face. I thought she looked sexy in her white button-down blouse and black slacks, and that was all that mattered, right?

“No.”

Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

“What? But Khabib, you said…”

I nodded, slipping my arm through hers.

“I know, I know. And I lied, but you want to know what?”