by Leslie North
“Oh yes, your children are lovely. They’ve warmed up to me even more. Probably helped that our first outing was to the swing set,” she joked, a big smile making her cheeks round. His gaze lingered on her a few seconds too long. She was so easy to look at. Too easy.
“Great. I’m happy to hear that.” A flashing memory of her ass from the other day in those pedal pushers scorched through his mind. “I thought we might talk about a new opportunity that has come up.” His heart raced as he steeled himself to make this rash decision. To just say it. Offer it up right now before he lost his nerve.
“Oh? Another one?” Calla laughed. “This palace is full of them.”
“Indeed it is.” Fatim paused, no words finding their way to his lips. This was going to be the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said out loud. “This opportunity is…a bit different. I hope you’ll hear me out.”
Calla lifted a perfectly shaped brow. Her hair was the color of hot cocoa. Every part of her looked delicious. These were things he shouldn’t be noticing right now. He cleared his throat, jerking his gaze back down to the surface of his desk.
“It turns out that my upcoming thirtieth birthday is presenting a bit of a challenge. According to a very ancient and outdated law, I must be married on my thirtieth birthday or I will lose my right to rule.” Calla’s eyes slowly grew wider the more than he spoke. “We only recently found out about this law, and my birthday is in ten days. So…”
He jerked his gaze up to look at her, finding something between shock and confusion creasing her pretty face. This was absurd. He just had to say it. Get it out in the open.
“I thought that in addition to being my nanny…you could also be my wife.”
5
Calla laughed. In the king’s face. She clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to silence the unsanctioned giggle.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you just ask me?”
“I realize this sounds absurd,” Fatim went on, his dark eyes swimming with sincerity. “But I’m not joking. I need a wife, and I need one fast. This would be temporary and only to skirt the law.”
The urge to laugh dissolved inside her. He was serious.
“I would pay an obscene amount of money for the inconvenience,” he went on. “I’m assuming that marrying the king was not part of your original agenda, so I am prepared to do whatever necessary to make sure your time here flows as smoothly as possible.”
More money. He wanted to throw even more money at her. At her last count, she had just barely made the entry fee for Fashion Week, which left her in a particular type of pickle: she could afford to get in but couldn’t afford to purchase any additional materials or assistance. Scrounging would become the only way she could make it work. But did she really want to alleviate her financial concerns by marrying the king?
He was right. It was absurd. And even though she’d struggled with saying no her entire life, this proposal pushed her to the limit.
“I’m not sure this falls in line with my goals while in Amatbah,” she finally forced out past dry lips.
“You’re right. You have specific goals.” Fatim worked his jaw back and forth, his gaze raking over her again. “And I’m prepared to help you achieve them. As the king’s wife, you will have unlimited access to resources and connections that will put you exactly where you want to be. Make no mistake—I will open up every door available to me so that you can achieve what you are seeking.”
His words rang through her like harmony. Unlimited access to resources and connections. It was hard not to scream YES! on the spot. But still, she should think about this. Take some time to sit with the idea and figure out if marrying the king was ultra-stupid, or ultra-smart.
Besides, she hadn’t moved to Amatbah to marry her employer. Even if he was hotter than sin and the world’s most eligible bachelor.
“I hardly know what to say,” Calla stammered.
“Say yes.” Fatim’s grin nearly prompted the word from her lips.
“I need some time to think about it.” Calla tucked stray hair behind her ear. Stepping away from this office and this man’s penetrating gaze seemed wise, so that she could put her thoughts in order and weigh the pros and cons.
“I understand. Take a day. Let me know tomorrow.”
Calla nodded, letting herself out of the office. It wasn’t until she’d left the palace and was halfway to her studio that she realized she hadn’t even asked the king the questions she’d gone to him with. And maybe that was the sign that she was just as much a people pleaser as ever. She’d let the king’s interests stand in the way of her own. First nanny, now marriage? She stormed into her studio, suddenly angry.
Her studio mate, Rasha, jumped when Calla burst through the door. Beads flew from the tray she held on her lap.
“You scared the life out of me!” Rasha exclaimed. She scrambled to pick up some of the beads that had scattered on the floor.
“Sorry,” Calla mumbled, bending down to help her. With so much on her mind, the only safe way of coping was sewing. She had two hours before the kids arrived back at the palace from their tribal day school, which was part traditional schooling, part etiquette, part military history. Two uninterrupted hours of furious sewing would help her decide her fate here in Amatbah.
“You look troubled,” Rasha said, slowly easing the door shut to their studio. “Is everything okay?”
Calla grunted. Rasha had become an unexpectedly necessary part of her time in Amatbah. Living in the palace kept her in a bubble. These frequent trips to Al Ghuman helped her stay grounded and out of the royal fantasy. And now the king wanted her to become even more firmly entrenched inside that bubble. They started out strangers, but now Calla considered Rasha one of her only friends in the city. Maybe she would be the perfect person to ask for advice.
“I’m kind of in a situation with my employer,” Calla started.
“You mean King Fatim?” Rasha immediately got that starry-eyed look whenever the king was brought up. She’d been wanting to meet him for years and never got the chance. Along with half the population of Amatbah. The man was a celebrity around here. Every single woman of child-bearing age wanted a crack at King Fatim.
“Yeah. I was recently promoted from royal seamstress to royal nanny.” She plopped into the chair in front of her small sewing desk, dumping her backpack beside her. “Which is sort of a horizontal promotion instead of a vertical one.”
“His kids are sooo cute,” Rasha gushed.
“They are. They like me, which is a plus. But now, the king wants me to do something else for him.” She nibbled on her lip, trying to weigh the pros and cons of opening up to Rasha. She was basically the only confidante she had here in Amatbah. The only other person she might call in a quandary like this—her mother—was out of the question, because she was one hundred percent certain her mother would turn it into an I-told-you-so moment. After a childhood of learning Amatbahn customs and being groomed, more or less, for a traditional path in life, Calla had fought hard to get her parents to accept the fact that she wasn’t coming to Amatbah to settle down—she was coming to pursue her dreams. Calling home with a marriage proposal would only show her mother that she’d been right.
“What? Marry him?” Rasha snickered.
Calla sent her a flat look. “Actually, yes.”
Rasha’s laughter quieted, and her mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. And I don’t know what to do.”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“We haven’t been dating,” Calla said in a hushed tone, as if someone might be able to overhear. “That’s the thing. It’s because of some stupid law that he needs to get around. So I’m just, like, a hired wife for him.”
Her eyes went wide. “So that’s what the headline was all about.”
Calla’s brow skyrocketed to the ceiling. “Headline?”
“Yeah, it came out in the papers today. I only half read it, but now it makes more sense…” Ra
sha trailed off. “So, will you do it?”
Calla expelled a burst of air past her lips. She picked up the last project she’d been working on and started sewing. Beading was an acceptable form of stress relief for her. In fact, the more emotional distress, the better. At this rate, she’d be producing the most amazing things of her life.
“I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t. But also, the money would be nice. Hey, what are you working on?”
“Nothing important, why?”
“Sort me all the gold and iridescent seeds.” Calla didn’t even look up from her stitches as she continued the beadwork on her current caftan project. “I can’t lose this momentum.”
Rasha got to work sorting as Calla sewed furiously. “So why wouldn’t you accept his offer?”
“Because, I don’t know. I thought if I got married, it’d be for love. Not an arranged thing like this. And besides, I came here to work—not get married. I’d never be able to show my face at home again if I got married within the first three months I was here.”
Rasha fell quiet for a few moments and then said, “So you’ll tell him no?”
It seemed like the only way. She was decided. “Yes.”
“Well, once the king picks his actual wife, it might put your job at risk,” Rasha said.
“What do you mean?” Calla paused in her stitches, looking over at her friend.
“Whoever he picks as his wife will probably not want the woman he first offered marriage to sticking around.” Rasha shook her head.
“Why would anyone know about his offer to me?” Calla resumed stitching. “It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“Right,” Rasha said. “But, well, I forget how new you are around here.” She hefted with a laugh. “We’re a tribal people. Secrets don’t stay secret for long. Somehow, some way, this information about you will leak. I promise.”
Calla frowned, sewing even quicker. “And you really think I’d lose my job over it?”
“Maybe not right away. But I’ll tell you something—a million women would give their left arm to be in your position. And most tribal women are possessive—and would be of the king, especially, whether it’s an arranged thing or not. So I’d say you could expect to lose your job.”
Calla lowered her head, focusing on her stitches. “He said it would be temporary. And he’d pay me well.”
“Honestly sounds perfect to me. Even if all I got to do was stand next to the king, I’d be in heaven.”
Calla dropped the topic after that, choosing instead to immerse herself in her work while the clock ticked on. But the topic continued boiling in the back of her mind, even as she finished up her project, trekked back to the palace, and met the kids in the foyer after school.
Losing her job—she certainly didn’t want that. After all, there was no better route to her future than via the help the royal family could provide.
And if that’s the case, why don’t you just accept all the help you can?
This thought stuck with her as she accompanied the children to their study for homework and then onward to a brief play time. As she walked the children to dinner with the king, she felt resolved in her decision: she would marry the king. The exact opposite of what she’d resolved six hours before. If she could do absolutely anything to achieve her goals, wouldn’t she?
In the private dining room, Fatim gestured for her to join the royal trio for dinner, just as he had from the beginning of her nannying job. When Calla started to dodge his request, as she had the previous two nights, Fatim waved her closer.
“No, no. I insist.” He gestured to the chair next to his at the small table. She liked that about the king’s quarters. His private areas weren’t ostentatious. They were just right. Lovely, but not over the top. A moment later, a maid came through the door, carrying a big tray of steaming food. “Tika, please bring Calla a plate as well.”
“I don’t need to eat,” she said, trying to be polite. But maybe she should get used to being in his presence. If she was going to be his wife.
“Nonsense. Unless you have plans…” He lifted a brow.
She opened her mouth to fabricate something, anything, but nothing emerged. “No. No plans. I appreciate the invite.” She plopped down on the chair next to him, skin prickling. Mere inches separated them. His chair scraped the floor as he adjusted his position, beaming out at his children.
“Children, how were your days?”
Rashid and Nara fidgeted in their seats as they took turns exclaiming details of their day—purple flowers! One very long bus ride! Thirty million insects! Fatim and Calla shared a smile as they spoke. For a split second, she felt the warmth of what sharing a life with him could be like.
Except it would be a business deal. A ruse, even. Not the organic warmth she had always imagined for herself.
She needed to remember that too, if she said yes. When she said yes. This would be pure goal-achieving and business. Nothing else.
“And how was your day?” she asked once the kids tore into their food. She pushed around a thick, creamy rice dotted with curried vegetables with her fork.
Fatim worked his jaw back and forth, clearly mulling over his answer. “Tense. A little boring. And very taxing for my deltoids.”
Calla snorted. “Dare I ask why only the deltoids?”
Fatim grinned, and for a moment, a flash of that playboy heartbreaker snuck through. The side of him she might see if this were a bar, and they were younger, and neither of them had pressing responsibilities the next day, like nannying or Fashion Week or running a country.
“I train with the troops of the tribe. It keeps me fit.”
Calla lifted a brow, gaze darting to the strong line of his collarbone peeking out from beneath his simple linen shirt. God, she was dying to see the arc of his biceps, how much chest hair he might have, anything about the landscape of this man’s body. Rasha had been right. Any woman, business arrangement or not, would protect this king with all her might. And Calla might do exactly the same.
“Papa climbs walls!” Nara exclaimed.
Fatim grinned at his daughter, something so pure and unfiltered that Calla nearly fell out of her seat.
“I’ve never climbed a wall before,” Calla admitted.
“You should try it,” Fatim said. “You can come train with the troops if you’d like.”
And there it was—the hint. The tiny glimpse of all the opportunities that could be hers—if she’d be his wife. Little did Fatim know she’d already made up her mind. But his reinforcing the benefits made her head spin. Fashion Week contacts and seamstress resources were only the start. What else could be hers if she said yes?
“It sounds like something I’d try once,” she said, “and then maybe never again.”
“You never know. There’s something thrilling in being able to scale a vertical wall.”
“Thrilling, as well as terrifying.”
Fatim sent another heartbreaker grin her way. “Something tells me you’d be able to do it. You look very…fit.”
Calla swallowed a squeal. This was as good as the king telling her she looked hot. It might be the closest she got.
Rashid made robot noises while he ate while Nara quietly counted pieces of rice, all the way up to eighty-nine. Fatim scooped some food into his mouth, his dark gaze flitting her way.
“Do you have any questions?” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “About our conversation from this morning.”
Calla smoothed her napkin on her lap. “Well…” She looked over at the kids, who had finished and were just playing around now.
“Kids, go into the kitchen with Tika. Nara, tell her to show you how she strains the chickpeas.”
Nara’s eyes lit up, and Rashid followed in her trail. Once the swinging door to the kitchen stopped moving, Fatim turned to Calla with a knowing smile. “You were saying?”
“I do have some questions. How long will the marriage last?”
“Just a year,” Fatim said, that serious
look masking his face again, hiding the evidence of the easygoing grin she’d glimpsed just a bit ago. “Once I’m thirty-one, the law will be appeased, and we can go our separate ways.”
Calla nodded. That sounded doable. “And what will the marriage…entail, exactly?”
“Well, you’ll care for the children as you are now, but you’ll also be the queen. Which means attending royal functions, overseeing the household…honestly, mostly a figurehead. I’ll inform you of all upcoming duties. You will always be prepared.”
When she hesitated, he added, “And trust me, you will be able to work on your designs. You will have all the connections you could ask for. I’ll make sure of it.”
“And the kids? What will we tell them? I don’t want them to think that I’m their mother suddenly, you know?”
“You’ll remain the nanny,” Fatim said. “One that their father married.”
She fingered the napkin in her lap absently, appreciating the silken undertones there. The napkins of the palace were nice enough to make a dress out of. “And, what about…the marriage bed?”
Fatim’s gaze darkened slightly, and his voice came out huskier than normal. “Nothing that makes you uncomfortable. There’s a tradition on the wedding night of consummating the marriage. But obviously, we can arrange something. Fake it, if you will.”
Heat zipped through her. Just the mere hint at consummating the marriage with him brought her close to fainting. Not consummating the marriage might make her the most uncomfortable of all—but no. King or not, she wanted a partner in love and romance. This was pure business. And she needed to remember that.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” She drummed her fingers on the table, looking up to find his straightforward business mask replaced by a flash of disbelief. Happiness, even.
“You’re certain?” he asked.
She nodded, flashing him the best winning, confident grin she could muster. “I’m certain. As long as my design doesn’t take a back seat, I’m yours.” Her phrasing burned through her. That implied something…specific. “I mean, your queen. Your…wife. Whatever. You know what I mean.”