The Sheikh's Small Town Baby (Small Town Sheikhs Book 1)

by Holly Rayner

  “He’s at the inn, working, most likely. He’s been calling contracting companies to get quotes on road work.”

  “Road work?” I pick up a piece of toast, and Jabir does the same.

  “We’re running the numbers on a few scenarios that have to do with the transmission factory.”

  He this offhandedly, as if he thinks I’ll barely be interested. I think I surprise him with my reply.

  “And? What do you think? Could it be economically beneficial, both to your company and to our town, if you repair the roads? Kind of a win-win?”

  “Maybe,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “It’s hard to say, just yet.”

  “When do you think you’ll know? I mean, when will you make your decision?”

  He’s quiet, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. I bite into my toast and chew, just to ensure that I keep my lips zipped for a moment. Tread lightly, Johnson, I remind myself.

  “We’re…collecting lots of data,” he offers. “Hassan’s a whiz with numbers. Ultimately, it will take quite a bit of research and analysis to make the final decision.”

  I’m not satisfied by this canned response.

  “But what do you feel?” I ask. “I know your brother’s into the facts, but what about you, Jabir? There must be a reason your father sent both of you, and not just Hassan. You seem to follow your instincts, your intuition. What is your heart telling you?”

  He meets my eye. I see the corner of his mouth draw upwards, creating a small dimple in one of his caramel-colored cheeks. Some of his formality, which crept in when we started talking about the factory, falls away.

  “I think it’s a really promising site. Lots of potential there, I really see it. And I like the town. New Hampstead’s been a…very, very…”—his eyes wander around the room, and then land on me—“…pleasant surprise.”

  My heart bursts with pride. “I knew you’d like it here, if you got to know it!”

  “I do! I really do. Every day has been better than the last.”

  “It’s lucky that the weather rolled in. When do you…” I swallow roughly. It’s hard to say these last words. “When do you head home to Dalai?”

  His grin fades, and he turns his glass in his hand, staring into it like the answer might be drowning in the wine. “Tomorrow,” he says finally, with a sigh. “For some reason—I don’t know why, really—I didn’t want to tell you that.”

  I try to sound bright, though his news has created a tightness in my chest. “Don’t be silly! I knew you were going to leave eventually. I knew it was a quick visit.”

  I busy myself by arranging a little stack of paper towel halves that I’ve placed down by the appetizers. I hope that he can’t see the disappointment in my face. It’s true, I did know he was leaving. But the heavy reality of tomorrow hits me like a ten-ton plow truck.

  The conversation turns to the weather, and his flight plans, and slowly, my disappointment is soothed by his deep voice and caring comments. Again and again, he makes me smile and laugh. By the time we’ve each finished a glass of wine and polished off the plate of appetizers, my spirits are high again.

  I stand up, off of the couch, and slap my knees. “What do you say? Is it time for some venison stew?”

  He stands as well. “Yes, ma’am! I have just one, small question for you first. What’s venison?”

  Chapter 7

  Teresa

  I’m happy to report: Jabir liked the stew! Throughout the first half hour of our meal, I had to do most of the talking—occasionally, he would manage a sentence of two, but most of his communication consisted of “mmm!”

  He’s on his second bowl now, and my confidence has been bolstered by my culinary success.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asks, lifting his spoon to his mouth and taking another healthy bite.

  “My mom, my aunt and my grandmother taught me.”

  “A group effort, hm? Well, it really paid off.”

  “During the summers, we used to eat here on the weekends. On Sunday nights, my grandmother was the boss of the kitchen.” I turn my eyes to the cabin’s small kitchen area, as if she was standing there now, a checkered dishrag slung over her stout body.

  “Is she…still around, your grandmother?”

  I’ve already mentioned to Jabir that my grandfather passed, when I told him the origins of my truck. Now, I sigh heavily and complete the story.

  “No,” I say, looking down at my lap. “She died before my grandfather, actually. He was in great health before she went, but afterwards, he deteriorated quickly. The doctors told us that happens often with elderly couples that have been married for a long time. One passes away, and the spouse goes within a month or two.”

  “They must have really loved each other.”

  “Oh, they did! You should have seen them together. Like two love-struck teens when they looked at each other. They always kissed each other on the lips three times when they parted. Some kind of good-luck ritual that my grandmother believed in since childhood.” I laugh lightly, remembering her superstitious ways.

  “That was what I learned about love. My grandparents set quite the example, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

  I know my voice sounds dreamy and far off, but I can’t help it. In my mind’s eye, I’m a girl again, watching the little gestures that pass between my grandparents: the way he’d open every door for her, and hold her hand when they walked together. The way she’d look up at him, like a girl of seventeen, being invited to her first dance.

  “What about your parents?” he asks.

  We’ve put on a second record, once the Motown one ended. This one plays country songs from the ’50s and ’60s, and I know all of the songs by heart. It’s toasty warm in the cottage now; the old heater cranks up once in a while adding a low shuttering racket to the soft sounds of twanging guitar and vocals.

  I scoop stew from my bowl slowly, not wanting to rush the evening.

  I pause for a moment, the spoon halfway between the bowl and my mouth. “My parents…what about them?”

  “Do they still live in town?”

  “Oh, yeah. They won’t be leaving anytime soon. My dad and my Uncle Joe are really close, and their houses are just two doors down from each other on Colfax, right in the middle of town. My dad’s on the town council, and my mom hosts art get-togethers at our house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mom and Dad are engrained in New Hampstead—this is their world.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” Jabir says. “Though, a few days ago, I wouldn’t have said that.” He says this softly, and I almost don’t hear it. But I do catch it, and I’m glad. It means that the work I’m doing (if I could possibly call it work!) is paying off.

  He clears his throat, as if he wants to hide his comment. “What do they do for work?”

  “Oh, my mom doesn’t work, though she does occasionally sell some of the glassware that she paints. Her art classes are free. And my dad…” My voice trails off, and I look up at Jabir.

  Why have I not told him this yet? We’ve talked so much, yet I’ve never told him that my dad is employed at his company.

  “My dad…” I take a deep breath, gaining confidence in the steady way he returns my gaze. “He works at your factory. Canarra Transmissions.”

  “He does?” Jabir seems truly shocked. He sets his spoon down, and I see the whites of his eyes as he widens his lids. “I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you say something?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I— I didn’t want you to feel like…like I had an ulterior motive for getting to know you.”

  As I find the truth, I realize that in a way, all of this time, I’ve been hiding something from him. Suddenly, I feel as guilty as a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I feel heat rise up to my cheeks.

  “Teresa, I wouldn’t have held that against you! It’s no wonder you’re interested in the fate of the factory. You have every right to be! With someone so close to you working there—”


  I interrupt. “Lots of people close to me.” My words come out in a rush.

  “The truth is, Jabir, without that factory, this whole town will fall apart. We’ve been hanging by a thread since the logging industry died. You can see it in town; all of those abandoned buildings. The factory is the lifeblood of this community. If it closes, so many families won’t be able to afford to stay. And as people leave, businesses will close. Marge’s Diner, Dawson’s, New Hampstead Pizzeria, the Mountain Laurel… All of those people—my neighbors and friends—will be out of work.”

  He’s quiet for a long beat. Soft, bluesy country floats through the cavern of silence between us. I wonder if he’s angry with me.

  When he speaks, his voice is so gentle and soft that I know he is not. “I had no idea how much this mattered to you, Teresa. I can’t believe how…casual I’ve been about the whole thing. You must think I’m cold, and callous.” He looks away from me, a deep crease between his brows.

  “No,” I say. His hand is lying on the table, where he’s settled it after releasing his spoon. I reach for his hand, and place mine over it. “No, Jabir, I don’t. I think you’re one of the kindest, most honorable people I’ve ever met.” I wait, with my hand poised over his.

  Just as it was when I first examined his ring, his skin feels magnetic against mine. A thrill runs through me as he turns his hand slowly, so that his palm is open to mine. I feel as though there is energy buzzing between our open palms. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. His pained expression softens, and then disappears.

  “Good,” he says, so softly that it’s almost a whisper. His thumb strokes the side of my hand, twice. The gesture sends tingles up my spine. “For some reason that I can’t explain, that means the world to me, Teresa.”

  I swallow, hard.

  My heart is pounding. I feel so lost in his eyes that for a moment—a brief, split second—I imagine that he might lean forward and kiss me.

  And he does inch forward, a fraction of a millimeter at a time.

  This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, and I’m mesmerized by how deeply I can see into his eyes. Little gold flecks float in his chocolate pupils. His skin looks so soft, so warm and touchable. His full, handsome lips are parted just slightly. I feel him breathe out, and his chest rises and falls as he looks at me.

  And then, as if I’ve dreamed it all, he pulls away—and I do, too. I’m left trembling, wondering what just passed between us.

  He clears his throat, and I jump up from the table, too startled by the intense attraction that I feel towards this man to continue to sit so close to him.

  I begin tidying up in the kitchen, and I hear words tumble from my mouth, though on the inside, I’m reeling.

  I offer apple pie for dessert, and he accepts. Small talk bubbles between us as we each eat narrow slices of pie. I notice that Jabir’s savoring each bite, nowhere near rushing through it. He doesn’t want the evening to end either.

  The conversation turns to artwork, and Jabir tells me about the private lessons he had as a child. When he says that he’s well versed in many mediums—including graphite, acrylics, oil, and even computer illustration programs, for work—but has never used charcoal, my jaw drops.

  “Never?” I gape.

  “Never.”

  “Jabir! You would love it. It’s the perfect mix between ink and paint. You can move your lines across the page, creating shadows with just the smudge of your thumb. It’s like magic!”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  I stand, and in the blink of an eye I’ve gathered up two sketchbooks and my ziplock bag of charcoal.

  “Come on!” I say. I can’t believe I am going to get to share the joy of my life with him! He’s in for a treat that is a million times better than stew or pie.

  I urge him towards the front door, where we both bundle up in boots, jackets, and hats. My excitement is spilling over my edges, and as always, Jabir is up for trying something new.

  We exit the cabin and I bring him around the corner of the house. Moonlight floods a small clearing at the side of the cottage, and I lead the way to a wrought-iron bench.

  I take a seat and Jabir settles in next to me. I can feel the heat of his body, and on top of my excitement at sharing the joy of charcoal with him, I feel the giddy joy of sitting so close to him.

  Our legs are nearly touching; there’s just a few inches between us. I settle the bag of charcoal in that space, and open the top. Reaching for one of the medium-hard pieces, I say, “Each kind of charcoal has a different hardness to it. You really get the feel for it after a while, but this is a good one to start with. You can make crisp lines, but it can be maneuvered on the page once it’s laid out.”

  As he takes the piece, our fingers brush. It feels just as electric, but more familiar now, as if our touching is simply a facet of our friendship. The electricity doesn’t sting; it feels warm and inviting.

  I pick up a piece of chalk for myself—a looser one that will fall apart as I press it to the page. Perfect for the ethereal lightness of the moon dancing over the snow.

  The scene before us is beautiful. Pine tree boughs hang low, burdened with great dollops of white fluff which drips of their edges like icing off of one of Pete Dawson’s pastries.

  The moon is a bright spotlight over our still life, and the air is cooperatively warm, for a late November night.

  “Amazing!” Jabir says, as he outlines one of the pines. “It’s so forgiving! Nothing like drawing as I learned it.”

  “Isn’t it so much more fun?” I turn to him, a smile on my lips.

  He turns to me, and I see his eyes dart down to my lips, as if he’s thinking of something other than the charcoal in his hands.

  In an instant, his eyes are back to mine. “Yes. Fun.”

  I grin. “Okay, now try one that’s a bit looser. You’ll see how it goes onto the page without barely any pressure. Press too hard and you’ll just get a big old mess. Go light with it.”

  He nods. “I will,” he says. “I’ll be gentle.”

  He reaches for the charcoal that I pass to him, but this time, as he touches my hand, he doesn’t let go. He wraps his hand around mine, and suddenly, I forget all about the snowy, woodland scene before us.

  All I can see is him.

  I close my eyes, and feel my chest rise up as I try to inhale. My breath hitches in my throat when I feel his finger brush my cheek. I open my eyes, and he’s right there in front of me. I feel my eyes search his as he leans in, one hand cupping my face.

  This time, he doesn’t move away, and neither do I.

  As though I’m a frightened kitten who is at last used to her owner’s attention, his closeness doesn’t startle me anymore. The soft, electric buzz of his hand against mine doesn’t make me freeze, or jump away. Instead I feel myself relax, surrendering as he moves closer still. My lips part slightly, and I close my eyes again.

  I feel his lips touch mine, warm and soft and inviting. He tastes good, faintly like red wine and cinnamon-laced apple pie. I feel him breathing as our kiss grows in intensity. All else falls away. It’s at that moment that I allow myself to realize just how much I’ve wanted this—no, needed this.

  I give all of myself over to the kiss.

  Somehow, I don’t even know how, we moved from the yard back into the cabin. I’m in a cloud of bliss, surrendering to the intense desire that I’ve felt since the moment I saw him, sitting in the dining area of the Mountain Laurel.

  We lose our boots and coats the minute we step inside, and as we make our way into the bedroom other items fall away: my thin sweater, his Henley top. My black leggings, and his faded jeans.

  An hour later, I’m curled, breathless and naked in the bed. Jabir is wrapped around me, his breath soft and hot against my neck. Moonlight trickles through the open window, falling over the flannel comforter that covers us. I feel completely blissful.

  As I feel the deep contentment flowing through my veins, I realize how much I’ve been missing this fe
eling. I nestle against Jabir, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around me one more time before drifting off into sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Jabir

  It’s six a.m. by the time I slip into the hotel room. Hassan is still asleep, his body rising and falling steadily, soft snores erupting from his nose and mouth each time he exhales.

  I’m quiet as I strip down out of my street clothes and into my boxers, and slip between the covers of the empty queen-sized bed.

  I feel so elated and filled with happiness, yet I’m tired to the bone at the same time. I wasn’t able to sleep deeply at Teresa’s house. She felt so fragile in my arms, and all that I wanted to do was hold her as she slept. The long night is catching up with me, and my eyelids close heavily.

  Hassan’s voice wakes me.

  “Time to wake up, Brother,” he says loudly. I arch my arms over my head and give a stiff stretch. He’s yanking on the cord that raises the blinds, and for the first time in days, sunlight meets my eye. I should have known, because of the star-studded sky the night before, that the storm clouds had finally passed over Pennsylvania.

  The sunlight is almost blinding, and I crook one elbow to shade my eyes.

  “We’ve got to pack, Jabir!” Hassan says. He’s carrying a white ceramic mug, and he places it down on the nightstand by my head. Groggily, I sit up and scratch my bare chest before reaching for the coffee.

  “I’ve already gone down to the lobby and cleared up our bill with Dawn. I called Father’s assistant, and she’s booking our flight for this evening. A red-eye. Is that okay with you?”

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice cracking with sleepiness.

  “Seems like you’re just fine with staying up late at night, so it shouldn’t inconvenience you. What time were you out until, anyway?”

  I sip my coffee, stalling before I answer him. It’s black and strong, and immediately I feel more awake. “I was at Teresa’s house until early this morning,” I admit.