by Holly Rayner
“Okay. I need to win this bet. And in order to win it, I have to make you fall in love with me. Essentially, that means you have to marry me,” Rami said to me, saying the words with such certainty, as if I would just buy into something so serious so quickly. What a joke.
“Marriage?” I asked, aghast. “I mean, what makes you think I would—”
“I know. I know it’s a big thing to ask anyone,” Rami said, doing his best to calm me. “But as I told you, I am extremely wealthy. And foolhardy, as you already know.”
“Something like that, although I might choose a different word,” I told him, my eyes glittering.
“Sure. I’d wager that. But listen. I’d be willing to give you half a million dollars for your trouble, ensuring that we both benefit from the arrangement. If you agree to it, that is.”
My heart thudded in my chest. Half a million dollars? Was he kidding? I hadn’t even heard of that sum of money being together in one place.
I pictured Rami’s bank account as a giant ocean, swimming with cash. I wanted to leap into it, to throw it over my body. I wanted to take it home. Were people really ever that comfortable? Did people really sleep at night without the shadow of whatever they needed to pay for on their shoulders?
“Wait. Say that number again?” I asked him in disbelief.
“Five hundred thousand smackeroos,” Rami said, using an American word and chuckling at his cleverness. “What do you think?”
During these silent seconds, I thought instantly of my mother, and the surgery she so desperately needed. Five hundred thousand dollars was more than I would make in ten years. And by then, my mother probably wouldn’t even be around anymore.
I swallowed harshly, wondering at the weight of what I had to give up, versus what I would be giving up if I didn’t go through with it.
“I can tell you’re considering it,” Rami said, his eyebrow twitching.
“Well, of course I’m considering it.”
I leaned against my desk, wondering at this predicament. If I agreed to it, I knew I would have to legally marry Rami. Which meant that I’d have to spend a bit of time with him, at the least. Ensuring that the marriage looked “right” for his friend, the one he’d made the bet with. The thought made my stomach stir.
“What would make you accept?” he asked, tilting his head to the right.
I tapped my fingers along the edge of my desk, trying not to look at him too closely. When I did, I was overcome with his outrageous good looks. The refined suit, its fabric thick and unwrinkled. His five o’clock shadow, which yielded a perfect texture across his brown skin. I’d known since moving to Al-Jarra that the men in this country were almost unfairly handsome, but he took the cake.
“I’ll give you some money upfront,” he said suddenly, his voice deepening.
“How much?” I asked.
“Ten thousand,” he said, stepping forward. His eyes met with mine, bringing a shot of emotion up and down my spine. “It’ll go into your account today, if you give me your details.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” I sighed in disbelief as I wandered toward the window, staring out at the street. Mere blocks away, I could see the market, where we’d eaten together only days before. “I could really use that ten thousand dollars.”
“And don’t forget, my net worth is in the billions…” he said, trailing off. His words sizzled with arrogance.
I flashed around, spinning back to face him. Without hesitation, I lifted my hand and reached for his. We shook on it, just like that, over the top of the desks between us. Instantly I felt grimy. But I felt that I was on a path toward saving my mother’s life.
“All right. Well. I guess I’ll send you some details…” Rami said, stepping back. His expensive shoe clacked on the floor. “Maybe that means I should get your number.”
“Right. Yes. Phone.” I lifted a pad of paper from my desk and wrote it out in scrawling handwriting, passing it toward him. “I’m not sure how all of this will work.”
“You can leave it up to me,” Rami said, giving me a wink that made my stomach stir. “But know that we’re going to have to see each other a bit more. My friend Alim will know something’s wrong if—”
“If we just get hitched, like that. I know,” I sighed, feeling the heaviness in my heart. I wanted to go lie down, but I knew I couldn’t. I was trapped.
“Right. Well, as long as you get it. You seem like a clever girl,” Rami said. He turned back toward the classroom door, giving me a salute. “I suppose I should start calling you a pet name, now. Angie-bear?”
“Don’t push it,” I said, finding a smile rush between my cheeks.
Moments later, he was gone, and I collapsed in the chair behind my desk, allowing my forehead to fall toward my hands. I heard the clatter of feet at the door and looked up, finding Rita there, watching me. She sniffed, narrowing her eyes behind her glasses.
“That man was here again,” she said brashly.
“He was,” I replied, suddenly wanting to put as much distance between us as possible.
“Have you dated much in Al-Jarra?” she asked me, leaning further into my classroom. Her hair was frizzy, swirling toward her shoulders. “Because the culture, it’s completely different. You’re going to want to be aware…”
“It’s not really… I mean, we’re not really dating,” I told her, knowing full well that I would have to come clean about the engagement very soon. “He’s just a guy.”
“They always start out as just guys,” Rita told me, “until suddenly…”
“I’d better get going for the day, Rita,” I sighed, dragging myself up from the desk and pushing past her into the corridor. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Just let me know if anything’s wrong,” Rita told me, calling down the hall. “You know I’m here for you.”
But I couldn’t even tell her what was going on with my family. I couldn’t bring any of the worlds together in my mind.
I blasted out into the sunshine and raced around the corner, finding the path toward my apartment. When I couldn’t sprint any longer, I placed my hands on my knees and let myself fall to the ground. When I caught my breath, I realized I had a text message from Rami.
“Let me know your bank details when you can,” it read. “And thanks for doing me this huge favor. You don’t know how much grief I’d get from Alim if I lost you.”
If he lost me. The words echoed through my brain. There was nothing between us to lose. And yet, in his little world, without cancer and without tumors and without oceans between him and his family, he was allowed to worry about such drivel. What a scandal. How stupid.
And here I was, at the center of it all.
Chapter 8
Rami
I met up with Alim the following morning, catching him in the corner of the little coffee shop between our penthouses. The place was bustling, filled with gorgeous women who studied me with interest. I nodded to them instinctively, still unaccustomed to the fact that I was going to get married—married!—to a woman I barely knew, all for a bet. Whatever. I was sure I’d done crazier things.
Alim eyed me suspiciously as I sat down, probably already aware of the secret that sizzled in my brain. He shoved a cappuccino toward me, gesturing. “I got this for you.”
“So thoughtful of you,” I told him, sounding sarcastic. I gave him a meaningful smile and took a long sip. “I don’t suppose you have anything big to report in the twenty-four hours since we last saw one another?”
“What?” Alim asked. His smile faltered. “No. I just had that business meeting. And an early night.”
“Ah. Not all of us can have big, dramatic nights, now, can we?” I said to him, chuckling.
“Come off it. Who did you get to sleep with you this time?” he asked, his cheeks reddening with jealousy.
“Actually, Alim, I returned to our agreement, knowing that if I fought just a bit harder, committed just a bit more, I could latch our girl into seeing me again.”
“Turns out a bit of apologizing and a bit more sweet-talking will always get the job done. I should have relied on it to begin with,” I told him, tilting my head.
“So? What happened? Is she going to go out with you again?” Alim asked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Surely she has more self-esteem than that…”
“It’s not an issue of self-esteem, Alim. She sees something in me. And it’s not because I’m a sheikh. It’s because I’m handsome, charming, and a good conversationalist. I’ve wooed her, wholly and completely, and it’s time for you to see just how far my charms can go.”
It was a mess. But I felt I was high-rolling, impressing my friend. I stood up from my empty coffee cup, pointing toward the door. “And tonight, we’re going out together. Just the two of us.”
“Is that so?” Alim asked, hardly able to comprehend my words.
“It is.”
It wasn’t. At least, not yet.
As I marched from the cafe, I lifted my phone and texted Angie, knowing that I had the power to influence her. I had the money awaiting her. The first ten thousand dollars had been a taste, luring her deeper. And her exclamatory text, which read: “I can’t believe we’re doing this. But okay, count me in,” had assured me she was in for the ride.
“I’ve just spoken with my friend,” I wrote to her, “and I think we should go out on a date tonight. We have to prove that we’re rekindling our relationship. Or kindling it for the first time, maybe. You in?”
I walked down the road for a few minutes more, anticipating the text back. But it didn’t come, not for another two hours. By then, I felt rattled and strange, fearing she was going to back out. We had no written agreement. I realized she could have taken ten thousand dollars from me and bounced.
But as I perched over my lunchtime sandwich, I received the message back.
“Fine. I guess we’ll have to start this at some point. What time?”
The message was stunted, without the usual excitement I received from women I took out on dates.
Feeling dejected, I puzzled over it for a moment, nibbling at the end of my sandwich. The bread was growing soggy. I dropped it back onto the plate. Why was this girl getting under my skin? Was it really that I was so frightened of losing to Alim?
“Let me pick you up at seven, like a proper date. That way, if Alim follows me, he’ll think he’s seeing something romantic between us. What’s your address?”
“Can’t we just meet there?” Angie responded moments later. Another blow!
“Fine,” I typed out, irked by her stubbornness. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s a hole-in-the-wall downtown called Tommy’s. Paparazzi normally don’t follow me there.”
“Sure. See you there.”
I found myself anxious, my stomach stirring for the next few hours. Even my normal routine—lifting weights at the gym, meeting with my father to discuss what was happening in parliament, and shopping for the perfect new suit for the date ahead—did little to calm me down.
Shrugging into a perfect dark grey suit, I gazed at myself in my bedroom mirror, certain that I would sweep Angie off her feet that night. How could I not? I was desired by half of Al-Jarra. People couldn’t stop saying my name.
I reminded myself that it couldn’t have mattered less. After all, Angie was playing along with my game. She didn’t need to fall in love with me for me to get the best of Alim. But the fact that she wasn’t even open to it, couldn’t see the benefits… It was annoying, at best. And a bit too much to bear.
Tommy’s was a place I’d discovered as a younger man, around 22, when I’d had an enormous appetite and an even bigger desire to hide from the cameras. It was around this time that I’d become known as something of a Casanova, yet wanted to ensure that the girls I was dating weren’t frightened by the flashing cameras. Plus, I loved the feeling of watching shoddy sports television and digging into an enormous American-style burger. It felt like heaven to me.
Now, I went there at least twice a month, and knew Tommy well. He was a good guy, an American from New York City, who grilled burgers and smoked cigarettes out the side window. Somehow, the smell of the cigarettes didn’t get into the food, and it added to the general “greasy” quality of the place.
When I entered, I realized that Angie was already there, seated at the bar. Her head of thick black hair was tilted slightly as she watched a television near the top corner of the room. On it, basketball players raced down the court, popping the ball into the net to rapturous applause.
Angie seemed unmoved, and a bit out of it. As I approached from the side, her eyes looked glazed, almost lost. Tommy himself was working behind the bar and placed a pitcher of beer in front of her, along with two pint glasses.
“Here you are,” he said, glancing over at me. “Oh, hey there, Rami! I didn’t expect you today.”
I shot my finger toward the pint glasses, giving him a grin. “Actually, I think one of those glasses is for me.”
Tommy’s eyes turned from me to Angie and back. I could almost see the lightbulb above his head, a realization that Angie was just another woman on my “list.” But Angie tossed her hair to the side, lifting the pitcher of beer and filling her own glass. The motion was so uncharacteristic of the many girls I’d brought into the restaurant, and it made Tommy chuckle.
“I always wondered when you’d bring an American in here, Rami,” he said. “I’m not sure you can handle the American girls. They’re tough.”
“People keep saying that, don’t they?” Angie said, giving me a side smile.
The smile felt powerful, like a wave crashing over my heart. But in just seconds, I regrouped, giving them both a nod.
“Good to see you.” I leaned forward, giving Angie a brief kiss on the cheek. She didn’t flinch, but didn’t react warmly, either. Her skin was smooth beneath my lips, and she smelled vaguely of hazelnuts and cream.
“We’ll take the usual, then, Tommy,” I told him, sitting beside Angie and watching as she poured my drink too. Behind us, the bar was completely empty. The speakers blared with ’80s music, which rang in my ears, taking me back to another time.
Tommy disappeared to make our burgers and smoke out the side window. I shifted in my chair, trying to make eye contact with Angie, but she’d turned her face back toward the television, excluding me. Outside, I wondered if Alim was watching. I wondered if he could sense the distance between Angie and me, a distance I desperately wished didn’t exist.
Chapter 9
Angie
Tommy’s reminded me of a place I’d gone as a child, a diner in our small town where my mom and I had swapped stories—some fiction, some real—and eaten onion rings.
One time, snow had fallen in massive clumps while we were seated inside, and we’d had to rush back home before the storm caught up with us. I still remembered being filled with greasy food and love, racing back toward the car and clinging to my mother’s hand. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old.
Now, the smells, the sight of the television, and even Tommy himself were pulling me back to the memory. I compared my carefree past with my current predicament: the date with Rami and our impending marriage, my mother’s illness, the money. As he began to banter beside me, speaking in that confident manner, I tried my best to act interested. This—this entire charade—it was for the woman in my memory at that diner. It was for my mother. And I would fight to keep her alive.
When there was a pause, I cleared my throat, sensing it was my turn to speak. “Hey,” I began, shrugging. “Sorry I didn’t want you to pick me up today. I know that we need to keep with this kind of, erm, romantic theme. I’m just so out of practice. It’s going to take me a second to get in character, as it were.”
Rami nodded, his eyes burning with a kind of validation. “I wondered about that,” he said. “But just know that I’m not trying to rush your inner fe
elings. It’s not like I’m trying to force your love.”
“Not anymore, at least,” I told him, giving him a sneaky smile. God, he was handsome. This feeling pulsed through me, a constant reminder of his firm jawline, his thick black hair, and his honest eyes.
“Right. Again, I’m sorry about that.” He swallowed sharply, looking anxious. “I’m just glad we can help one another, in the end.”
Tommy arrived with the burgers. The smell wafted into my nose, making me close my eyes. Rich, vibrant, salty and alive—the meat was just the right level of pink, and the side of French fries was massive, like a haystack. Rami poured some ketchup onto the side of his plate. A bit of it got on the edge of his finger, and he licked at it, meeting my gaze.
“So anyway, I was thinking I would update you on my family, now that you know who I am…” Rami began. “Especially since you’ll be lucky enough to be a part of it.”
“Oh?” I asked, feeling a punch in the gut. Lucky enough? Who did this guy think he was, a billionaire Sheikh? Oh. Yep.
“Sure. My father, of course, is the ruling sheikh. His name is Ammar, and he’s one of the wisest men in the country.”
“Was he a playboy once, like you?” I heard myself ask, chuckling.
“He was certainly just as handsome,” Rami said, making my cheeks burn. Yes, he was handsome, but God, did he really have to go on about it like that?
“And my mother is a class act. Always dressed to the nines. I’ve never seen her without makeup on, and she’s always sitting properly, her posture perfect.”
“Like this?” I asked, slumping forward in my chair. I watched as he chuckled slightly, his eyes glittering.
“And she certainly wouldn’t be caught eating a burger,” he grinned.
“Sounds like a rough life,” I said, wiping a napkin across my lips.
“It has its benefits, sure,” Rami said, raising his eyebrows, “but when you meet her, you might need to, erm, advance your manners a bit.”