Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1)

by Donna Alam

  Wednesday ends on a particularly heinous note. What should have been a simple afternoon craft session turned into something else entirely, and for a short while at least, anyone entering the classroom could have easily mistaken it for raining glitter indoors. Glue, glitter and little girls do not mix. I’m half expecting a mob of angry mothers tomorrow, wielding handbags and demanding to know why their little darlings returned home looking like disco balls. I’ll possibly have to explain why said darlings undertook a spot of cleaning, too. Not that it was an effective punishment by any means.

  The day can’t end quickly enough as I hurriedly pack away my things, eagerly anticipating a medicinal glass of vin rouge, when I notice a number bonds poster I’d tacked to the wall has come loose. I use one of the tiny chairs as a step because I can’t be arsed to get out the ladder again.

  ‘I see you’re still flouting health and safety protocols.’

  The teasing cadence of his now familiar voice reverberates around the empty room. This time I manage to stay upright. Just. Leaning against the doorjamb, his hands are folded into his pockets, very nonchalant, but there’s something about his gaze that absolutely belies his stance.

  ‘You scared the sh—life out of me!’ I say, hand on my chest. ‘The only thing endangering my safety is you.’

  ‘How so?’

  His eyes shine gold in the afternoon sun, and I can’t help draw parallels between him and a hawk. Which would make me the mouthful of tasty mouse he’s considering.

  I hop down from the chair, swallowing a squeak.

  ‘You, creeping up on me.’ I turn my attention back to my desk and bag, a sudden warmth rising in my stomach. Who knew chemistry was an actual physical thing?

  ‘Creeping suggests some kind of furtiveness and I’m nothing if not candid. Sensible footwear today, I see. Ballet flats?’

  ‘Kitten heels.’ I hold out my foot behind me, the pointed toe of my shoe against the floor. ‘Flats are much lower,’ I say, examining the heel before raising my eyes to his face.

  An upper incisor is fastened to his bottom lip, flesh paling under the pressure. A small noise stems from the back of his throat, appreciation, I think, before turning to a tenor of enquiry or consideration. But his expression is so . . . sexual. The heat flares further south, colour simultaneously spreading north to my face as I notice his smile. Why do I feel like a sheep that’s been maneuvered into a pen? Forcing my gaze away, I clear my throat and return to my bag packing exercise.

  ‘Yes, well. Shoe lesson over.’ I don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling, even though I feel I ought not to.

  ‘They’re certainly an appropriate pedestal.’

  ‘When eight-year-olds make you feel small, heels are the only answer,’ I retort. ‘And I like nice shoes.’

  Lazily pushing himself from the door surround, he saunters to my desk set at the front of the room. Almost lounging against it, he stretches his long legs out in front. Each facing the opposite direction, we’re shoulder to shoulder and almost touching as an electrical force dances in the air. I’ve never been more grateful for the curtain of my hair as he leans in, leans closer, then peers exaggeratedly down at my feet.

  ‘You most certainly do.’

  His voice seems to have dropped a full octave as I grab papers from my desk, continuing to shove them into my bag in an effort to avoid acknowledging the large, hot presence at my side. ‘Is this a social call or are you actually here for something?’ My tone could be described, at best, as arsey.

  ‘Pleasure, definitely.’ I think he’s still staring at my shoes, though I’m fairly certain it’s not a covetous thing. ‘I’m here to call in a debt.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pushing my hair behind my ears, my eyes rise in enquiry. An accountant then?

  ‘Your rain-check. I’m here to take you for coffee.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘That’s correct, a word of two syllables. A social lubricant.’

  I swallow, hopefully not audibly. ‘With you?’

  ‘You’re enthusiasm knows no bounds,’ he responds in a tone as dry as toast.

  ‘But that’s . . . that’s not a debt.’

  ‘A promise is most certainly a debt,’ he teases warmly, but there’s something else there in his words, an undercurrent of steel causing goose bumps to break out across my arms. A man who’s unused to being turned down.

  ‘I didn’t promise.’ Eyes down, I continue my bag filling quest. ‘And I really don’t think it would be a good idea.’

  ‘The promise was definitely implied.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it was inferred,’ I reply with a snort. Great. So now I snort.

  ‘And,’ he adds, ignoring this, ‘you seem far too nice a person to hurt my feelings. And as for it being a good idea, how do you know without trying?’

  ‘I don’t think I need to try you.’ I wish I could swallow the words at once; press rewind, suck them back in.

  ‘I come with a satisfaction guarantee.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ I add quickly.

  ‘Just coffee,’ he replies, now sounding sincere. ‘Nothing nefarious. I promise.’

  ‘Sorry. Like I said, I’m busy. Flat out.’

  ‘Interesting choice of words. But busy . . . sharpening . . . copious . . . amounts of pencils?’ Lifting the almost industrial sized electric sharpener out of my hands, he turns it in his own. It’s about then that I notice the almost bare surface of my desk. ‘A serious business, I’m sure.’

  As I raise my head, his gaze hits mine, serious eyes staring down. I’ve suddenly run out of words, every beat of my heart pounding so hard, it has to be audible.

  Placing the sharpener back, he stands.

  ‘I’ll even carry your bag.’

  ‘You’re pretty full of yourself.’

  Smiling lopsidedly, his eyes travel the length of my body again. ‘You know what they say, one minute a cock . . . ’

  ‘And the next just a bit of a dick,’ I mutter.

  ‘Ouch.’ He laughs softly, rubbing a hand across his delightfully stubbled chin. ‘I believe the aphorism goes, and the next a feather duster . . .’ He sounds almost hurt as his words trail away.

  Oh, bugger. So much for not mistaking his intent. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘To injure my pride?’ His tone matches a perfectly arched brow.

  ‘No! Of course not. I don’t even know you, I wouldn’t presume—’

  ‘Then you can tell me how sorry you are over that drink.’

  Not that upset, then. ‘I told you, I can’t. Coffee or otherwise.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ I ask, exasperation and my hands rising before me.

  ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend? Significant other?’

  ‘Girl? What, because I’m not interested, I’m gay?’ My face burns and all I can think is what says gay about me today? Surely this isn’t the right response.

  ‘I didn’t say you weren’t interested. Reluctant, but interested,’ he asserts, masking a smile. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  ‘I don’t see what it has to do with you.’

  ‘Obstacles, Kate,’ he says suddenly serious. Like an egg and spoon race or the one in the sack? No, the one with the sack! ‘I like to know where I stand.’

  ‘Why should I be interested in where you hang? Stand! I mean stand.’ My eyes flick involuntarily to where they shouldn’t before darting away. Interested, so interested. But reluctant? He got that right.

  ‘To the left, if you feel you must know, and slightly—’

  ‘Is this how you talk to women you barely know?’ Talk about degeneration.

  ‘I think you must be a bad influence.’

  ‘And I think you must be delusional,’ I retort, straightening my blouse.

  ‘And back to being a prick, it seems.’

  He exhales audibly, ruffling a hand through his gorgeous hair, not that I noticed at all. As he falls silent, I tip my head to peer at him, fascinated by the conf
licting emotions playing and fading across his face: exasperation, annoyance and eventually, a hesitant sort of confusion.

  ‘What have you got to lose?’

  Dignity? Pride? Undies?

  His hand rises quite suddenly between us as he runs the tip of one finger against my face. He’s so close that for a mad moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, my breath halting as desire, swift and treacherous, takes my breath away. He’s going to kiss me and I think I’m going to let him. Then his hand lowers, sort of hesitantly, plucking one of the humiliatingly many pencils sticking from the top of my bag. He begins to write on my yellow notepad, one of the few items left on my desk. As pen touches paper, his finger sparkles in the light, sprinkled with glitter.

  ‘My number,’ he murmurs, placing the folded paper in my hand. ‘Think about it. You owe me for saving you, at least.’

  ‘Why do I feel you’re not going to leave me alone until I say yes?’ My voice is soft, lacking in strength and conviction as I stare at the folded note.

  ‘Because you’re a very astute judge of character.’

  A smile leaks from his tone as he turns to leave, his words echoing in the empty room. I stare at the paper in my hand, heart sinking south. Folding it once more, I tear it in half and place it in the bin because, I know this couldn’t be farther from the truth.

  Chapter Seven

  The following afternoon finds me attending my first staff meeting at Al Mishael, and it’s so far removed from my experiences, I feel back to being on another planet. Gone are the usual seating squabbles in a down-at-heel staffroom and with it, the ever present tang of cheap, stale coffee poisoning the air. Instead, this meeting room is filled with the rich aroma of a cardamom-scented brew and dominated by an enormous conference table. It’s definitely more boardroom chic than staffroom squalor.

  Women holding plates of dainty pastries mill around a buffet table at the far side of the room, most dressed traditionally in the black cloak-like abaya which flows to their ankles. Even dressed in this modest uniform, the women are as colourful as lorikeets, their laughter and exotic accents filling the whole room. Pouring coffee into a dainty glass cup, I grab a plate and load it with a sinfully sugary cake called basboosa, as well as two date cookies Sadia informs me are called mahmoul. While lovely, I hope meetings here don’t always come with a buffet or I might grow an arse worthy of the label wide load.

  And speaking of fat-bummed devils, one of his handmaidens appears. Huda, the school’s administration head-honcho, a rotund woman of middle years, begins by calling the meeting to order. She’s pretty fearsome and by my reckoning can usually be found barking down the phone or at the poor cleaning staff. On more than one occasion, passing by her office, I’ve almost been deafened by her yelling Khaddama! Arabic for maid. The roar is quickly followed by scuttling sandals as one or more of the diminutive Indonesian cleaning ladies hurry’s to do as they are bid. It seems much like the children, some of the adults here don’t clean after themselves.

  The principal, Miss Arwa, rises to address the room. Tall and attractive, I’d guess she’s in her early forties, and given her accent, probably American, though I could be wrong. Just last week I’d asked one of the grade nine girls which part of the U.S. she was from, when she laughingly answered her accent came from watching too many American sitcoms. So what do I know?

  Arwa also wears an abaya, but she wears hers loose and over a high-end business suit, her glossy brown hair lightly covered by a scarf. A shayla, I think it’s called. I may not know much about local fashions, but I can read Dior just fine.

  Opening the meeting with a few words in Arabic, Arwa reverts to English and begins by bringing the room up to date with births and marriages of staff that have taken place over the long summer vacation. The news doesn’t mean much to me as most of these women are still strangers, but I can appreciate the tone of this very female-centric meeting. A benefit of an all-female staff, I suppose.

  ‘Ladies, a date and a reminder for your diaries. In the coming weeks, we have the bonus of a long weekend. As you may be aware, we are to have a national holiday soon, date to be announced. This may cause some problems for our annual open evening, which is currently scheduled for the end of the month.’

  Attention caught, I look up from my thorough inspection of the goodies on my plate. I knew about the holiday but not the open evening.

  ‘I know it’s unusually early this year,’ she continues, ‘but we have few other calendar options.’

  Eyebrows rise and there follows a muttering of dissent, though nothing anyone is willing to gripe about openly. I guess you can please some of the people some of the time but getting a room full of teachers to spend an extra evening at work unpaid, is a tall order wherever you are.

  ‘Remember, this evening is more about giving our new parents the opportunity to look around the school and get a sense of who we are, our aims for their daughters. For those parents who know us, it’s an opportunity to meet our new teachers.’ She smiles briefly in my direction. ‘This is not an opportunity for parents to discuss individuals or have impromptu parent/teacher conferences. This will be outlined clearly in the invitation.’ Another murmur travels across the room and this I understand. Like they’ll be able to resist. ‘This will be a mixed affair, so fathers may attend, and representation from the school owners will be made with a presentation from . . .’ Her eyes scan the notes open on the desk. ‘Abu Kais.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I whisper, nudging Sadia.

  ‘Abu Kais? He is the owner of Al Mishael.’

  ‘I thought the owner was a woman.’ That’s what I was told during my interview. ‘I didn’t think that was her name.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Kate, most funny. A lady called Abu Kais.’ Sadia chuckles quietly, entertained. ‘No, my dear, Abu Kais is a man’s name. It is being the owner’s husband’s name.’ She frowns as she summons further explanation. ‘Not his . . . given name, it is her son’s name but his father uses it . . . isn’t it.’ Isn’t it what, I ask myself as she tries again. ‘It is tradition. Father being known as Abu, meaning father. Father of.’

  ‘Father of . . . ’ I whisper back, still confused.

  ‘Father of the firstborn son.’ Mirroring my frown, she continues uncertainly. ‘Abu, father, then name of the son.’

  This is as confusing as the Holy Trinity.

  Someone further along the table asks Arwa a question in Arabic, the conversation shifts language, and effectively, relevance to me. Impromptu conversations spring up around the room.

  ‘It’s a lot to get your head around, isn’t it?’ This from a woman seated to my left. Dressed in a long grey skirt, she balances a notebook and pen on her crossed knee. ‘When a first son is born, his father is given an honorific title, a kunya. The mum gets one, too. I’m Hala, by the way.’

  Hala’s accent is English with an inflection that makes me think she’s from London, but it’s almost like her accent has been modulated or ironed out.

  ‘What if the baby’s a girl?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘It only changes for firstborn sons. In this case, Faris al Khalfan is Abu Kais.’

  Nothing for girls? Far out!

  ‘Thanks.’ I frown, trying to get my mind around the unfathomable, not to mention the blatant inequality. ‘I’m Kate.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to pop in and say hello. Don’t worry, it takes a while.’ Leaning toward me conspiratorially, she whispers, ‘Pity it wasn’t the son presenting, Kai al Khalfan is seriously hot.’ Straightening abruptly, her eyes dart from side to side.

  At that moment, the coffee I’ve just brought to my lips is sprayed across the table as I literally choke. Kais . . . Kai . . . Surely not? All heads turn to me as I cough and splutter, trying to breathe through the inhaled liquid scalding the back of my throat. Energetic hands clap me on the back and a glass of water appears in front.

  ‘Sorry, it went down the wrong way,’ I apologize between wheezing breaths, trying to re
gain my composure. Switching back to English, Arwa continues the meeting, conversations fading away. My thoughts don’t move on much. Just how many hot Kai’s are there in Dubai? Gorgeous Kai’s with too full lips . . . And yet, it would make sense insofar as him being at the school. Just another reason not to do him. Coffee, I mean do coffee! But—

  ‘Are you hot, Miss Kate?’ I’m pulled sharply from my musings by Sadia’s stage whisper.

  ‘Hot?’ I sit bolt straight, removing the forefinger from my bottom lip, not quite sure what it’s doing there.

  ‘You are becoming most red.’ She clucks her tongue in admonishment.

  ‘I—I’m good, Sadia. Fine, really,’ I whisper back, suddenly aware that the meeting has paused once more and all eyes have returned to me, the fire spreading through my body, accompanied now by a deep blush. I smile benignly and sink into my seat as Arwa clears her throat, regaining the room’s focus. Half listening to the resumed meeting, I attempt to school my thoughts.

  I hope lust isn’t a colour you can detect in someone’s blush. And the boss’s son. Now that would be an epically bad move.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Oh my god, I love this song!’

  The music is loud, the base vibrating from through the floor to my feet as they itch with an uncharacteristic urge to dance. Aided by my share of the beer pitchers we’ve been drinking, and not so much by a dubious looking taco, my body sways with the music. But I’m not drunk, just . . . relaxed.

  Niamh and I, along with some of her friends, dined earlier in a Mexican style bar at one of Dubai’s less salubrious hotels. A girl can’t dine five-star every day, at least not on my pay grade. Now in one of Jumeirah’s best clubs, which also happens to be on the same resort as the fabulous brunch hotel, we’re supposed to be starting the weekend in style.

  Matt nods encouragingly to my exuberance, his face wearing an odd kind of smile.