by Holly Rayner
“I don’t suppose you know who I am?” he asked, his voice confident.
“I think I do,” Willow said, apprehension filling her chest.
Questions began to whirl through her mind. But all of them were stopped short before she managed to speak them as another one popped into her head. What in the world was he doing there? Why was he talking to her?
“Well, then. Do you mind if we have a quick word?” the Sheikh asked, tilting his head toward the edge of the crowd. “Maybe somewhere not surrounded by thousands of screaming onlookers?”
Again, Willow brought her hands to her hair, gesturing.
“I’d really rather speak when I’m not dripping with sweat…”
“Right. Of course.” Ibrahim glanced at her running outfit, chuckling. “I can’t imagine how you must feel right now. I haven’t run outside of a gym in ages.”
“You should try it sometime,” Willow said. “The endorphins are incredible.”
“Ha, I’m happy getting my adrenaline rushes elsewhere,” the Sheikh joked, taking a small step toward her.
For the first time, Willow noticed his shoes: expensive black leather, recently shined. She tossed her head back, gazing into his eyes, causing a shiver to work its way down her spine. With a quick movement, she undid her hairband and allowed her bob to fall back into place. Despite her sweating face, her hair had formed soft waves, still attractive and catching the sunlight.
“I don’t suppose you’re here about the newspaper article?” Willow asked, her throat becoming dry. “Because I have to tell you—that wasn’t my fault.”
“Not now,” Ibrahim said, leaning his head closer toward her. The air around them filled with tension, making Willow’s heart pound. “How about you meet me tonight for a celebratory dinner?”
“Tonight?” Willow asked, incredulous.
“I should think that finishing a race like that warrants nothing more than a big, juicy steak. Maybe a few glasses of wine, too…” the Sheikh suggested, his smile growing broader.
Willow’s heart pumped faster. She remembered the few articles she’d read about him. His nickname alone, “the Playboy Sheikh,” should have informed her to stay far, far away. But after years of unsuccessful dating, she was at the mercy of feeling wanted.
“It’s not that you’re not gorgeous,” Summer had told her, countless times. “You just lack self-esteem. You have to tell yourself what a catch you are. And then, they’ll come after you. I know it.”
The words echoed in Willow’s brain.
“What do you say?” the Sheikh asked her, crossing his muscular arms and making his biceps bulge. She imagined him lifting her into him, kissing her. She imagined the warmth of his lips.
But no. That would surely never happen. He was probably asking her to dinner for some other reason, right? Nothing romantic. He could get any woman he desired. And, beyond that, he was engaged to a ridiculously gorgeous underwear model. Her face from the photograph, fierce and cat-like, flashed through Willow’s mind.
“What’s this about?” Willow heard herself ask.
“You’ll have to come to dinner to find out,” he grinned, one thick, dark eyebrow raised. “I promise, I’m not proposing anything unscrupulous. It’s just that I think we might have a mutual interest in something.”
“You’re piquing my interest…” Willow replied.
“That’s entirely my intention,” the Sheikh offered. He took a step back, tilting his head. With a flourish, he reached into his pocket and drew out a card.
Handing it to her, he said, “This is my number. After you’ve recovered a bit, text me, and we can work out a time to meet tonight. This is a rather pressing matter, so it cannot wait.”
Willow gripped the card and nodded, unsure if she’d entered some sort of strange dream.
In mere seconds, the Sheikh had disappeared into the crowd once more, swallowed whole by a sea of onlookers and screaming supporters. Another moment more, and Summer appeared beside her, chattering excitedly.
“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” she said, her voice high-pitched and excited. “And then I saw you over here, talking to that hunk! What did he say, Wills?”
“He wants to meet,” Willow said with a slight frown. She gazed at the card in her fingers, at the professional photograph of the Sheikh wearing another immaculate suit. In the photo, his arms were crossed over his chest, and he gave a devilish grin. It continued to make her heart jolt against her ribcage, almost willing itself out.
“What?” Summer asked, incredulous. She gave Willow a glance—looking up and down her sweating frame—and laughed. “Well, you absolutely have to find out what he wants.”
“You said he’s a playboy,” Willow said.
“He is. Or was. But he’s engaged. Who knows? Maybe he wants to donate to your cause,” Summer said, shrugging. Lifting her arm around Willow’s shoulder, she led her toward the edge of the crowd, picking up Monica and Anika along the way. “You can’t afford to say no to this, Willow. It could be one of the best stories of your life. Or, hey. Maybe it’s just a delicious dinner.”
“Maybe I imagined the entire interaction,” Willow said, laughing. “Whatever. Let’s grab some tacos. I’m too hungry to think about anything else.”
The girls worked through the crowd, finding their way to the lot where Summer’s truck was parked. As they drove slowly through the packed streets, Willow and Anika stretched out in the back, people-watching. Willow found herself daydreaming about the Sheikh, closing her eyes as the sunlight beat atop her cheeks and forehead. Her freckles had begun to appear, something that happened as the summertime descended with its Texan ferocity.
“You look like you’re a million miles away,” Anika noted, tilting her head and flicking one of Willow’s flyaway curls.
“I can’t control my brain right now,” Willow said, chuckling. “Too much running for my own good.”
“Or too much flirting?” Anika teased. “Who can say?”
After inhaling several tacos from La Lucha, along with a round or three of margaritas, Willow walked the rest of the way to her apartment, feeling her muscles starting to cramp in earnest. Once at home, she turned on her stereo system and poured herself a bath, adding a large dose of bubbles and watching as they popped to the surface. After stripping off her clothes, she dipped her toes into the hot bath and zoned out, allowing her brain to calm from the intensity of the day.
Again, her thoughts turned to the Sheikh, filled with curiosity. Reminding herself that she was the one in charge of her destiny, she reached for her phone and texted the number on the card.
“If you’re still up for that dinner, I can meet. Just say where and when.”
After typing the words, she squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the bubbles pop around her. If Ibrahim never messaged her back, she’d know what she’d already assumed: she wasn’t good enough for the likes of him. Then again, wasn’t that a good thing? He was already engaged, a man far above her social status, in a far different good-looks demographic. In what world would they ever exist together?
But after just a few moments of anxious thoughts, her phone buzzed. She opened the message quickly, blinking down at it.
“Great. Meet me at Dans les Etoiles at 8:30. I’ll be at my usual table.”
The words were filled with pretentious entitlement, making Willow snort. But Dans les Etoiles? That was far and away one of the best restaurants in all of Houston. Willow had never had the funds to go, and had certainly never reached that level with a date. Truth be told, the biggest “romance” she’d had in recent years had been with a server at her favorite Mexican restaurant. They hadn’t been in love, no. But he’d given her plenty of free food, which had been enough—for a while.
“See you then,” Willow typed back.
After rising from the tub, she strode naked toward her closet, loving the feel of her muscled, toned body—in probably its best shape ever, given the fact that she’d run the marathon in less than four hours.
Standing in front of her closet, she traced her eyes over her clothes, trying to find something worthy of Dans les Etoiles. There was the black dress with the lace, which she reserved for funerals. The bright blue party dress, which she hadn’t worn since the previous New Year’s Eve. A yellow gown—usually for birthday parties—and a bright pink summer dress, along with a black leather skirt and a black turtleneck sweater.
After a moment’s pause, she remembered the dress that was shoved in the back of the wardrobe and rooted around to dig it out. She’d worn it for a wedding a few years ago, and it was by far the nicest thing she had. It was mauve, and possibly a little out of fashion, but it would have to do.
“Whatever,” she sighed, sensing she’d never find anything properly suited for Dans les Etoiles, or for the Sheikh. “It’s not a date, anyway.”
She dressed quickly, then took a few minutes carefully applying her makeup, sliding foundation over her cheeks to even out the slight red burns from the sunshine, and swiping mascara over her eyelashes and a pink gloss over her lips. She styled her hair, curling it into loose waves, then blinked at herself in front of the mirror for a long moment, unable to remember the last time she’d made so much of an effort.
She texted this to Summer.
“Of course it’s the first time you’ve got dressed up,” Summer responded. “You’ve been running fifteen miles almost every day. You haven’t had time to do anything else!”
Willow chuckled at this, flipping her hair in the mirror a final time.
“Enjoy tonight, no matter what happens,” Summer texted, then. “You deserve to have a good time, after all you’ve done for others. You’re a champ, Willow.”
Willow dropped her phone into her purse and strode out of her apartment door, feeling the last rays of sunlight on her face. Just a half-mile from downtown, she began her trek toward Dans les Etoiles, feeling already that this was the strangest day of her life.
But something—maybe the butterflies in her stomach—was telling her to dive down the rabbit hole. Just to see what was on the other side.
Chapter 5
Willow
Given her very finite income, Willow had only ever walked past most of the posh restaurants of downtown Houston. Nearing them now, she was stricken with anxiety. Beneath her dress, she knew her legs were tanned and firm from her long runs, and her body was the stuff of athletic magazines. But she felt certain that the people around her could see how cheap her clothing really was.
She continued to fidget as she entered the restaurant, hoping beyond hope that the Sheikh wasn’t perched somewhere, watching her as she made her awkward way toward his table.
She approached the maître d’, feeling small, like a child. Smoothing her hair, she said, “Hello. I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“I’m sorry?” the maître d’ asked, glaring at her. “You’re going to need to speak up.”
Willow swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet someone. Sheikh Ibrahim.”
“Right this way,” the man said, lifting his nose.
He marched toward the dining room, guiding Willow through seas of white tablecloths and sparkling chandeliers. Willow felt oddly dizzy, being surrounded by such wealth, and she brought her hands together, clenching them tightly.
In the furthest room, the tables were fewer and farther between. In one corner was a bar, where a bored-looking bartender with a curled mustache stood. At the table in the opposite corner, the Sheikh was already situated, sipping what looked like a whiskey. When he saw Willow, he stood up and bowed his head in a gentlemanly fashion.
“Willow,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it, as if this were a business deal. “So glad you found the place.”
Willow wanted to laugh at this. She’d lived in Houston all her life, and Dans les Etoiles was a veritable institution.
But instead, she said, “Of course. You come here often?”
“About once a week, when I’m in town,” Ibrahim replied, sitting back in his chair. “Please, for the lady. A cocktail? What do you like?” he said, holding the bartender’s attention.
“Um,” Willow said, her wind whirling. “I suppose I’ll just stick with wine.”
“Wine. Of course. Does Bordeaux suit you?”
“Sure,” Willow said, feeling clumsy.
She perched on the edge of her chair, immediately enraptured with how handsome this man was. He gave her that smile once more, flashing his teeth, and then clasped his hands over the white table cloth. He was wearing a gorgeous gold watch, something that probably cost more than everything in Willow’s entire apartment.
She cleared her throat. “Truth be told, I don’t know much about wine,” she offered, feeling it best to be at least a bit honest.
“Neither does anyone else here,” the Sheikh joked, waving his hand toward the crowd. “They’re all pretending. That’s all life is, don’t you think? Fake it till you make it, and all that.”
Willow glanced around her at the sea of Houston’s finest, the upper echelon of the world in which she’d grown up. She’d long felt she could never compete with these people, let alone be viewed by them in a similar setting.
“I don’t know…” she said, giving Ibrahim a shy smile.
“Trust me. No one knows much about wine outside of Europe, really. Heck, I don’t know anything about wine, just because I’ve spent so much time over here, in Texas. This is the land of barbecue. It’s not the land of Bordeaux. But it has its payoffs, I think,” Ibrahim said.
As if on cue, the server appeared back with the bottle of wine and poured them both deep glasses of the burgundy liquid. Willow made momentary eye contact with the Sheikh before lowering her eyes, staring at the white tablecloth awkwardly.
Ibrahim raised his glass in a toast, so she followed suit. They clinked their glasses together, with the Sheikh saying, “Thank you for meeting me here today. This is to the success of your brilliant race.”
“My legs still feel like rubber,” Willow said, chuckling. She sipped the wine slowly, taking in the many layers of flavor.
“I can only imagine,” Ibrahim replied.
Gesturing for the server, he ordered them a string of items from the menu—small plates, he explained—and said to bring them throughout the evening.
“Any time we look a bit peckish, bring another dish,” he said, giving the server a wink. “I want this woman well-fed. She just ran a marathon, you know.”
The server bowed his head in response, clearly accustomed to taking orders from people like the Sheikh. Willow’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her normal life of asking for dollar tacos from the side of a truck hadn’t prepared her for such high-caliber dining.
Ibrahim turned his full attention to her, then, tilting his head. He seemed to be inspecting her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her golden hair, her shapely body. Willow felt strange and shifted in her chair, hunting for something to say.
“So. I hate to be so forward,” she began. “But I was wondering why exactly you wanted to meet with me today? The photo in the paper. The mix-up. But what does it have to do with…um…reality?”
“Ah. Yes,” the Sheikh said, rubbing his palms together. “I like that you’re not wasting time. I appreciate that in anyone. In businesspeople. In girlfriends…” He trailed off, taking a long sip of his wine. “Right. The truth of it is, the mix-up actually works in our favor.”
“But what about your fiancée?” Willow asked, her throat feeling tight. “I’m sure she wasn’t too happy about that.”
“That’s the thing, Willow. She’s no longer my fiancée. Things have been falling apart between us for a long time, and we finally ended things yesterday,” he explained.
Willow thought it was curious that his face showed no sense of sadness—he didn’t pause to mourn the relationship’s recent death.
“Oh. I see,” Willow said. “I’ve heard about your reputation around here,” she continued. “Your, uh, nickname…”
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“The Playboy Sheikh?” Ibrahim laughed, his face lighting up. “I loved when they coined that nickname. That was almost three years ago, now, and I think I really leaned into it.”
Despite the shallowness of his words, Willow found herself drawn to his smile, the way he tilted his head when he talked. She had to blink several times, just to force herself to concentrate again.
“What was that?” she asked, feeling dizzy. Perhaps it was the wine.
“I was saying that I’m very, very grateful that things are over with Eva. She wasn’t exactly the type of woman I wanted to take home to meet my mother, if you know what I mean. Very much the definition of a gold-digger.”
“It wasn’t love, then?” Willow asked, knowing just how foolish she sounded, seconds after the words left her mouth.
“Hmm?”
The sheikh lifted his fork and dove into a dish of roasted eggplant with paprika and aioli, taking it to his mouth and chewing slowly. He closed his eyes, taking in every flavor, then wiped his napkin across his lips and looked back at her, clearly avoiding the question.
“Anyway, with your photo already in the paper right beside mine, I was thinking you would be perfect to play the role of my fiancée, in my home country.”
Willow wasn’t initially sure if she’d heard him correctly.
“What do you mean? Go with you to your home country?”
“Yes. You see, as a royal, I’m expected to return and present my fiancée, within the month. Before my thirtieth birthday, to be completely frank. And, if you do this one-time performance—get your photo taken, maybe say a few words to a journalist, nothing big—then I will repay you ten-fold. The paper said you’ve raised one hundred thousand dollars for Jayne’s syndrome, right?”
Willow nodded, her lips parting slowly. Could he really mean what he was saying?
“Ten-fold?”
“That’s right. I’ll give you a million dollars if you agree to play the role of my fiancée, no strings attached. What do you say?” His eyes sparkled after he asked the question, and he leaned back casually in his chair as if propositions like this were everyday occurrences for him.