by Holly Rayner
But Calista was already gone.
At the reception, Ophelia listened to speech after speech from their closest friends and family. She was especially surprised and delighted when Tomas stood up to speak.
She almost didn’t recognize him. He’d grown out his hair a bit, and put on a little weight, sure, but it was more than that. Ophelia realized now how tired he must have been, now that she saw him so full of life and energy. Last she’d heard from him, he was living upstate. She was happy it suited him so well.
“Everyone, everyone, gather ’round!” Tomas began, with giggles from the dancers present who recognized his words and the way he said them. “Many of you know me, but for those that don’t, I’m the lucky, lucky man who got to see the beginning of Ophelia’s career. She’s told me before that she’s grateful to me for discovering her, but I don’t think that’s anything like the truth. She wandered in, bursting with raw talent, and it was all I could do to keep up with her!”
There was laughter at that, and Ophelia felt her face flush, but not in an unpleasant way.
“I could talk about Ophelia all day, and what a joy it was to watch her grow as a dancer in those early years in New York. But we don’t have all day. So, instead, I’m going to talk about Salim.
“Before they were engaged, I had met Salim exactly one time. And in the space of that one conversation, he convinced me to hand over control of the one thing in the world that I had poured my professional heart into for the last thirty years.
“I had been meaning to go, and wanting to find a new life, but I hadn’t found anyone that I believed would be able to really nurture what I had built. It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d been in talks with the best people I could find. But I couldn’t find anyone who convinced me that it was safe to step away.
“I wish I could tell you the one sentence that won me over and convinced me that this man, who had just come in—and for all I could tell, hadn’t seen a ballet before in his life—was the one to take over. But it wasn’t a word, or a sentence. It was his passion. He came in out of the cold, and he was full of dance. He was full of love. He just didn’t know either of those things yet.”
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, from those who knew the more in-depth story of how they had met. There were some confused looks from others, but Tomas continued on before those looks turned to questions.
“And it didn’t hurt either when he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.’ He corrected himself, and said he meant the company, but I heard what he said, and I heard what he meant, and I am prouder than ever that he is keeping his promise. To Salim and Ophelia!”
“To Salim and Ophelia!” the crowd cheered.
When the speeches were over, Ophelia felt Salim’s hand on her arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked her, just loudly enough for her to hear.
She smiled through the tears in her eyes.
“I am. So much happier than I have the words to tell you. I can’t imagine anything making this day any better.”
He grinned, and it was a grin that Ophelia knew well. It was a grin that always meant he was about to surprise her.
“That feels like a failure of imagination. Just wait right here.”
With that, he stood, and strode towards the piano.
“Attention, everyone,” he said into the mic. As the room quieted down again to hear him, Ophelia’s heart skipped a beat.
“I know we’ve just had all of these wonderful speeches, and I want to let you all know how happy I am that each and every one of you—and yes, I mean every one of you—” he winked in Nikolai’s general direction, “could make it. Today is a very special day for Ophelia and me, and it will be the first in a lifetime of special days between us.”
As he spoke, he began playing with the keys, fiddling with melodies and weaving them together.
“But every time I sit down at the piano, I’m reminded of another special day in our relationship. It was a day that showed me both how generous and caring she is, and also how brave and fearless in pursuing what she wants. It wasn’t long after we met, and I had told Ophelia that I had tried and failed to learn piano, many years ago. And without a moment’s hesitation, she taught me.”
His tinkering with the notes before him began to evolve and intensify, until clear, consistent melodies made themselves known.
“So Ophelia, love of my life, this is for you.”
He turned his head away from the mic, and began to focus on the keys. And, as he did, Ophelia was blown away.
Their weekly piano lessons had been something that Ophelia had treasured for the first year of their relationship. Salim had been a quick study, and had seemed to want to learn as much as possible, as though he needed to impress her. It wasn’t long before he outpaced her as a student, and there wasn’t much more that she could teach him.
She’d known that he had found another teacher, and had continued practicing, but she had always found it a little odd that he never played in front of her anymore. Now, listening to him play, she understood why. It was a gift to her. A brilliant surprise, nearly two years in the making.
His focus when playing had always been deeply attractive to her, but now, it was matched by his skill. He was an artist with the keys in a way that Ophelia had wanted to be many years ago, before dancing had pulled away her interest.
By the time the piece was finished, everyone in the room was on their feet applauding, and the tears of joy that had been in Ophelia’s eyes before were spilling down her cheeks. The band was already playing, picking up the strings of the melodies from Salim’s piano piece, and pulling them into a more upbeat, danceable tune. Salim stood, and walked to where Ophelia was standing, applauding her husband.
Deftly, he took her hand and led her out to the dance floor.
Ophelia hadn’t wanted to choreograph and rehearse a first dance. She knew it was something that people often did, but to her, it just felt too much like work. Instead, she’d thought that, in the moment, the right movements would surely come to them.
And they did. Salim was a surefooted lead, and she felt safe and secure to spin and move with him across the floor. Of all the dances that she had been fortunate to perform, this was the one, and this was the audience, that she liked the best.
As the song began to change, their family, friends, and Ophelia’s fellow dancers joined them out on the dance floor, each bringing their own personalities to the music. Everywhere that Ophelia looked, she found herself surrounded by a joyful, beautiful, vibrant moving tapestry of joy and love and laughter.
And around her, Salim’s arms, guiding her and letting her improvise, always just enough of both. Always welcome.
“What are you thinking, my love?” he asked her, when he had her ear close enough to his mouth to speak.
A lump rose up in her throat, her happiness too great to even let her say the words aloud. But she swallowed it down.
“I’m thinking that it was all worth it,” she said, treasuring the closeness of his body to hers. “All the late nights, all the missed opportunities. All the stress and the striving and the frustration and the pain. Every bit of it was worth it. Because without all of that, I’d never have found my way here. I’d never have found you, and you’d never have given me the happiest night of my life.”
He drew her even closer.
“And you’d never have given me mine.”
As they danced the night away, Ophelia felt as though all of her life before this melted away into nothing. It was only what had led her here. This man, and this life, was her future.
The End
The Sheikh’s ASAP Bride
Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden wi
thout the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Time for a tease!
Up next I’ve included the first few chapters of another book from my Sheikh’s New Bride series, The Sheikh’s ASAP Bride
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
Willow
Willow Hart slipped long, slender arms through her running T-shirt and yanked it over her head. Her golden blond hair, recently cut short into a fashionable-yet-practical bob, lifted slightly in the breeze. Blinking up at her best friend, the electric Summer Delgado—in many ways her opposite, with her dark features and curvy shape—she grimaced.
“All right. Let’s get this over with,” she sighed.
“Don’t say it like that,” Summer said, wielding her large, bulky camera. “You know as well as I do that you look better in running gear than most people. Might as well flaunt what you’ve got, right?”
“That’s not really the point of the fundraiser, Sum,” Willow scoffed.
Ignoring that comment, Summer pointed toward a rock, along the edge of the small park. Beyond it, the Houston skyline was visible, sparkling beneath a particularly bright blue sky. It was the end of May, and summer was already in full force.
“Stand up there. I’ll just take a few shots and then we can go grab margaritas,” Summer said. “I’m already scorched.”
Willow stood and arched her back, giving Summer a large, toothy grin. Her friend snapped away, taking several shots as Willow turned her body, tossing her hair.
“I always knew you were a model, deep down,” Summer teased her.
“Whatever,” Willow said, chuckling. Inside, her stomach churned with embarrassment. She wasn’t accustomed to being the center of attention. Her regular life spoke of nothing but being a cog in a machine. She worked in the customer service department of a large corporation, answering nearly three hundred phone calls a day, each time with a chipper, “Hi. This is Willow. How may I help you?”
And, nearly every single person who called? They answered not with a casual tale of what they really needed. No. Rather, they singled her out, asking her, “What? Willow? Like the tree?” And then they laughed in that horrible, guffawing way that made Willow feel smaller than she was. At twenty-five years old, she’d long sensed she had a bigger purpose in life.
And this fundraiser was a part of that.
“I think I’ve got what I need,” Summer said, taking a last glance at the tiny screen on her camera. “And we’ve still got thirty minutes till the end of your lunch hour, right?”
“Something like that,” Willow said. “Maybe forty, even. Or forever, if I decide never to go back.” She scampered toward her friend, leaning into the camera to take a gander. “These are really going in the Star?”
“I’m still waiting on clearance from my editor, but—truth be told—I’ve already written the piece,” Summer replied, giving Willow a shrug and a wink. “Eight hundred words all about how Willow Hart, on the surface, is a normal 25-year-old girl. But rather than laze away her Saturdays, she runs through them: raising thousands of dollars for children affected with Jayne’s syndrome. She’s not only beautiful, stunning, gorgeous—”
“Stop. You’re making me blush,” Willow sighed, glancing back toward the car.
“—she’s also the best and most selfless person this writer knows,” Summer continued, sliding into her journalist voice. It boomed out across the park.
Willow allowed silence to fall between them. Summer slid her hand across Willow’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug.
“Come on. Don’t get all somber on me. I really think that showing what you’ve done with this fundraiser could boot some more people into action. If you can raise a hundred thousand dollars—and run twenty-six miles—then what’s stopping the rest of them? It’s an inspirational story. And having it in print can really do nothing more than help your cause. They might even donate, if it’s published in time for Saturday’s race…”
“I know. I know,” Willow said. “Just not used to all the attention. But I’m guessing your editor won’t approve a fluff piece.”
“We’ll see,” Summer said, giving her a dazzling smile. Slipping her arm through Willow’s, she tugged her back toward her bright red truck. Tossing her camera bag into the backseat, she sat in the driver’s seat, watching Willow as she inspected her messy blond bob. “You aren’t regretting that cut, are you?”
“I don’t look like myself anymore,” Willow said, chuckling slightly. “I give myself a double-take every time I see a mirror.”
“I think it’s the most stylish thing you’ve done in years,” Summer told her. “Ever since you threw away that ’80s jacket. That did wonders for your wardrobe.”
Willow swatted her friend on the upper arm, loving the smile that crept across her cheeks. The girls had been friends for fifteen years, since they’d been giggling ten-year-olds at their suburban elementary school. That had been five years before Jayne’s syndrome had taken Willow’s younger brother, Paul, and just three years before his diagnosis.
Willow could still remember those lost, hot nights, sobbing on the back porch of Summer’s parents’ house. Summer had been the friend responsible for pulling Willow through the darkest time of her life. And she’d been the one to bring up the possibility of fundraising, when Willow had been nineteen and mid-way through her first year at college. “You can raise awareness while honoring Paul’s memory,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And he’ll know. Somehow, he’ll know.”
“Where are we going?” Willow asked, breaking from her reverie as her friend turned the truck toward downtown.
“La Lucha’s fast—and good,” Summer said simply.
“We should have skipped the photos and gone straight to lunch,” Willow said. “Because there’s no way your editor is approving that story. Those photos will never see the light of day.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Summer countered, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially.
La Lucha was a motorhome-turned-taco-truck, with an awning and outdoor seating. The man at the grill was cooking a selection of sizzling onions and peppers and other vegetables, and gave them a toothy grin as they entered.
“Senoritas!” he cried out. “Welcome. You came just in time. We’re nearly out of pork carnitas.”
“You know us too well, Jorge,” Summer said, chuckling. “And the taquitos of the day. We’ll have two of those, as well.”
“And margaritas,” Willow added, giving her friend a soft jab with her elbow. “Just one. So I can get through the rest of these phone calls…”
“I don’t know why you don’t find a better job. One you don’t have to drink to get through,” Summer said, lifting a single eyebrow. “When we were growing up, you had a million ideas of what you wanted…”
“I just want to focus on fundraising.”
“I know. I know you do,” Summer sighed. She gripped the tray of prepared tacos, watching as Jorge shook up their margaritas. The ice cubes clacked together, tuning the mixer into a momentary maraca. “Just promise me you’re not too miserable? You’re only twenty-five. I don’t want you to waste away at that call center. Most people you work with are in their fifties…”
As they took their seats at one of the plastic outdoor tables, Summer’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Willow took a small bite of her taco, closing her eyes at the intensity of the flavor. As her eyes opened, Summer clapped her hands together, all but shrieking.
“Guess what, baby-cakes?” she cried.
Willow nearly dropped her taco.
“What is it?”
“My editor’s approved the story! It’s going in the local interest section tomorrow morning! That leaves you an entire day to raise more money before the marathon.” Summer’s eyes
sparkled with glee.
Willow’s heart pumped quickly. Swiping her napkin across her lips, she tried to find the right words to say. A million feelings raced through her: there was slight embarrassment, at the idea of her photo being circulated all over the city; but more than anything, she was filled with a sense of sheer excitement and triumph.
“Come on. Don’t overthink this,” Summer said, squeezing her hand across the table. “You’ve been putting your heart and soul into this for years. Just let yourself be famous for a single second. And then, when you cross that finish line on Saturday, you’ll know that you did everything you could. For Paul. And for everyone suffering from Jayne’s.”
“I know. I know.” Willow gripped her margarita and brought her lips around the end of the straw, sucking up the tart liquid. Immediately, guilt flooded her. “I really shouldn’t have this. I’ve been training non-stop for this marathon.”
“You deserve a little break, hon,” Summer said, diving into her own food. “And if you can’t finish the marg, know that I’ll pick up the slack. I’m just that good of a friend.”
“Ha,” Willow said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “I know I can always count on you.”
“Not at the race, though. That’s all on you,” Summer said, chuckling.
The girls inhaled their tacos, taquitos, and margaritas in the next fifteen minutes, chatting endlessly in the stream-of-consciousness way that accompanies the kinds of best friends who haven’t left each other’s sides for fifteen years.
Willow wasn’t entirely sure, sometimes, if she and Summer even needed to speak their thoughts out loud. Rather, they could glance at one another and see the thoughts clearly, glimmering behind one another’s eyes.
“Come on,” Summer said, tossing their trash into the nearby can. “I know your boss gets antsy if you’re even a minute late. We’ve gotta run.”
