by Holly Rayner
In fact, the very reason he hadn’t wanted news of his engagement to leak was to ensure that his playboy lifestyle could continue, even after the “marriage” had gone through back home. He would marry because that’s what his mother wanted for him, and because he would do almost anything to make her happy. But he wasn’t prepared to give up on a life he loved. The women. The raucous parties. The fact that he was the most eligible bachelor in all of Texas.
But this had created a serious issue. Eva had been correct in this assumption. His mother expected him to bring his bride home in only a month: in time to marry before his thirtieth birthday. Already, she’d begun the preparations for the wedding, sending him a list of the many, many guests she’d already invited, along with ideas for flowers, menus, and the very best seamstresses who could produce the wedding dress.
Ibrahim couldn’t imagine something less appealing than telling his entire country that the marriage was being called off. Slipping his fingers through his thick black hair, he stared down at his phone on the countertop, knowing that a phone call to his mother was a necessity.
“It just didn’t work out,” he tried out, speaking aloud. “She and I just couldn’t see eye to eye, Mother. You know? Sometimes these things just don’t pan out the way we think…”
But the thought of letting her down like that sent a stabbing pain through his heart. Pacing back toward his balcony, he stared out over Houston, taking stock of the streets, the skyline.
Someone, somewhere must be willing to take my money, marry me, and then keep her pretty mouth shut… he thought. Perhaps an actress. Someone prime and ready for her breakout role as “wife of the Sheikh.” He’d teach her the right things to say. He’d inform her about his customs, ensure that she got along well with his mother. In many respects, this would be far better than bringing that airhead model back. Like sculpting a bride from thin air…
As if on cue, his phone began to buzz on the counter. Ibrahim reached for it and noted that his mother, Amira, was dialing from across the ocean. At ten hours ahead, it was already six in the evening in Rebai.
Probably, Amira had been itching all day to call him about one particular of the wedding or another. Flowers, maybe, or how many cousins she would demand to be in his wedding party. Out of the twenty-eight cousins he had, he was sure she would include at least ten.
“Mother!” Ibrahim said into the phone, sounding lighthearted and alive: very unlike the man who’d just kicked his potential fiancée out the door. “What a lovely surprise, so early in the morning.”
“Early? Darling, you must work on waking up at a reasonable hour,” Amira said. “If you’re going to be a married man, you can’t very well laze about all day. Especially when you have children…”
“Mom, you know we’re not just going to rush out and get pregnant the minute we’re married,” Ibrahim said, scrunching up his nose. Already, he was beginning to chicken out on telling her the truth.
“You know, darling. I didn’t imagine that I would see my future daughter-in-law’s photo in the newspaper before I actually got to meet her in person. My, what a beauty she is,” Amira said, sighing into the phone.
Ibrahim concealed a shocked gasp with a coughing fit. Bolting upright, he moved toward his laptop, his fingers flicking nervously against the keys. “Oh? What have you seen?”
“Just the gossip section of the Houston Star, darling. We didn’t speak for so long, I was reduced to checking what the papers were saying about you.”
“I didn’t realize you were stalking me so religiously, Mother,” Ibrahim said, his heartbeat speeding in his chest.
“The gossip column, Ibrahim. I didn’t imagine one of my sons would ever wind up there. Although, I suppose, in America, you must be something of a celebrity. Certainly a self-made man, in your own right. Is that not so?”
Ibrahim couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t comprehend the stupidity of it: that already, hours after Eva had blurted out the news of their “engagement,” the local paper had run a story on it. Soon, the entire world would know the truth.
Once one paper got a hold of the story, it would spread like wildfire. “Ibrahim, the ‘Playboy Sheikh,’ engaged!” the world’s press would cry out. And, slowly, surely, his playboy name—and life—would die out.
He shuddered, typing his own name into the search engine and seeing page after page of headlines spring up. “Sheikh Ibrahim Engaged to Model.” Shoot.
“I suppose the gossip column will write about anything,” Ibrahim sighed, his nostrils flaring. Inwardly, he was growing more and more horrified. Life as he knew it was slipping through his fingers. “You know how they love to exaggerate—and how a juicy story trumps anything based on fact.”
“Well, I should hope that the ‘playboy’ stuff is a bit overdone,” Amira replied. “But I’ll come back to that later. You didn’t tell me your fiancée was a beautiful blonde—we’ll have to totally rethink the color scheme!”
Blonde?
Ibrahim blinked several times, wondering if he’d heard his mother correctly. Eva was a dark brunette, with cat-like eyes and a severe expression.
But, after a few clicks on the website of the Houston Star, the Sheikh found himself staring at a bright-eyed blonde posing awkwardly in running gear, the Houston skyline glinting behind her.
“Um. Mother?” Ibrahim said, confusion filling him. “You’ve actually caught me at a bad time. Do you mind if I call you back?”
“No time is a good time for you, is it?” his mother teased. “Not when you’re falling in love with someone. All right. Call me later on, but not too late. Remember, I’m ten hours ahead.”
“I’ve never forgotten, Mother,” Ibrahim said calmly. “And I never will.”
Moments later, he was steaming, reading the article in the Houston Star and trying to comprehend the switch-up. The information in the article was technically true. At least, it was the information Eva had given them, just last night. And the name and details about Eva were true, as well—the underwear model, whom he’d met only a few months before. All that checked out.
But the photograph?
Curious, he began to click through to the other articles in the Star. He scanned articles regarding the local baseball team, the upcoming NFL cheerleader tryouts (where his eyes lingered, if only briefly), and the local fairground’s refurbishing, before finally finding Eva’s photograph. It was a shot from her modeling portfolio: her poised at the bar, clinging to the cocktail with that fiery expression.
The photo highlighted the sharpness of her body, the angular nature of her elbows, something Ibrahim remembered from their few nights lying together. Everything about her was prickly, spiked.
Beside the photograph was an article about something called Jayne’s syndrome, and a young woman who’d raised over a hundred thousand dollars to combat it.
Ibrahim skimmed the article, feeling a familiar pang of sadness as he read about the death of the woman’s brother, and realized—with a jolt—that the blond woman he’d been pictured beside was the very subject of this article. Willow Hart was her name. The “beautiful blonde,” as his mother had called her.
Slowly, his brain began to swirl with a plan. This woman. This Willow Hart—she wanted nothing more than to raise funds for charity. And what on this earth did Ibrahim have, that most people didn’t?
Funds. Mountains and mountains of funds.
Feeling oddly giddy, he dove into the article with the energy of a researcher. With a pen, he began to underline the important facts: when the race began (the next morning! He didn’t have much time), where the route would take the runners, and where it ended. He learned that Willow was aiming to complete the marathon in about four hours (impressive, he thought), and that she would therefore finish the race somewhere around midday.
He’d be there, at the finish line, holding a granola bar and a banana. She’d need the fuel to hear out his plot. And, hopefully, if she was as committed to her cause with as much gumption as he guessed, she
’d agree to a swap: he’d help her, if only she’d help him.
How fortuitous. I’ll play the part of Prince Charming as long as she can fake being a princess for a bit, Ibrahim thought as he closed his laptop.
Stripping down as he walked through his apartment, he entered his sauna naked and sat down, his head leaning back and the air filling with steam around him. Somewhere, in the dismal heat of downtown Houston, Willow Hart didn’t know her life was about to change forever. And, towering above her, in a multi-million-dollar penthouse suite, her knight in shining armor was busy dreaming up all the ways his life would return to normal once he returned to Houston after the wedding.
He’d fall back to his playboy ways, slipping the ring off his finger. His mother would be happy and none the wiser. And, he’d even engage in a little philanthropy at the same time. Talk about two birds with one stone!
Chapter 4
Willow
Summer leapt onto Willow’s bed at a spritely six in the morning, two hours before the race was due to begin. She was wide-eyed, energized with excitement for her best friend’s big day.
Willow let out a long, even moan, putting her arm over her eyes. “Please don’t make me do this,” she groaned.
“Come on, Willow. Only twenty-six miles ahead of you before you and I can chow down on some tacos,” Summer said, bouncing on the bed beside her still-half-sleeping friend. “I promise that I’ll match you, taco for taco. Even though you’re the only one who will deserve it.”
“Ha,” Willow said, rolling onto her side. “Can I just sleep for five more hours?”
“No way. We need to leave for registration in a half hour. You said you wouldn’t need any more time!”
Willow grunted, still rolled up like a burrito in her blanket. After a deep inhale, she smelled coffee brewing in the pot and allowed her eyes to crack open.
“It’ll be over soon,” she sighed, already feeling the strain of her muscles. “What did I get myself into?”
“Come on. Don’t think about it that way,” Summer said. She hopped from the bed and walked toward the kitchen, draining the coffee pot into two large, logoed mugs, souvenirs from their freshman year.
“Remember when we used to drink vodka from these in college?”
“Don’t remind me,” Willow said, dragging herself up from her bed. Reaching skyward, she felt her back crack. She wore only a long, ratty T-shirt, a pair of socks, and some underwear. As she reached for her coffee mug, she heard Summer let out a sigh.
“What?” Willow asked, frowning slightly.
“If only I looked as good as you do after just rolling out of bed,” Summer said, chuckling. “It’s that blond hair, I swear. You look perpetually like you’re in some advertisement for Californian surfing.”
“Ha. I seriously doubt that,” Willow said. After a long sip of her coffee, her brain began to fizz with life. “Hey. Did you ever get that photograph worked out? The one from yesterday?”
Summer’s gaze drifted toward the floor. “Unfortunately, editorial had about a million problems with today’s issue as well, which means that issue has now fallen to the back burner. They told me that everybody who’s going to look at the gossip section has already looked at it, and that editing something that’s never going to be looked at again is kind of a waste of time.” Summer rolled her eyes.
“I get it. I get it,” Willow sighed, dabbing at her forehead. Already, though it was before dawn, she felt on the fringe of sweating. “Well, shoot. I guess I won’t be able to use that one in my scrapbook collection.”
“You could. Right next to that hunky Sheikh,” Summer teased.
“Right. As if.”
Leaping toward her closet, Willow pulled out her running outfit for the day, slid a headband over her hair, and then headed toward the door. Her brain and body raced with adrenaline for the day ahead.
“Not so fast!” Summer cried. Reaching into the oven, she drew out a tray of blueberry muffins. The aroma wafted over the kitchen, filling Willow’s nose. “Eat at least three of these. They’ll give you strength. You’re gonna need it!”
“What time did you get here to bake these?” Willow asked, incredulous. “I only gave you that key for emergencies!”
“Come on. I tried a new recipe,” Summer said, grinning broadly. “And if you don’t try one, I’ll be very, very hurt.”
Rolling her eyes, Willow grabbed a muffin from the tray, careful not to burn the tips of her fingers. Taking a large bite, she felt the blueberries burst in her mouth, spiced lightly with cinnamon.
“Whoa,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth to catch the crumbs. “These are…incredible.”
“I told you,” Summer said, taking a massive bite of one and spilling crumbs over the countertop. “Oops.”
“You barge in here, you make a mess in my kitchen…” Willow teased, flashing a bright smile. Already, her energy was on the rise. Her muscles pumped as she bounced on her toes, ready to charge ahead. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Summer drove Willow right to the starting line. Once Willow got registered, both girls sat in amicable silence, munching on muffins and watching as the sun crested over a grey Houston. Around them, dozens of runners had already begun to stretch, sliding sweatbands on and grunting “good luck” to one another.
Willow hopped out after she finished her third muffin—as promised—and gave Summer a final wave.
“Remember!” Summer called. “If you don’t beat your PB, we can’t be friends anymore.”
“I’m so glad you’re here to support me,” Willow said sarcastically, before closing the door. “Love you,” she mouthed through the window.
“See you at the finish line!” Summer chirped back.
Feeling her first sputtering of fear, Willow stretched near the start line, glancing around at her fellow runners. Directly to her left was a group of spritely-looking teenagers, all bouncing on bright white tennis shoes. Their muscles were gleaming, strong and toned, beneath pert and perfect torsos. They didn’t have much to carry with them, yet they had the muscle machinery to carry them far. There was no possible way Willow could keep up with them.
To her right, Willow spotted a group of burly men: muscled and top-heavy, with disproportionately thin legs. She sniffed, knowing that they would surely bottom out after the six-mile mark, having to walk the rest of the way. Pacing alongside them would burn her out as well. She’d learned that the first time she’d raced, five years before. She’d raised only a thousand dollars that time. A novice year.
Most of the other runners were similar to her: awkward-looking, anxiety making their faces tense. When the gun burst out somewhere ahead of her, Willow began the task of bolting toward the starting line, where her number bib would “activate,” thus giving her an accurate time at the finish.
She eased through the crowd, finding pace with a man and woman who wore knee-high tube socks and chattered amicably for the first mile, mostly to one another. Willow found herself at ease with their chatter, as if this was just another morning run. But once she passed the four-mile marker, she was struck with the realization that this was it. It was really happening.
Around her, the crowds had begun to fill in, with people waving and cheering for her, for all of them. Many held signs and waved them from side to side, their elbows cranking in the coming sunlight. A clock near the five-mile marker read that it was already 8:40 a.m., yet Willow felt no hesitation. Somehow, she felt she could have run for forty miles that day, and every day after that.
Blasting ahead of the couple, she eased through the seventh, eighth, and ninth mile before getting a small pain in her right knee and having to slow for a moment. Reaching for a glass of water at the ten-mile marker, she gazed at the faces along the sidelines, hunting for her friends. After tossing the water down her throat (most of it splashing over her face, truth be told), she heard her name somewhere off to the left.
“Willow! That’s my girl! Keep going!” the voice cried out.
Willow s
pun her head toward it, blinking wildly, but ensured her legs kept going, that her body pushed ahead. There, she spotted Summer and two of their other friends, Monica and Anika, waving signs and already sipping at beers.
Willow shook her head, as if she were reprimanding them, but they just cheered her with their beers, crying out, “You can join us after, baby girl! Go! Go!”
Willow did as she was told. She waved wildly and kept moving, passing a group of men who were dressed in Christmas costumes, despite it being summer. Over their tennis shoes, they wore fake slippers with bells that jangled as they moved. Even though they were dressed in funny outfits, the looks on their faces showed they meant business.
In fact, nearly everywhere she looked, Willow was fascinated with this culture of running: people using all of their energy to bolt across twenty-six miles, all in a few hours. It wasn’t normal. But she’d never been particularly interested in normalcy.
When she’d been a kid—maybe eight or nine—she and Paul had been intensely competitive, as siblings tend to be. They’d have their parents time them as they’d raced up and down the driveway, cackling. Oftentimes, they’d become so exhausted that they’d collapse on the grass in a fit of giggles, coloring their skin with green stains.
Willow remembered that, despite Paul being two years younger than her, he’d almost always won. He’d been built like a machine, like he had been fated to be a sports star. Which was why it had been so bizarre when he’d been transformed into a sad, limp body in a hospital bed.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be back to racing in no time,” she remembered telling him, squeezing at his weak hand. “I bet you’d still beat me, even now.”
“Ha,” Paul had chuckled, clearly paining himself to show a sign of good humor. “You’re ridiculous. I couldn’t move three steps right now.”
“But no one can move three steps quite like you can,” she’d promised.
Memories of Paul carried her for the next several miles, super-charging her energy and making her go extra fast. She felt her blood begin to pump faster and faster through her eardrums as she passed the eighteenth, then the nineteenth, then the twentieth mile, knowing that she was now on the last stretch.
