by Holly Rayner
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…”
“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.
Willow tried to gather her thoughts. After stuttering for a second, she said, “I don’t know if you know anything about me at all, but I’m definitely not an actress—”
“That shouldn’t be an issue,” the Sheikh interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “And, actually, I’ve read that you are in fact something of an actress. You work in a call center, right?”
“So…?” Willow said, feeling almost uncomfortable. She suddenly felt that the Sheikh knew far more about her than she did about him. She felt naked, and exposed.
“So, that means you pretend to be happy and interested and ‘on’ in every sense, for hundreds of people every single day. I’m asking you to do just exactly that: smile, nod, all that—for my country. You can essentially skate by with your beauty, anyway. Stand there and look pretty, as the phrase goes.”
Stand there and look pretty? Willow internally snickered at the words, her heart hammering. Could she actually pull something like this off? It didn’t seem likely. And yet, she couldn’t turn a sum like that down.
“With a million dollars, they could make huge leaps in research…” she murmured, almost to herself.
“That’s right,” the Sheikh said, leaning in closer to her.
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand for a moment, making a bolt of electricity shoot up and down her spine.
“I know that you and your parents went through worlds of pain, after your brother’s death. And I appreciate how hard you’ve worked for this cause. Know that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been given this chance for a reason. I’m able to help you, your cause, and the memory of your brother. And you’re able to, well…”
“Help you lie to your country?” Willow asked, exhaling sharply.
“I don’t want it to come off so sour,” the Sheikh said, giving her a wink. “They have different customs back home. And I just want them to believe I’m all right.”
Willow didn’t speak for a moment. Reaching for the stack of toasted baguette pieces, she munched at the edge of one. The warmth of it gave her new life. Over and over again, her thoughts spun from Why not? to Don’t trust him. Regardless, the one million dollars constantly trumped any other idea.
“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll do it.” Reaching forward, she gripped the Sheikh’s hand and shook it, sealing her word. “Am I going to regret this?”
“I don’t think you will,” Ibrahim said with a laugh. “I think you should think of it as the best vacation of your enti
re life. A vacation from Houston, a vacation from the call center…”
“I haven’t left the city in almost three years,” Willow said, offering him a small smile. Her stomach clenched at the sudden idea of getting on a plane with that gorgeous billionaire and flying halfway around the world. “But won’t they know I’m not your typical model girlfriend?”
The Sheikh’s eyes shone mysteriously, and Willow wasn’t entirely sure how to categorize his expression. But, after a long, almost dramatic pause, he answered her.
“I think you’ll do better than you think, Willow. Gorgeous looks aren’t just reserved for models. They’re right here, in a Houston native who’s stuck in a call center and plotting to save the world.”
Chapter 6
Willow
“So, he told you he thought you were beautiful?” Summer exclaimed. She threw herself from the edge of Willow’s bed, bouncing on the deep carpet. “Beautiful enough to be his fake fiancée?”
“Apparently, although he didn’t specifically use those words…”
Willow sighed. She gazed down at her bedspread, where her clothes were arranged, stacked in neat piles. She had attempted to pack for a week in Rebai, knowing that nearly none of her clothes were appropriate for the high-caliber events she would surely be swept up in.
Summer clucked her tongue at the spread of dresses and shoes, murmuring, “Maybe he can take you shopping when you get there. He can’t expect you to have a wardrobe prepared for something like this.”
“He probably can’t empathize with the joys of the sale rack,” Willow said, trying to find humor in it.
“I’m guessing not,” Summer said, snorting. “Well, what are you going to wear to the airport? Maybe this yellow dress? It looks so good with your hair.”
Willow’s nostrils flared. Resting her hands on either side of her trim waist, she gave Summer a pained expression as another wave of fear crashed over her. Said anxiety waves were coming closer and closer together, now that her flight was leaving the following day. A private jet, of all things. She hadn’t even flown since she was a kid.
“Am I doing the right thing?” she asked, her voice almost a whimper. “Deceiving an entire nation?”
“This isn’t your problem, Willow,” Summer said. “He needs a quick fix for a tricky situation. He’ll feed you and give you endless amounts of wine, and show you one of the most beautiful countries in the world. And afterwards, you’ll get a million dollars for your fundraising—and yourself. You deserve this.”
She gave Willow a pointed look, then reached for the bag of almonds that was sitting on the windowsill. Tossing a few into her mouth, she chewed slowly, thinking for a moment before continuing. “If I could do it, I would. But you’re the one who was chosen by fate, or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” Willow echoed with a sigh.
“Know that you can call me anytime,” Summer said. “And when you get back, we can laugh about it, and you can tell me all the ridiculous things you had to do and wear and eat, and then we can go back to living the way we always have. Together, fighting the good fight. All right?”
Willow knew her best friend was right.
Sighing, she splayed herself over her folded clothes, her limbs feeling heavy. Somewhere outside, a firetruck sped past, giving a feeling of desperation to the moment with its blaring sirens. Willow’s ears rang for several seconds. She wished she didn’t allow fear to grab a hold of her so tightly.
“Besides,” Summer said. “You just ran a darn marathon. You can do whatever you want if you put your mind to it.”
Willow knew Summer was right. But that didn’t keep her from tossing and turning throughout the night before the flight, anxiety creeping into her brain. At 5:30 a.m., she gave up on sleep and filled her suitcase with the rest of her essentials, watching TV in her living room and waiting for the Sheikh’s car to arrive.
He’d said his driver would pick her up at 7:30, help her with her bags (she only had one), pick him up, and then whisk them off to the private airport where his jet would be waiting.
The driver appeared outside her apartment building at 7:29, behind the wheel of a long, black vehicle that caught the early morning sun with its spotless wax. The man jumped from the driver’s seat and walked quickly towards the apartment complex. Before he reached her front door, she opened it, giving him a nervous smile.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice sounding strange. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“Of course,” the man said. “I’m Ennis.” He shook Willow’s hand, his face kindly-looking yet professional. “Where are your things?”
“I just have the one suitcase,” Willow said, pointing toward the black bag in the hallway. “I can carry it myself—”
“Nonsense,” Ennis interrupted. He stepped forward, gripped the bag’s handle, and hefted it toward the door. “Come along. The Sheikh doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Not even by beautiful girls like you.”
The way he said it—with such assurance, and such bored neutrality—somehow managed to make Willow even more nervous.
After checking to make sure her door was locked, she scampered down the steps after him and entered the backseat of the car, knowing that she wasn’t meant to sit up front.
Without further small talk, Ennis secured her suitcase in the trunk and started the engine, driving them through the busy streets and then to a shining high-rise apartment building which Willow had passed on her runs nearly every morning since she’d begun her training. Waiting outside was the Sheikh himself, dressed in an immaculate suit—did he even own a pair of jeans?—and already smiling that impossibly perfect smile.
Ennis darted from the driver’s seat and opened the back door for him, giving him a small bow. “Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, Ennis,” Ibrahim said, his voice bright despite the early hour.
Willow forced herself to look at his face as he entered the car, although she was far too nervous to make eye contact. Once he was seated, he leaned toward her and kissed her cheeks on both sides before leaning back against the leather.
“You look quite lovely in yellow,” he said, glancing at her dress. “Although, I must tell you, I’ve had an entire wardrobe put together for you for when we arrive in Rebai.”
Willow felt her shoulders fall with relief. “Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure how that would work.”
“Don’t worry, Willow. I think of everything,” Ibrahim said as he tapped his temple with his pointer finger. Leaning around the back of Ennis’s seat, he called up, “Are we going to get to the airport, or are we going to sit here all morning?”
The private airport was about fifteen miles outside of Houston, stretched across a wide, barren field. Willow soon found herself standing alongside a sleek private jet, gazing up at the nose of it, and feeling a child-like sense of wonder that this contraption would soon be up in the air, above the clouds.
Ennis lowered the staircase from the side of the plane, gesturing for her and Ibrahim to enter. Willow went first, feeling woozy on weak legs.
Once inside, she settled herself in a chair near the back, taking a blanket to drape over her legs since the plane was well air-conditioned. Ibrahim sat across from her, seemingly in his own world, chatting easily with the pilot. It seemed as if they’d known one another for years, that the pilot had made this trip countless times.
“Remember, I’m always here to take the wheel,” Ibrahim said, chuckling.
“That didn’t work out so well last time, boss,” the pilot joked. He winked toward Willow, flashing a large, very on-brand “pilot” smile. “And who is this?”
“This is my fiancée,” Ibrahim said. “Or, as I told you last night, the woman who’s going to be playing my fiancée on TV.”
“Ha. I heard all about this wild man’s scheme,” the pilot said. He reached toward Willow’s hand and shook it, glancing down at her fingers. “But you’re going to need to get the poor girl a ring to wear, aren’t you, Ibrahim?”
“Thanks for reminding me.” Ibrahim reached into his suit pocket and pulled out an elegant black box. With a flourish, he popped it open, allowing the diamond within to speak for itself.
Despite knowing it was all a falsehood, a huge lie, Willow couldn’t help but gape at it.
“Are you sure?” Willow asked, her voice catching in her throat. “That is certainly—expensive looking…”
“Yep, it cost a pretty penny,” Ibrahim said, chuckling. “So I’m going to have to ask you not to lose it, if that’s all right.”
Guided by an unknown force, Willow brought her hand forward and watched as Ibrahim slid the ring onto her fourth finger. As he did, their skin touched, sending that now-familiar jolt of electricity up and down her body. She shivered, wondering what it would feel like if this were actually the real thing.
“Willow?” Ibrahim said, his voice soft.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Will you be my non-lawfully, very fake, pretend fiancée for one week?” he asked, his eyes shining with mirth. “It’s a big thing to ask, I know.”
“I do,” Willow said, giving him a shy smile. “I do.”
A few moments later they were speeding down the runway, leaving Willow fearful, gripping onto her seat for dear life. When they rose into the sky—at quite a sharp angle—she wanted to cry out. But she forced herself to keep her lips pressed together tightly, telling herself, over and over again, that this was routine for both Ibrahim and the pilot. She couldn’t look like a fool.
“Nice takeoff,” the Sheikh said, clapping his hands. “As usual, Bobby.”
The flight was largely uneventful. Ibrahim seemed uninterested in making small talk, leaving Willow several hours to read her book and try to calm her mind. She found herself gazing out the window, reminding herself that she was just a normal girl from Houston. This was the single most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, or would ever happen to her. She wanted to savor every second of it, and dive into it without fear.
