Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1)

by Donna Alam

  I’m sure I must still be drooling as Matt interrupts my plate filling and gastronomic reverie.

  ‘Hot stuff.’ With a comic wiggle of his brows, he drips green condiment onto his plate. ‘And I don’t just mean the wasabi.’

  It’s corny, but I laugh anyway, regretting it as he places his hand at the small of my back. Could it really be the lip gloss? Plate full now, I turn away and pick up my pace, weaving through tables heavy with linens and glassware, moving just fast enough to avoid his palm. Still pondering the alchemy in a tube of gloss, I happen to glance up, my heart hitting the pit of my gut. I do a cartoon worthy double-take, my feet refusing to move.

  Surely not . . . that couldn’t be . . . Kai?

  Time seems to take on that slow-mo T.V. effect as his head rises, the sun beaming through the tall windows and cresting his head. All that’s missing is the sound of a celestial choir as he looks directly at me, his eyes warmly reflecting recognition, and—I can’t help it—I beam back like a schoolgirl of the very gauche kind. I think I might also hazard a small wave. And by that I mean massive; I may as well have yelled Cooee across the grand space. Then I notice he isn’t alone: a table for two and his plus one is supermodel material.

  My plate quivers, the tremor, I realise, actually in my hands. Willing my feet to move, I try to make sense of Matt’s moving mouth, his concerned face hovering over mine.

  ‘You okay? You’ve gone a little red.’

  Not surprising, considering my insides are on a spin-cycle somewhere between delight and despair. Blame my idiocy on that smutty dream and resulting orgasm? That has to be it. He’s hardly been hit by the ugly stick since I fell off the ladder, and I managed to retain all of my faculties then. My current reaction makes no sense. I’m all . . . agitated. Stimulated. Stirred. And on top of all that, he’s here with someone else.

  Matt. Oh, hell.

  ‘I’m good,’ I squeak belatedly, thrusting my plate into his hands. ‘Can you take this back to the table? I—I think I’ll go and splash some water on my face. You’re right, I am burning. It must be the champagne . . . or something.’ Words fall in a rush, my smile attempting to fool us both. ‘I’ll be right back!’

  As I dash out of the restaurant, Niamh’s words echo in my head. It’s all well and good being who you want to be, but what happens when who you want to do, doesn’t want you?

  Chapter Five

  Blame the bubbles for my reactions?

  My palms are clammy, my stomach swirls as my heart continues jack-hammering.

  Or maybe Matt’s right, maybe I am ill.

  Who am I kidding? The crushing disappointment is a give-away like a swift punch to the ribs. But why do I feel so affected, I barely know him. I’ve had one, albeit stirring, exchange and that bloody dream. Maybe I just need a moment alone, a moment to process my reactions rationally, to have a stiff word with myself.

  Or maybe stiff would be just the thing.

  Avoiding the guy playing a grand piano in the foyer, I spot an oversized chair secluded from general view by a massive parlor palm. Deciding it’s as good a place as any for my self-imposed time-out, I throw myself into it, wishing I could crawl into the upholstery and hide. I’ve sworn off men, my head accepts this, but seems to have forgotten to send the memo to my suddenly rampant lady bits.

  Ridiculous. What’s the use of all this analysis when, clearly, he doesn’t date girls like me?

  Wonder if he does girls like me? On a one-off basis? No. I won’t—

  ‘Hello, Ms Saunders.’

  Suddenly, there he is, standing before me. Beautiful. Unavailable. And causing me to shoot from the chair like an electrocuted cat.

  ‘Kai! What are you doing here? I mean, I didn’t know you were . . . here.’

  ‘Didn’t you just wave at me?’ His sly grin grows as he looks at me, he kind of examines. It’s the best explanation I can come up with. My skin prickles, I feel scrutinized, oddly naked. Nope, not going with that line of thought.

  ‘Wave? I—I thought you were someone else.’ I cringe as the words leave my mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint.’

  As he smirks, idiocy flames in my cheeks, my stomach and heart jarred and seemingly jostling for space.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’ll recover. Eventually,’ he adds, clearly delighted in helping me make a fool of myself. Like I need his help . . .

  Taking my hands in his much larger ones, the warm softness of his lips suddenly brushes my left cheek. The subtle graze of his stubble does funny things to my knees, our noses almost touching as he leans in for a repeat on the other side. God, I hope he doesn’t notice me inhaling. But he’s so close, I can’t help myself. It’s a bit like walking past a bakery—you know it’s going to make you hungry, but you just can’t resist a deep sniff. And he smells so good: an expensive cologne, sort of woody and spicy with an undertone of something zesty. He smells good enough to eat, I don’t tell myself. I also don’t imagine licking him for confirmation. Much.

  ‘How are you?’

  I’m such a deadhead. European style greetings include cheek kisses, apparently even swoon-worthy ones. No need to get wet knicker legs at someone’s hello.

  ‘This is the point where you reciprocate. Answer fine, thank you. Something like that.’ He stares down at me with those amused amber eyes, and I still don’t answer. Can’t really, not that it stops me looking for an appropriate retort. ‘Either you’ve shrunk or you’re smaller than I remember, despite your vertiginous heels.’ His gaze glides the length of my body. ‘Tiny, really.’

  Clearing his throat, his eyes slide away but I know what he means. He’s not exactly as I remembered, either. He’s larger, more striking. Lick-worthy freckles, is that even a thing?

  ‘S-short,’ I stutter. ‘That’s why I wear them so high.’

  ‘Living life on the edge still, I see.’ His eyes seem to glint in the light, full of wicked thought. ‘You know, I won’t always be there to catch you, though I’d love to be around next time you go down.’ Blinking once, he adds smoothly, ‘Fall, I mean.’

  I’m pretty sure I know exactly what he means as I stand with my mouth open. Not in invitation, mind you. I just can’t formulate a response, my brain’s wiring fused by his filthy flirting.

  ‘Like an accident waiting to happen,’ he says with a sigh.

  And again, I don’t think he’s referring to my shoes as he slides both hands into his pockets, smiling a little lopsidedly. I’d like to say it’s a secretive kind of smile but as I’m likely the colour of passata, there’s not much secret about what his words are doing to me. And despite my heightened colouring, I like it. Feel lit from within. What the hell?

  ‘Would you allow me to show you some of the city this afternoon? That is, if your brunch is over, of course.’

  ‘Yes . . . no, I mean, I haven’t eaten. I haven’t been here long, just drank a little. Well, a little more than I’m used to, that’s for sure.’ My mouth twists in a grimace. It’s an awful habit and one I really need to break, now more than ever before this poised and, quite frankly, do-able man. Inhale. ‘I mean, thank you, but I’m here with friends. And, don’t you already have . . . plans? A date? I saw you with a woman.’ Engage brain, talk less!

  ‘My brunch is over and my date isn’t.’ The date who isn’t a date or the date who didn’t eat? ‘And of course, you have plans. Let me at least walk you back to your table.’ Taking my passive hand, he threads it through the crook of his arm, an inexplicable flare instantly heating the pit of my stomach. ‘Are you here with a particular friend?’

  ‘No.’

  Maybe I shouldn’t have answered so fast, watching the corner of his mouth curl. Before I have a chance to play it down, Niamh’s voice interrupts us from across the lobby and I grind to a halt.

  ‘Kitty-Kat, Kitty-Kat, where the ‘feck have you been?’ Her voice lowers as she draws closer. ‘Don’t tell me—London. But he doesn’t look like a queen.’ Judging by her pink chee
ks and sniggers, she’s had some luck with the buff one, or a very attentive waiter.

  ‘Kitty-Kat?’ Kai asks with half a laugh.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I grumble. ‘I’m not even a fan of cats. They freak me out.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he replies in a low rumble. ‘A little pussy never hurt anyone.’

  I think my mouth might be open again. Surely I can’t have interpreted that right. Before I can decide to be offended or turned on, Niamh is at my side.

  ‘No wonder you’ve ditched us, Miss,’ she admonishes, not so surreptitiously checking Kai out. ‘Who’s your man?’

  ‘Niamh, this is Kai.’ I pull my arm from his. ‘He works at the boys’ school at Al Mishael.’ At least I think he does. As explanations go, it’ll do for now.

  Charm personified, Kai’s voice is almost a purr as he takes her hand and I’m strangely satisfied when he forgoes her European hello.

  ‘I was trying to persuade Kate to let me show her some of Dubai this afternoon. You wouldn’t mind if I stole her, would you? It’s such a beautiful afternoon.’ Lashes, thick and black, accentuate his wide eyes. I’d almost swear he flutters them a bit, too.

  ‘That so?’ Releasing his hand, Niamh slides a significant look in my direction. ‘Dark horse,’ she almost whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief as she links her arm through mine. ‘That sounds delicious.’ And then she giggles. A giggling Niamh is not a good sign.

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll hang around here, all the same.’ I move my arm from hers, folding both across my chest before quickly unfolding them again, not wanting to look defensive. But I do feel the need for some kind of defence as part of me wants to yell, yes please!

  ‘Go on, you’re grand,’ Niamh reproves. ‘Sure, an afternoon with Kai sounds like just what you need. Remember what I said about needing a good roide?’ She may be laying on her accent real thick, but I think he gets it.

  ‘Cars,’ I answer quickly. Nothing to do with sex. ‘We were talking about the traffic. Weren’t we, Neeve.’ I draw out each sound of her name, filling it with warning.

  ‘Course,’ she replies, insouciant as she turns. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Matt said you’d gone to the bathroom,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘I just wanted to be sure you hadn’t fallen down the pot.’

  I might just have to kill her.

  ‘Can I tempt you?’

  Like a snake with a cart full of apples, is the honest answer. In spite of his languidly confident smile, I manage to shake my head and mumble, ‘Thanks.’ I’d meant it as a definite statement, but it somehow falls short.

  ‘Another time.’

  I shrug lightly, air of indifference feigned. As he bends towards me, I think I’m in for my first European goodbye. Instead, his words breathe across my cheek.

  ‘I’m going to hold you to that.’

  Blood pounds in my ears and I’m not sure if that one sentence, that small collection of words, was a promise or a threat. As he saunters away, I’m suddenly aware of a hammering pulse, and it’s not in my wrists.

  ‘You kept Heathcliff there quiet.’ Niamh meets me at the restaurant entrance, clearly not done. ‘I think I must be at the wrong feckin’ school. He’s gorgeous, so he is!’

  ‘I’ve only met him once, I wouldn’t get too excited. He was just being friendly.’

  ‘My arse. Any closer and you’d’ve dry humped him where he stood. God, Kitty, you’ve gone scarlet!’

  By colour or nature? I resist asking. Instead, I hiss, ‘I’m not interested.’ Blame the dream, blame the drink. Blame post fiancé low self-esteem. Blame anything.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Totally looked that way.’

  ‘Anyway, he was here with a woman. A beautiful one. Looked like a model.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone else while he was hitting on you.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ I reply with a sweep of my hand. ‘I’m not going there again. Besides, he wasn’t hitting on me, he was asking me out. For the afternoon, I mean.’

  ‘A bit of afternoon delight, more like.’

  ‘Moot. I’m not interested.’

  ‘I hate that word. Sounds like something you keep in your knickers, your moot. And you definitely need your bumps feeling, giving up an afternoon with him.’

  ‘Yeah, feel my bumps, said no girl ever. And that’s exactly what I don’t need.’

  ‘I’d get my bumps out for someone like him.’

  ‘Let’s leave both our bumps out of this.’ I turn at the same moment she lays her hand on my arm.

  ‘And you don’t know who he was here with. It could’ve been his sister or someone.’

  ‘His sister. Do I look that dumb? Guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me, and I’m not interested in an afternoon hook-up.’ I begin to move again, keen to gain some distance from this conversation.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be complicated,’ she says, easily matching my pace. ‘From where I was standing it looked simple enough.’ Pulling forcibly on my arm, she lowers her tone. ‘Babe, you need to move on.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do,’ I say quietly. ‘But guys like him—’

  ‘Fuck guys like him. I mean it,’ she interrupts fiercely. ‘So maybe he’s not Mr Right, so who cares! What he is, is gorgeous and into you and just what you need. You can’t shut yourself off,’ she adds, dialling down her severe tone. ‘You’re not a nun, babe.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stop.’ Her gentle tone doesn’t last. ‘You know why they’re called nuns? ‘Cos they get nun. And you need to get some . . . thing.’ She makes a gesture of frustration with her hand. ‘Fun, attention; a mad-hot man. Put the past behind you. Move on, yeah?’

  Mirroring her forced smile, I add a noncommittal shrug. But it’s just not that simple, I know.

  Keep it casual and I won’t get hurt?

  Pigs’ arse. That’s like saying lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.

  It’s not that simple, I know. And it’s not like I can’t imagine it, it’s not like I haven’t since I fell into his arms: We’re having dinner, we’re on a date. I’m kissing his soft, full mouth. Vivid images, almost visceral, feeding from one to another like charms on a chain.

  But that’s where it stops—at imagining. Because, opening my legs without opening my heart, that I can’t imagine.

  And opening my heart? I’ve been burnt enough.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday morning I roll out of bed, quite literally, hitting the floor with a resounding thunk! I’m calling it days-of-the-week disorientation, because how Sunday can be the first official day of the working week blows my mind.

  So this is the day previously known as Monday? I have the Monday morning blues . . . on a Sunday.

  God, my brain doesn’t function this early.

  With a last lingering glance at the sleep-disturbed covers, I pull myself upright from my position splayed on the floor. Oh well, when in Rome the start of the week is the end of the week, sort of, because while the rest of the world enjoys a lazy Sunday morning, in the UAE we’re off to work. Yay.

  The school day begins like any other and I’m eager to get back into the swing of things. It does feel strange to be back in the classroom after the weekend, possibly the same can be said for the students as my little angels seem to have grown horns over the weekend. I now have a class full of absolute ratbags, maybe now comfortable in the knowledge that their new teacher isn’t an ogre or maybe sensing my distracted mood, who knows? Whatever the reason it’s not fun, especially as I spend my morning break explaining to eight-year-old Muneera why five-fingered discounts aren’t acceptable in any classroom. Why it’s never a wise move to borrow your teacher’s favourite pen. Then use it in class. And swear blind it’s your own.

  I’m beginning to think last week could’ve been a fluke. Discipline might well be a brand spanking new word for my little Princesses’ vocabularies, and I do mean Princesses with a capital P, as I have an actual member of royalty in my class. Or Sheikha
as is the correct title. According to Niamh, ruling families in the Gulf can be quite extensive, so I’ll save my curtsies. She has a couple of royal children in her class, too. One of her royal charges is actually called Sheikha Mayassa. I’m guessing someone didn’t think that one through.

  As the day progresses, it becomes clear that most of the class have never had to lift a finger to look after themselves in their short lives, which makes my job interesting, to say the least. Despite not agreeing with what Jen had to say at brunch, I’m beginning to think she might’ve had a point. Watching the army of domestic-uniformed nannies carrying little pink backpacks into the classroom last week should’ve been a sign, a pink flag, that the kids weren’t carrying their own bags. Still, my little Dubai divas aren’t all that different from their classmates in Australia, and if you ignore the obvious differences, Al Mishael isn’t all that different, either.

  Who am I kidding? It’s like living on another planet.

  The week passes in a blur. I’m wiped out by the early mornings, so much so that I fall into bed uncharacteristically early, asleep before my head hits the pillow. I’m even beginning to sleep through the local mosque’s dawn call to prayer. No small achievement given that its minaret—and loudspeaker system—seem to be located somewhere next to my head. The faithful are called to pray five times a day and the sound is already becoming a background noise. I’ve been told the dawn prayer includes the words prayer is better than sleep. After these early mornings, I can’t say I feel the sentiment, no matter how melodious it’s sung.