by Holly Rayner
Still in the bathroom, I called a taxi. Then, striding as fast as I could, I was at the clear glass doors. Bruno emerged from somewhere, letting out a cacophony of barks. Even as I closed the doors behind me, the barks continued. Thankfully, the elevator arrived almost immediately, taking me away from the penthouse, where I’d just made what was without doubt the worst mistake of my life.
Downstairs, standing awkwardly at the curb, I gazed dully at the oncoming traffic, none of which was the taxi, of course. What had I just done?
Kissed away your job and any semblance of self-respect you had left.
What I had done was not only rash, but incredibly, incredibly stupid. Khabib was a notorious womanizer, a reckless partier. And, to top it all off, I was supposed to be spying on him!
Even the taxi’s eventual arrival didn’t cheer me up. One thing was for certain: all of this—my night with Khabib, my undeniable affection for and attraction to him—was going to blow up in my face, one way or another.
It was only once I was at home, collapsed on my couch beside an obliviously snoozing Oscar, that I dared to check my phone. Sure enough, there it was: one missed call from Ra’id.
I peeled myself off the couch and out of my clothes, got on some convincing yet still respectable loungewear, got back into the kitchen on my rickety chair, and called him back.
As soon as we connected, his face was suspicious, irritated.
“It’s 11 a.m. My son must have stayed up late last night.”
I put on my most convincing, innocent smile.
“You got me, Ra’id. But when you hear how well the night went, you’ll see that Khabib deserved it.”
His face looked utterly unimpressed, but I soldiered on anyway.
“We broke all sales expectations, and even had to make a second waiting list. All this came after Khabib’s showstopper presentation.”
Despite his best efforts, a smile was coming onto Ra’id’s face. But then, his eyes narrowed once more.
“But how late exactly was my son up until? And why? How much drinking was there? And did you see any suitable women?”
“We were up until 1 a.m., socializing with the guests. I was with him the whole time, and Khabib only drank as part of the toast.”
I took a deep breath, willing my open-book face not to give me away.
“And as far as potential wives—no, sorry. I didn’t see anyone.”
Ra’id leaned back in his seat, his eager expression falling to a neutral one, apparently satisfied.
“Okay. Yes. So we will talk next week—Tuesday?”
“Yes, Tuesday should work.”
He nodded.
“Good. Well done, Lucy. Goodbye.”
Seconds after he ended the call, the sob that had been making its way up my throat exploded out. I sat there for a minute, sobbing tearless cries. Then, I took a long breath, exhaled, and rose.
By now, Oscar was up, circling me with insistent barks. Finally, I got up and got him out some kibbles. I patted him as he chowed it down.
I wandered into the bathroom and finally dared to look at myself in the mirror. I only kept eye contact for an instant, looking away immediately afterwards. I couldn’t bear it. I hated what I saw. And it wasn’t just the smudged makeup, the deep under-eye circles, no—this ugliness was worse, more intrinsic. Each day that passed, I was getting deeper into the wrong thing, and the deeper I got, the harder to get out it would be.
As I was scrapbooking, trying to get my mind off the whole big mess, I got a call. I answered without looking, petting Oscar with the other hand.
“Hello, Lucy.” My hand on Oscar’s back froze. It was Khabib. “You made quite the exit this morning.”
“Sorry. I had to get home. For Oscar.”
“Yes, yes of course. There’s just one problem.”
My breath left my body. Khabib couldn’t know, could he?
“You left before we could have breakfast.”
My laughter was practically hysterical relief, though it stopped quickly when he spoke again.
“And that isn’t all.”
At his words, my entire body clenched up.
“I wanted to invite you out again.”
His response being equally astounding, I was speechless.
“Lucy, you still there?”
“Yes, I…”
“You don’t have to, of course. I don’t want you to feel under obligation to do anything just because I’m your boss. If you’d rather not pick things up where we left them, I will of course be disappointed, but I’ll respect your decision.”
Once again, I didn’t know what to say. What I should do was obvious; the words were swirling around in my head: “I’m sorry, Khabib, but I think it’s best if we keep our relationship professional.” Or, “I’m sorry Khabib, but while I really enjoyed last night, I don’t think it should be repeated.”
And yet, when I opened my mouth, something entirely differently came out.
“Yes.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’d like to see you again.”
He let out a delighted laugh.
“Great—oh, that’s great! What are you doing Monday?”
“You mean Monday night?”
“Yes. After work, I’ll take you out.”
“That sounds great, Khabib.”
“Wonderful. I’m looking forward to it!”
And then he hung up, as breezily happy as if this was just another plan, just another date.
Already, I felt better than before—and worse. I was more than excited to go out with him again. But I couldn’t keep lying like this—not even just considering the practical aspect of me sucking at lying.
No, I couldn’t take it. Not with the way he was starting to look at and talk to me. Could it be that the womanizing Sheikh was no more? Was he starting to have…feelings? For me?
Chapter Eleven
Khabib
As soon as the call was over, I sat down on the floor. Bruno trotted up to me, but I could barely look at him. Why had Lucy left so hastily? And her response just now, her excuse…it had just been that—a hardly-believable excuse. Couldn’t she have woken me up just to say goodbye? And on the phone just now, had I been imagining how on edge she had seemed?
Walking over to my desk, I opened up my laptop and began typing. “Lucy Morrison” hardly provided the results I hoped for; it was one of the most common names in L.A., apparently. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and went over every interaction we’d ever had, concentrating on last night’s.
The way she’d looked at me on the hill, then here in my penthouse—she had to care, didn’t she? Sure, she’d been cautious at first, but she had just been worried about her job; she would’ve been stupid not to be hesitant.
And yet, none of that accounted for the strangeness I sensed in her, her uncomfortableness around me. Something was up; that was for sure.
I went to the gym, but that didn’t help anything. Lucy wasn’t there, only one of the girls from a few months ago—Samantha, I think.
“I’ve missed you. Why don’t we go for a post-workout drink?”
I placated her, and, after my weights, went with her to the bar on the corner. Inside, the first few minutes of chatting was fun, but, by the time my beer was foaming on my lips, I was regretting agreeing.
Already, I was comparing Samantha to Lucy; I couldn’t help it. And Samantha, as beautiful as she was, was as different from Lucy as cats are from dogs.
As she spoke, I found that I was barely listening: “Ugh, why did we choose this place? The crowd is nothing like L’Orange.”; “Why haven’t you been returning my texts?”; “This bar is boring. Want to get out of here?”
I stared at her dazedly, as just what she was asking me finally surfaced at the same time as the answer.
“No. No, I don’t. Goodbye, Samantha.”
She stormed out of the bar, and I couldn’t down my drink and get out of there fast enough myself. Once outside, the fresh air hit me like a slap i
n the gut, but came with a realization that left a smile on my face.
I liked her. Lucy. Lucy Morrison. I really, truly liked her—a lot. And it was scary and reasonless and inconvenient, to say the least, but I did. I liked this petite blond woman with the shy smile and the goofy laugh. I liked her.
In my car, I cruised back home too slow, smiling as people cut me off, flipped me off, tailgated me. None of it really mattered. All that mattered was that I was seeing Lucy in two days, and it was going to be great.
My Monday date with Lucy was fun—we ate tacos until we could barely move and shared one of every flavor margarita—but our Tuesday date was fantastic.
I’d been invited to another Hollywood wrap party, and Lucy, after some coaxing, had agreed to come.
As we walked in, she turned to me and asked me the same question she had already asked five times before.
“Are you sure they won’t mind that I’m just in my work clothes?”
Taking a look at her so-called “work clothes”, I couldn’t stop the smile from forming on my face. I thought she looked sexy in her white button-down blouse and black slacks, and that was all that mattered, right?
“No.”
Her eyebrows arched in surprise.
“What? But Khabib, you said…”
I nodded, slipping my arm through hers.
“I know, I know. And I lied, but you want to know what?”
Although Lucy only responded with a glare, I carried on, anyhow.
“I don’t mind—in fact, I think you look stunning.”
Despite herself, Lucy let the crack of a smile appear through her scowl.
“Well. If we get kicked out or anything bad happens, I’m holding you responsible.”
Taking her hand, I gave it a squeeze.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Luckily, we’d arrived late enough that most of the long-winded, tear-spilling speeches were over. So, as we sipped extravagant drinks neither of us could remember the names of, the party was only starting.
Marley Brooks and Janine Banks were as wild as could be expected, starting the dance floor in their barely-butt-covering dresses. Celia Patterson remembered me from last time, cocking her bleach-blond head at me and beckoning me over with a long, fake pink nail.
For my part, however, I could only blissfully smile back. Not because some super-hot Hollywood starlet still remembered and wanted me after one night, months ago, no. I was smiling because of the incredible woman on my arm, the one who made me want to get up and dance.
So we did.
Marley and Janine may have started the dance floor, but Lucy and I made it really happen. With no more than one drink downed apiece, we grooved up a storm. We did every cheesy dance move in the book—discoed, waltzed, Macarena-d, you name it. We jumped and swayed and spun, getting nearly everyone at the party out there on the dance floor with us, laughing and whooping along to the beat.
And, as the music brought us closer and closer, joined our dance moves into a combined, silly, off-beat bob, even as my breath grew ragged and my side hurt from the laughing and the boogying, still, I couldn’t stop.
It was too much fun, this hilarious movement with this shy woman I couldn’t quite place. I couldn’t let go of the warm, soft little hand in mine, couldn’t turn away from her beaming face, no. I could only keep going, and let this night take me where it would.
Finally, Lucy’s red face rose to my ear.
“Can we take a break?”
Practically gasping in relief, I nodded.
Taking her arm, I led her out the door, down a hallway that I was hoping led outside. As we walked, I slung my arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
“I didn’t take you for a dancer.”
She smiled, but didn’t meet my eye.
“I’m not. It was just…the drink, or the music, or you…maybe all of the above.”
“You keep on surprising me, you know that?”
Now, I couldn’t tell whether her face was red from exertion or embarrassment.
“You’ve been a continual surprise to me too, Khabib.”
We had reached a door which, sure enough, led to an outside fire escape staircase.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I…I don’t know. I remembered you from when I was a receptionist, so I knew you’d be fun and charming. I just never figured…”
She took a deep breath of the cool night air.
“What?”
“I don’t know, for you to be so…humble, or human, I guess. I thought all you cared about was partying and having fun. I realize the irony that I’m saying this in the middle of a party we’re having fun at, but still.”
I took her hand and squeezed it.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Lucy. These past few years, it feels like I’ve been asleep the whole time. Something about you woke me up, reminded me of parts of myself I’d all but forgotten. I’d started to take my loneliness as a given, my loss of real feeling as part and parcel of being away from where I’d grown up. But you, with your sweet, genuine smile, and that way you look at me—deep, straight into my soul—I can’t help but try to be the man you see in me.”
She was looking at me with those saucer-big eyes again, looking so beautiful that I could have kissed her right then. Only I didn’t, couldn’t. I had to say this, first.
“And it’s like you’ve somehow kept something everyone else has forgotten, a vulnerability to life, a willingness to feel, that everyone else has done away with. Lucy, I can’t tell you how many women I’ve talked to who look at me with glazed, guarded eyes, a suspicious unwillingness to feel. You look at me like I’m the only person in the world. You, Lucy Morrison, are nothing short of staggering, and unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”
She turned her face to look at the bright, round moon.
“What about what your parents want for you? Don’t they expect you to…I don’t know…go home and find a wife, or something?”
Now, she was looking at her hands, so embarrassed and awkward and cute that I had to kiss her, didn’t have any choice. When I broke away, I leaned down and took her face in my hands.
“Lucy, haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? How could I go back and find a wife—or find anyone else, really—when I’ve found you?”
This time, she believed me; I could see it in her eyes as I leaned in to kiss her again. And yet, as I held her, she didn’t give in to me fully, not as much as I would’ve wanted.
So, we stood there, just holding each other. Out there in the moonlit night, on the rickety staircase, with the music from the party wafting through the open door. We stood there, my arms around her, pressing her to my chest. If she could feel my heart beating, then she knew just how happy I was—and how nervous.
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
The next few weeks were a merry-go-round of highs with Khabib, and lows alone at home, hating myself after my latest call with his parents. Sure, at this point, I was telling them more lies than truths, but it still tore me up inside to lie to Khabib. He was so caring, so giving, so charming. So perfect for me.
Every day that passed, I found myself caring for him more. Mornings were filled with his sweet, cheery texts, my favorite bagel on my desk already when I got in, glances over to see him smiling at me through the glass. Afternoons were lunches together, a baguette and cheese in the park, a shared giant strudel at the café nearby. Nights held dates, adventures, and escapes: walks on the beach, in the park, by the canyon; horseback riding through fields; hiking through forests; wandering through Disneyland, half-drunk with happiness and the whirling celebration of rides; dinners at every swanky restaurant in a five-mile radius; drinks at all the hottest clubs.
On Friday, he let me choose where we ate. As I prepared to do so my usual way, with my eyes closed and my finger landing on whatever place on the city map, Khabib smiled at me.
“Tonight’s a special night.”
“What do you mean?”
<
br /> “It’s a surprise.”
I frowned.
“So, shouldn’t you choose? What if my finger lands on a fast food joint?”
Khabib’s dazzling smile broadened.
“Then we’ll have a really special burger and fries.”
Closing my eyes, my finger landed on the location of “Pen and Pencil” on the map. Khabib’s smile fell, even if it was barely perceptible.
“This should be interesting.”
Why exactly, he didn’t reveal until much later.
The place, as I soon discovered, was a hip concept bar with an old-fashioned boarding-school theme, with a huge vintage map on the wall, blue, studded booth seats, and hardwood floors. Only once we’d chatted about work, about Khabib’s upcoming 30th birthday, and about Oscar’s latest transgression (pooping on a trainer’s foot), did Khabib bring up the relevance of the theme.
“I went to boarding school, you know.”
I glanced at him, surprised.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“My parents thought it would prepare me for coming over here, since they always planned to have me move here to expand the family business. What they didn’t count on was how much I hated it.”
“The school?”
“Yeah, the school, the States, everything. I didn’t fit in, didn’t understand why things were so different here. I pleaded with my parents, but it was only once I got expelled that they finally let me go home and stay there. I vowed to never come back.”
Khabib looked downright upset now, while I wasn’t sure what to say. My head was so full of questions that it felt like it was spinning.
“Why…”
“I was homesick. All the other kids, they seemed to have no love or affection for their families, didn’t even seem to miss them. They didn’t seem to care about anything, really. It was fun for them, tormenting me.”
