by Holly Rayner
“Suit yourself,” Jibril replied with a shrug.
Chapter Twelve
Audrey felt his dark eyes following her as she left the large suite, ducking out the door and racing down the hallway, toward the elevator. She stabbed the button repeatedly until the box arrived and took her to the ground floor, allowing her to race full-force into the crisp night air. The moon was unobstructed above her, mighty and fierce, giving off perhaps more light than her California moon.
Scrunching her nose, she tried to force herself back to being sober, hopeful she wouldn’t be talked into doing anything that would ruin her professional relationship with the Sheikh.
“You’re fine. You’re drunk,” she murmured. “And the two of you are just becoming friends. That’s all.”
A nagging voice in the back of her mind reminded her then that it was the Sheikh’s birthday. This man was lonely enough, secretive enough, that he’d hidden his birthday from the woman he’d spent the whole day with. Pressing her lips together, frustrated, she turned her gaze across the street, discovering the bright lights of a small corner bakery.
A bakery? On his birthday?
Jogging across the street, she peered into the glass window, drawing her hands around her eyes to block out the world around her. There, on the top shelf, was a medium-sized cake with white frosting and decorative flowers—akin to anything from a supermarket back home, but with much better flavor having been made with the love of a proper baker.
Entering the bakery, she pointed to the cake sheepishly, conscious that she hadn’t had to speak to anyone without the Sheikh’s help since her arrival in the country. The kind man’s broad smile greeted her, widening as she struggled through their conversation, her hands gesturing hesitantly. He wrapped up the cake in a large box and passed it toward her, accepting her bills and waving kindly, saying “good-bye” in a thick, melodic accent.
“Good night,” she responded, carrying the cake out the door.
The night hummed with electricity, as if she couldn’t shake her desire for the Sheikh with just a simple walk outdoors. Admitting defeat, she returned to his suite, knocking on the door and biting her lip, not wanting to seem too eager.
Jibril opened the door, making immediate, penetrating eye contact with her. Slowly, she lifted the cake box toward him, whispering, “Happy birthday, Jibril.”
Jibril was clearly surprised. He accepted the box, removing the top as he walked toward the small table to reveal the beautifully decorated cake. After a long silence, he turned to Audrey, who still stood at the door.
“I haven’t had a birthday cake in five years,” he said. His face was soft, his eyes glassy. “I couldn’t have imagined it would come from you.”
“I don’t think your 30th birthday should go uncelebrated,” Audrey murmured, pushing the door closed.
“Even after all the work I put you through the past few weeks?” he asked, incredulous. “All the laundry and the trash and the—”
“Oh, you’ll pay for it someday,” Audrey said, joking. “But not on your birthday. Nobody deserves that.”
Tentatively, Audrey stepped toward the far kitchen, where she found a large knife with which to slice two pieces of cake for them. They ate quietly, taking small bites, and Jibril uncorked an additional bottle of wine. Audrey’s head swam.
“What else would you like to do on your birthday? There’s only about an hour left,” she said, looking up at him with bright eyes, her cake half-eaten before her. “So I believe you’re allowed a final wish.”
Jibril considered this. “I hardly have time for myself,” he said. “But I suppose watching one of my favorite movies—” He thought for a moment, peering at her through happy eyes. “I think, if I’ve gauged you correctly, you’d probably also like The Night Peter Died.”
“The spy movie?” Audrey asked, with the excited tone of a little kid. “I love that movie. I’ve seen it countless times, and—”
“And it never gets old,” the Sheikh cut in, completing her sentence.
“Exactly,” she agreed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Let’s watch it,” Jibril said, savoring the last bit of his cake. “What do you say?”
“I say yes, absolutely,” she said, laughing.
They sat together on the edge of his bed as Jibril fiddled with the streaming service, bringing up the film. With about four inches between them, Audrey felt anxious, simmering with a desire to feel his hand on her thigh again. During the opening credits of the movie, they told light jokes, trying to push through the palpable sexual tension.
“Do you really think he could possibly kill the president again?” Audrey whispered, teasing.
“I don’t think they’ll let him get away with it. Not this time,” Jibril said, laughing. “Not if Marco has anything to say about it.”
“I can’t believe someone’s seen this movie as many times as I have. I’m actually amazed.”
“Me too,” Jibril said. He put his arm around her shoulders, shattering the boundary between them. “I hope you don’t mind—”
“No. Of course not,” Audrey replied.
As the movie played, they grew cozier, wrapping their bodies closer and closer. Eventually, they were horizontal on the mattress with blankets covering them, their feet tucked close together. They were two bodies joined as one. And then, halfway through the film, they were asleep, their bodies coiling into one another, the movie they both loved continuing on without them.
If Audrey had been conscious for the last bits of the evening, she’d have labeled it as one of the most romantic nights of her life.
Jibril and Audrey slept like rocks until the light of the morning streamed in through the side window, splaying over Audrey’s cheeks and warming her. She found herself wrapped in the strong safety of Jibril’s arms, inhaling the scent of him as he continued to sleep deeply. She didn’t want to wake him. She didn’t want to stop the beautiful moment.
There in his arms, Audrey recognized just how disappointed she truly was that their time as a couple was an act. She could have slept beside him watching silly movies for the rest of her life. Frightened at how palpable that feeling was—at how much she felt she needed him—Audrey rose from his arms, careful not to wake him. Memorizing how peaceful he looked there beneath his comforter, his arms still in a position that could accept her slim form, Audrey told herself to stop wishing for something she could never have.
“It wasn’t real,” she whispered to herself, trudging toward the door. “Stop pretending.”
Rushing down the hallway, Audrey entered her own suite and stripped herself bare before diving beneath the sheets, her heart aching at having left that comfort, that warmth. After allowing herself to drift back to sleep for a few more hours, she had endless, cyclical dreams of Jibril in which they always ended up back with one another, diving into one kiss after another and living happily ever after—much like Jibril’s grandfather and his true love, so many years ago.
Chapter Thirteen
Audrey received the traditional text message from Jibril at nine that morning, just a few hours after she’d escaped his arms. It said nothing about their evening together, nothing about the intimacy they’d shared.
It read, “Lunch with my mother at one. I’ve canceled our meetings for today. Please enjoy the morning and feel free to order breakfast.”
Audrey’s sighed raggedly. Dropping her phone on the mattress, she watched it bounce, the magic of the early morning drying out, falling away. “Love isn’t for me, anyway,” she told herself.
Stepping beneath the shower, she scrubbed herself clean, preparing for the lunch with Jibril’s mother, who’s name she’d learned was Amara. The woman was warm, with the kind of nourishing smile that made her smile back. She could pretend to be part of Jibril’s world; she could tell stories about their fake life together. At the end, she imagined Amara hinting that he should definitely “pop the question” soon, so as not to let Audrey go.
Audrey slipped on a co
lorful summer dress with polka dots, wanting to seem fun and festive like the backdrop of the colorful city. Years in San Francisco had made her wardrobe far too serious, from black business jackets to black dresses to black heels. Perhaps it was time to squeeze her personality back out and unleash it like the sun on the desert city.
The Sheikh met Audrey outside the door of her hotel suite in a casual black V-neck shirt and dark jeans. Audrey was impressed at how good he looked not in a suit, her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps the intense chemistry between them hadn’t fallen away quite yet.
“You look casual,” she said, smiling.
“My mother doesn’t like it when I dress too professionally around her,” he said, turning toward the elevator, still not touching her. “She says I act too reserved. She says, ‘You’re not the boy I raised!’ It’s annoying, really. So, jeans and a T-shirt it is.”
“It suits you,” Audrey said, not looking at him again.
“You look b…bright. Very festive and colorful today,” he said.
“It’s like my mood changes without the San Francisco rain,” she said.
“It suits you,” he echoed.
The elevator doors opened, spitting them into the foyer, where they faced Jibril’s mother, father, and brother, Ali, once more. The three of them were giggling like children on one of the large couches, Jibril’s father, Habib, the acting sheikh, dressed in an immaculate suit similar to the ones Jibril often wore. They stood, Amara rushing toward Audrey and catching her cheeks in her hands.
“Oh, darling, I told everyone I know how beautiful my son’s girlfriend is,” she said, kissing her on the forehead. “And I didn’t lie at all. Look at you! And all this color—gorgeous.”
Audrey blushed. Stuttering into her greeting, she said, “I’m so glad to see you again.” She knew she sounded awkward and strange, yet she didn’t care for a moment. The sense of family warmed her, causing her to grin up at Jibril, trying to deconstruct the boundary between them once more.
The hotel’s lunch venue had a gorgeous side patio in the sun. The family, plus Audrey, sat beneath a massive umbrella and ordered cocktails, “for celebration,” his mother said.
Sheikh Habib ordered nearly everything on the menu, speaking quickly to the terrified-looking waiter, who obviously didn’t want to make a single error in front of both the owner of the hotel and the acting sheikh.
The server repeated the lengthy order back in shaky English, his eyes as wide as a deer’s.
“That’s correct, boy. Keep up,” Habib said, teasing him. “And we’re going to need another round of drinks incredibly soon if I know my wife at all. She tends to drink too much when she’s overexcited.” He winked.
With an abrupt motion, Amara grabbed a large notebook from her purse and smacked it down on the table with a flourish, making the glasses rattle. Grinning, her bright teeth glittering like diamonds in the sun, she began to explain to them her plans for the party.
“It’s more of a ceremony,” she said directly to Audrey. “When a man is 30 years old in this country, that means he’s made it to the next level of manhood. And our Jibril here has absolutely made something of himself, becoming so famous and successful in America.” She spoke in a sugary voice, clearly proud of her son.
“Oh, mother, I am not going to do any of those ceremonial things,” Jibril said, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t taken part in those things since I was 15 years old. I don’t think I’ll start now.”
“Jibril, you absolutely must!” his mother insisted. “You have Audrey as your girlfriend now, and you must show her the complete Ash-Kahlbi experience! It will be a complete letdown otherwise.”
“You mean it will be a letdown for you?” Jibril asked, teasing her. “Who is this party for, exactly? Is it for me, or is it for your friends?”
“Don’t be cruel, Jibril,” Amara said. “Do it for Audrey. She deserves to learn as much about your culture as she can. After all, she loves you.”
Audrey shifted in her seat. Pressing her lips together, she ensured she didn’t make eye contact with Jibril for the next few moments, conscious that her heart was telling her one thing—that perhaps she could love him given the chance—while his face was saying another.
“Audrey can’t stay for the party,” Jibril said, delivering the bad news. “She’s got pressing business back in the Bay.”
Amara’s face crumpled. “You must be kidding!” she exclaimed. “You cannot miss Jibril’s ceremonial party. Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it.”
Audrey was anxious, and she saw the woman’s sadness thick in her eyes. “I’m afraid it’s true,” she said, her voice hesitant. “I’m returning to America. I have loads of meetings to attend to this weekend, and I have to get caught up—”
“Tell me one good reason you should return. One very good reason. Meetings can be rescheduled. For this week, and this week only, I’m asking you to set aside your career for your love. Consider it,” Amara said, her voice almost pleading.
“Don’t let her talk you into anything,” Habib said, taking a long sip of his cocktail. “She’s a crafty one. She’ll talk you into staying the rest of the year if you let her.”
“I just think it’s important. Won’t someone agree with me?” Amara said, searching both Jibril and Ali’s eyes. “My two sons, they mean more to me than anything on this planet. I just want to celebrate them in the best way I can.”
“I know, Momma. I know,” Jibril said, his tone defeated.
In a moment of awkward silence, their near 15 plates of food arrived, stretching out across both their table and the next one. Jibril’s mother burst from her chair, taking a plate and piling it high with multiple helpings of most plates, muttering to herself, “Just one celebration—one—and then she could go!”
Audrey felt her stomach twinge with guilt. This wasn’t even her boyfriend; this wasn’t even her boyfriend’s family! Yet she felt oddly indebted to them, as if saying no made her incompatible with their son.
As the afternoon stretched on, however, Amara grew increasingly excited about the party, explaining in detail the cake she’d ordered, along with how many people from the city she’d invited.
“Over 300. And all of them have said they can come! Can you imagine? At such short notice, they’re putting aside all their plans. You know why? It’s because I throw a good party, don’t I, boys?”
“She does,” Jibril said, laughing. “Ali will always remember his 21st birthday, won’t you, Ali?”
“I ended up in the hospital,” Ali said, giving Audrey a knowing look.
“It isn’t my fault that my son cannot hold his alcohol,” Amara said, rolling her eyes.
“They pumped your stomach?” Audrey asked, aghast. “That’s horrible!”
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Ali said. “I just had a few too many and jumped into the pool belly-first. I was screaming so badly from the impact that they took me to the hospital, but I just had a rash from hitting the water too hard.”
“It was hilarious,” Jibril said, starting to chortle. “We were so worried about him. He was speaking gibberish; I was certain he’d be unconscious in just a few minutes. But he actually walked out of the hospital and asked if we could stop at the bar on the way home.”
“That’s my boy,” Habib boomed with a deep laugh.
The afternoon stretched on till around four, when Audrey excused herself to return to her room and take a nap. She stretched beneath the sheets and allowed her head to spin from the alcohol. As she drifted off to sleep, she imagined what it would be like to arrive at the party on the Sheikh’s arm, her face beautifully painted, wearing a traditional gown, and dancing alongside him, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.
Why did the thought bring her such happiness?
Audrey spent the evening alone, walking through the streets of Ash-Kahlbi, ducking through alleyways and even going back to Jibril’s grandfather’s palace. She whispered up at the painting of his grandfather, her heart lowered
into her stomach, feeling heavy.
“I’m meant to leave him tomorrow,” she whispered. “Won’t he tell me to stay? Doesn’t he feel it, too?”
Jibril’s grandfather gazed down at her with those dark, familiar eyes, carrying the wisdom of countless years and also death. He gave no answer, no assurance. Everything in his life had worked out well, and now he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.
As she walked back, feeling the evening chill across her shoulders, Audrey thought back to two weeks before when this had all begun. That horrible actress, April Brevet, had plastered her name across the tabloids, making a mockery of her career and her life, and now—a million miles away from anyone who knew her name—she was finding her first heartache as she was pulled away from a man she was falling for.
The next morning, Audrey awoke and began to pack her bag, shoving her clothes into the bottom and dressing in a pair of black tights and a simple black dress. She felt in mourning, dark, somber. As she began to zip up her suitcase, she heard a loud rap at her door. Knowing it was unlocked, she cried out, “Come in!”
Jibril opened it and stood in the doorway with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. He watched as she strained pulling up the zipper on her suitcase, looking like a cartoon version of a traveler as she sat on top of it.
“It’s not going to close, is it?” he asked, his voice filled with humor.
“Thanks for all your help,” Audrey said sarcastically. “I don’t see those strong arms over here trying to get it closed.”
“And they won’t be. I like seeing you struggle too much,” Jibril teased, shutting the door behind him.
“How was the rest of the afternoon with your family?” Audrey asked, her voice quiet.
“All my mother would talk about was you,” Jibril said, laughing. “She can’t get over the fact that you’re leaving before the party. She thinks it’s a blasphemous action. She asked me in confidence if you were thinking about breaking up with me.”
