“That’s fine with me,” I told him. I slipped off the ring and put it back in the box, feeling my finger grow lighter without it. “It’s better this way. Less explaining to my coworkers.”
Again, Rita’s face flashed through my mind. Her judgmental, watchful eye. At this rate, she was the only friend I had in this area of Al-Jarra. The only one who cared if I lived or died. Beyond Rami, I supposed. As I was intrinsic to his plan.
“All right. I’ll pick you up for dinner in a few days,” he told me. “You can pick the restaurant this time.”
“You picked perfectly,” I told him, feeling the truth of it fill me. “Seriously. It brought me right back home. Thank you for that.”
A few nights later, Rami’s convertible pulled up out front of my apartment building, gleaming in the last orange light of the evening. Surprising even myself, I’d dressed in a glittering golden dress, and applied lipstick—making myself out to be a much more luxurious and worldly person than my South Dakotan identity should have allowed. When I reached his car, Rami ran around the back, opening the door for me.
“Wow,” he said. “You clean up good.”
“How eloquent of you to say,” I said, teasing him. “But I did request we go to a higher-end restaurant this time. I figured I should look the part.”
“You’re learning,” Rami said, chuckling.
I’d chosen an Indian restaurant owned by chef Julien Pierre, a man who’d been born to French parents living in India. This allowed for a strange fusion of Indian and French food, and the results were delightful.
Our starters, miniature tartlets flavored with a mix of Indian spices, made me close my eyes with pleasure. It had been a long time since I’d tasted anything so luxurious. Maybe I never had.
“So tell me about your job,” Rami said, sipping his wine.
Surprised at the question, my face grew blank. I blinked twice, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because, silly. I need to know about you, if we’re going to pull this off. And honestly, I’m surprised and impressed with anyone who makes teaching their career. It takes a certain level of patience to be with kids all day. Especially, what, seven-year-olds?”
“They’re seven and eight,” I said, feeling my lips curve with pleasure. Why did this man make me smile, as if on cue? “And honestly, I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Every day, they teach me something new. They give me an understanding of this world, and about what it means to learn a new language. And beyond that, they’re whip-smart at math and endlessly creative…” I trailed off, sensing that I was blathering on.
But Rami’s eyes seemed bright, genuinely curious. “I can’t imagine many are smart enough to see the small, beautiful details of teaching life…” he said.
The compliment seemed like it slipped out of his mouth. I felt my cheeks grow red with a heavy blush. My eyes danced around the room, looking at anything and anyone but him. A wave of desire washed over me, forcing me to swallow sharply, to root myself back in reality again. No. The Sheikh wasn’t someone I could fall for.
As our conversation progressed, another French-inspired Indian dish arrived. The wine flowed freely, and we ordered another bottle.
Around us, cameras flashed, potentially from paparazzi. But I didn’t care at all. In the past half hour, Rami hadn’t bragged once about his good looks, nor had he gone on about the intelligence, abilities and incredible wealth of his family members. Rather, he’d met me where I was—giving me empathy, in a world that had felt void and cold.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with my feelings, so after Rami had dropped me off that night, I tried to stamp them out as best as I could—tossing a bit more wine down my throat and staring at the ceiling in my bedroom, counting to ten.
When I finally felt my eyelids close and drifted off to sleep, it was long after midnight, but my heart still fluttered with excitement, as if it knew something I didn’t.