He laughed. “Isn’t that part of the cultural sensitivity training you’re developing?” He pressed his tongue into his cheek, loving the banter. He didn’t joke with anyone else like this at work. Not even his brothers. “I’m just recognizing part of your American heritage.”
Layla narrowed her eyes, but a laugh escaped her. “You jerk.”
He shuffled papers on his desk, fighting a grin. Triumph pulsed through him; this was the type of interaction he wanted to cultivate more of. Because it seemed the only way he could get near her, to take her in.
“Any plans for the weekend?” He tried to sound offhand, even peered inside a desk drawer so he might seem non-committal.
“Oh, nothing major. Just my best friend’s wedding…”
Her words slithered through him, and he sat up straight, dragging his gaze to meet hers. “That’s right.”
She cackled. “You forgot!”
“I didn’t forget,” he protested. I was simply too caught up in trying to insert myself in your weekend path somehow. But this was even better. He’d at least be near her. “I was just seeing if you remembered.”
“Oh sure.” She cocked a grin, strutting out of his office. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
His gaze riveted on the sway of her hips as he left his office, his cock twitching in his pants. Two weeks in and this set-up was torture, pressure building every second. How would he last a year? Some pressure had to be let out or he’d explode.
Maybe the wedding would be the perfect place to let off a little pressure.
6
Layla arranged Marian’s bouquet one last time as she perched on the edge of the clawfoot bathtub, waiting for Marian’s makeup artist to finish. The ceremony would begin in a half hour, and Marian was the calmest bride she’d ever seen in her life.
“You like the veil?” Marian looked up at her, indecision flashing across her face. She’d opted for a vintage-style cream gown and pearl-dotted veil.
“I love it. And everything else.” Layla took a sniff of the navy blue and soft pink blooms. “Your wedding is already the most epic affair I’ve ever attended.”
“Why didn’t you invite your Arabian stallion?” Marian squeezed her eyes shut as the makeup artist applied a setting spray to her face, and then blinked rapidly.
“Oh, he, uh…I don’t know.” Layla gnawed at the inside of her mouth. “I guess the stallion turned out to be more of a…pony.” Except he’s still a stallion, and he’s definitely here.
Marian frowned. “Dang. I thought you’d already found your Mr. Parsabad.”
Layla laughed, but it rang hollow and forced. “I’m sure there are plenty others.”
“Maybe some at the reception, too!” Marian wiggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows and then swooped to standing. Her gown rustled as she reached for the bouquet. With one last look in the mirror, the ladies headed out into the fray, where plenty of Parsian and American women were finishing their own preparations.
Annabelle cooed when she saw Marian. “You look stunning.”
After some phone pictures, it was time to go downstairs for the ceremony. Marian had opted for a laid-back fusion of the two cultures. Which meant that her wedding hung somewhere between traditional American and traditional Parsian. There’d be a bridal party and the first dances, which were common in both countries, but no garter or flower tossing, since that pushed the envelope for Parsabad.
What they wouldn’t skimp on, Marian had told her, was the wine. It would flow like water from the mountaintops, and this part had Layla more excited than almost anything else. Because if there was one thing she liked about weddings, it was open bars and the chance to find a fun companion for the evening.
Even though she already knew exactly who she’d like her companion to be. The one man she shouldn’t talk to, or even look at, once she was drunk.
Zahir.
&nb
sp; His close proximity had her nerve endings on fire. Just knowing he was on the premises, dressed to kill, was enough to have her thighs quivering. Working side-by-side with Mr. Sex-On-Legs was hard enough. The informal situation might be the death of their platonic ruse.
Because Layla severely doubted she’d be able to keep the cork on if wine got involved.
Marian and Omar had rented out a centuries-old villa for their wedding and ensuing reception. The ceremony itself would happen outside on the sprawling lawn, where an imam waited beneath a golden arch near a sprawling backdrop of orchids and rose bushes. The air was fragrant and warm, and conversation drifted toward her as she neared to take her place in the processional. She and Annabelle were the bridesmaids, and Marian’s father would walk her down the aisle.
Which meant of course Zahir would be at her side down the aisle.