The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement (The Safar Sheikhs 1)

Fatim’s dark gaze swept toward the nanny.

“Your Highness,” the man insisted, crowding toward him. “This is an urgent legal matter.”

Fatim raised a hand to silence the man, his gaze laser-focused on his children. “Ms. Rosa.” That was the nanny. The harried woman glanced up at the king. “You may leave. Consider yourself terminated. You may not speak to or handle my children in that fashion. Goodbye.”

The nanny gaped for a moment, but when Fatim added a second stern, “Goodbye” she stumbled out of the room. Calla gathered her scattered items as confusion took over the room.

“Papa, can we get ice cream?” His son, unfazed by the dismissal of his nanny, skipped up to Fatim.

“Sir, I really need to speak with you in private,” the lawyer continued.

“Papa, is that woman coming back?” his daughter asked, looking toward the door the nanny had rushed out of. “I didn’t like her very much.”

“She won’t be coming back, peanut,” Fatim murmured, that monotonous quality back in his voice. She liked to imagine it was the King Tone—probably what he had to employ to keep his shit together. Fatim asked the lawyer, “Yaret, can we speak later?”

“Sir—” Yaret began.

“I can watch your children,” Calla blurted, straightening suddenly from stashing pins, scissors, and thread in her toolkit. Her heart raced, though she didn’t know why. She crossed paths with them enough in the palace, and they seemed like sweet angels. This couldn’t be so hard. “While you, you know, do your thing.”

Fatim studied her a moment, then his gaze slid to his kids.

“Is she our new nanny?” His daughter asked.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Fatim’s umber gaze sizzled on her. She offered a bright smile to the kids.

“Of course not. I can spare a few hours. Why don’t you just take your time and then find us out in the gardens when you’re ready?”

Fatim nodded slowly, as though he didn’t quite believe the offer. Calla swept toward the kids, brought herself to their eye level, and said, “For now—do you two want to go play on the swings?”

Their excited shrieking was all the answer she needed. She took their hands in hers and guided them out of the king’s sitting room. She’d come back later for her toolkit—just one more excuse to run into the king later.

As she headed out of the room, she couldn’t tell if the tingling on her ass was her imagination or the king’s gaze burning a hole through her.

2

Fatim tried his best to focus as Yaret took a seat at the nearby round table. A fitting, a nanny firing, and urgent business matters all in the span of ten minutes—this was the life of the king. He’d been in the role for nearly six years, but he still struggled at times to keep his head from spinning right off his shoulders.

Even though a hundred things demanded his attention right now, his mind lurked on the retreating figure of his new seamstress. The delectable arc of her ass as she bent over in those cream pedal pushers, her shifting, drapey sweater leaving her top half to his imagination. He knew her name was Calla, but only because the second he’d met her, he’d mentally paired her with a lily. She was quietly elegant like a calla lily. But beyond that and her studious, determined work ethic, he didn’t know much about her. Other than he had an interest in her that he absolutely needed to squash and too many fantasies about tracing the curve of her bare ass with his hands.

“There’s an issue,” Yaret said, flopping open his folder. He lobbed a heavy sigh, adjusting the low-sitting spectacles on his nose. “With your upcoming thirtieth birthday.”

“It can’t possibly be the fact that I’m turning thirty,” Fatim said, attempting a joke but unsurprised when it fell flat.

“I wish it were that simple.” Yaret frowned, papers rustling as he searched for something. He grunted when he revealed a specific document. “Here it is. Since you are the eldest, you are the first this will affect.” Yaret looked over the rim of his glasses at Fatim. “There is an ancient decree that dictates you must be married on your thirtieth birthday ceremony or step down from the throne.”

“I was married,” Fatim said slowly, trying but failing to see the issue. “I have an heir and one to spare.”

“Correct,” Yaret said, “but you’re not married now.”

Fatim blinked. “She passed away.”

“I know, I know.” Yaret sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “But you must understand. The wording in this decree is very obtuse. I’ve been studying this nonstop for days. And the verdict is in: if you are not a currently married man on your thirtieth birthday, this ancient law requires the crowned king to abdicate.”

That made him pay attention. Fear snaked through him, hot and sinuous. This sounded like a joke. Like a horrible, unfunny joke.

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; “This has to be wrong,” Fatim spat, storming over to the papers Yaret had produced.