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

“No, no. I insist.” He gestured to the chair next to his at the small table. She liked that about the king’s quarters. His private areas weren’t ostentatious. They were just right. Lovely, but not over the top. A moment later, a maid came through the door, carrying a big tray of steaming food. “Tika, please bring Calla a plate as well.”

“I don’t need to eat,” she said, trying to be polite. But maybe she should get used to being in his presence. If she was going to be his wife.

“Nonsense. Unless you have plans…” He lifted a brow.

She opened her mouth to fabricate something, anything, but nothing emerged. “No. No plans. I appreciate the invite.” She plopped down on the chair next to him, skin prickling. Mere inches separated them. His chair scraped the floor as he adjusted his position, beaming out at his children.

“Children, how were your days?”

Rashid and Nara fidgeted in their seats as they took turns exclaiming details of their day—purple flowers! One very long bus ride! Thirty million insects! Fatim and Calla shared a smile as they spoke. For a split second, she felt the warmth of what sharing a life with him could be like.

Except it would be a business deal. A ruse, even. Not the organic warmth she had always imagined for herself.

She needed to remember that too, if she said yes. When she said yes. This would be pure goal-achieving and business. Nothing else.

“And how was your day?” she asked once the kids tore into their food. She pushed around a thick, creamy rice dotted with curried vegetables with her fork.

Fatim worked his jaw back and forth, clearly mulling over his answer. “Tense. A little boring. And very taxing for my deltoids.”

Calla snorted. “Dare I ask why only the deltoids?”

Fatim grinned, and for a moment, a flash of that playboy heartbreaker snuck through. The side of him she might see if this were a bar, and they were younger, and neither of them had pressing responsibilities the next day, like nannying or Fashion Week or running a country.

“I train with the troops of the tribe. It keeps me fit.”

Calla lifted a brow, gaze darting to the strong line of his collarbone peeking out from beneath his simple linen shirt. God, she was dying to see the arc of his biceps, how much chest hair he might have, anything about the landscape of this man’s body. Rasha had been right. Any woman, business arrangement or not, would protect this king with all her might. And Calla might do exactly the same.

“Papa climbs walls!” Nara exclaimed.

Fatim grinned at his daughter, something so pure and unfiltered that Calla nearly fell out of her seat.

“I’ve never climbed a wall before,” Calla admitted.

“You should try it,” Fatim said. “You can come train with the troops if you’d like.”

And there it was—the hint. The tiny glimpse of all the opportunities that could be hers—if she’d be his wife. Little did Fatim know she’d already made up her mind. But his reinforcing the benefits made her head spin. Fashion Week contacts and seamstress resources were only the start. What else could be hers if she said yes?

“It sounds like something I’d try once,” she said, “and then maybe never again.”

“You never know. There’s something thrilling in being able to scale a vertical wall.”

“Thrilling, as well as terrifying.”

Fatim sent another heartbreaker grin her way. “Something tells me you’d be able to do it. You look very…fit.”

Calla swallowed a squeal. This was as good as the king telling her she looked hot. It might be the closest she got.

Rashid made robot noises while he ate while Nara quietly counted pieces of rice, all the way up to eighty-nine. Fatim scooped some food into his mouth, his dark gaze flitting her way.

“Do you have any questions?” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “About our conversation from this morning.”

Calla smoothed her napkin on her lap. “Well…” She looked over at the kids, who had finished and were just playing around now.

“Kids, go into the kitchen with Tika. Nara, tell her to show you how she strains the chickpeas.”

Nara’s eyes lit up, and Rashid followed in her trail. Once the swinging door to the kitchen stopped moving, Fatim turned to Calla with a knowing smile. “You were saying?”

“I do have some questions. How long will the marriage last?”