“Hi, King Fatim,” she said in a whispery voice.
“Hey. Yeah, just finishing up a new idea I had.” Her tongue poked between her lips as she held up what she’d been working on. It looked like a tube top, but who knew what it might turn into. “Is dinner almost ready?”
“Almost finished, actually.”
Calla’s mouth parted, and he hurried to add, “Don’t worry. The kids are eating. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t hungry or needing anything. Don’t feel rushed to join.”
She tutted, setting the fabric down. “I didn’t mean to miss dinner.”
“It’s fine, honey,” he said. His insides seized immediately. The honey had just popped out. “Finish what you’re doing. I’ll be in the dining room waiting.”
She sent him a private smile, and he waved to Rasha before leaving the tent. While he made sure to measure his steps, to keep the cool smile plastered on his face as he made his way back to the dining room, his insides were roiling. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her honey. The first—and only, until now—time had been purely for show, when he’d walked in on Calla talking to her mother on video chat. He thought the sweet touch would help him, in case her mother objected to the rapid wedding.
But now? This was just because he felt close to her. And that was concerning.
His only game plan until now had been to keep her as far away from him as possible, in an emotional sense. But over time, she’d slowly wheedled her way into his business circle, and now all the lines were blurred. They had amazing sex, and not because it was required. She looked at him fondly, and not because he demanded it. He called her honey, and not because anybody was watching them to see if they were truly in love.
So where did it end? What came after this?
You need to keep her on the business level, or else all hell will break loose. He used the words as a threat against himself. As if it might help stave off the burgeoning feelings unfurling in his core.
When Calla came into the dining room, he was on his second glass of whiskey and totally lost in his thoughts. She popped her head into the kitchen to inform the cook she’d arrived before curling up on the love seat beside him, in the alcove where the big windows overlooked the gardens.
“I’m late,” she said, squeezing his thigh. “Very late.”
“You had a lot of work to get done.” The alcohol loosened him enough that he slung his arm over the back of the loveseat, inviting her closer. But it didn’t erase the conclusion he’d come to just an hour before. Of needing to reiterate their emotional distance. To keep things strictly business.
“I did,” she agreed, letting her head fall back. Her hair brushed his hand, and he absent-mindedly fingered some of the loose, silky strands.
“You know, maybe we should give you some of your time back,” Fatim said. “We can find some more help for the kids.”
Her eyebrows formed a hard line. “But that’s my job. That’s the job you hired me for.”
“But if you need more time—”
“I wouldn’t feel right taking the time and money to design if I didn’t earn it,” she said, a tone to her voice that didn’t allow for any questions. He admired her standing up for herself. In fact, it kicked the warmth licking through his veins up to a boil. He leaned closer, draping his arm over her shoulders.
“Well, if you won’t compromise on your job duties,” he said softly, teasingly, “Then maybe you should stop taking on so many ext
ra things for me.”
She swatted at his shoulder but nuzzled up to him anyway. “I won’t stop helping. I want to help you because I love you.”
Silence slammed down between them once those words popped out of her mouth. Fatim knew he’d frozen but couldn’t act quickly enough to recover. To make things continue flowing.
Her words were a boulder in the smooth train track they’d been following.
Calla rolled her lips inward, nervous gaze skating over his face before it landed on the small table in front of them. A moment later, the cook arrived with her plate. He set the tray down in front of her, and the two of them watched the steaming food for what felt like forever.
He didn’t know how to play this one. He didn’t know where to go from here.
Because he didn’t do love. Not with her, not with his previous wife, not with anyone other than his brothers and his children.
If he wanted to stay an effective ruler, love had to stay out of his life.
“I’ll let you eat your meal,” Fatim finally said, his voice sticking in his throat. It was the best he could do. He certainly wouldn’t be returning those words to her.
Calla just nodded and stuck her fork into the pile of basmati rice.