The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

That took me by almost more surprise than the sudden announcement of our relationship and living arrangements. Neil was already speaking to the girls as though he was their father or something. Maybe that was just an automatic thing he couldn’t shut off.

“Sophie and I don’t want to take your father away from you. And we would never put you in a situation where your safety was compromised. Or even a situation where you felt your safety was compromised,” Neil went on. “We never would have taken this step if we weren’t all serious about each other. We knew from the moment we began discussing this that you were both parts of a package deal. If we hadn’t wanted that, we would never have gotten this far.”

I supposed Neil was right that we’d known from the start that the girls came along with El-Mudad. But meeting them in person made that responsibility so much clearer.

And we’d bungled things so badly with this meeting.

“So, you’re fine with him ruining your marriage the way he ruined his?” Amal asked us pointedly.

El-Mudad sharply raised his voice to reprimand her in Arabic. She drained her champagne flute and stood.

“Forgive me,” she said coolly to Neil and I. “I’m not hungry.”

El-Mudad watched her helplessly as she left, until Neil said, “It’s all right. Go after her.”

Which left us all alone with Rashida, who continued to look at us as though nothing was amiss. Which led me to believe that maybe Amal and her father were prone to big arguments.

Rashida looked between us expectantly before saying, “You...do have stables on your property in America, don’t you?”

Neil cleared his throat and looked desperately around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with our lunch…”

We were in way, way over our heads.

Chapter Six

The grand ballroom of Langhurst Court had been made over beautifully for the holidays. Just not specifically for our party; the room had been decorated for the Christmas-themed tours. A dazzling tree that could have been the centerpiece of the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker reached all the way to the gilded frescos. Draped in gently twinkling white LED lights, matching white and gold ornaments, and wrapped all the way to the very tippy top in a seemingly continuous gold brocade ribbon tied in a huge bow, the tree almost made me believe in Santa Claus again. In place of presents, at least forty large white poinsettias surrounded the base.

I stared up, open-mouthed. “I never thought I would see this room and think it looked small.”

El-Mudad put his hand at the curve of my back. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Hand,” I reminded him quietly, and he jerked his arm back. It absolutely sucked to stand beside him while he looked the way he did and not be able to touch him. Though my family hadn’t shown up yet, I didn’t know when my grandmother or an aunt would pop through the door, determined to go help in the kitchen.

But El-Mudad did look amazing. His hair was parted on the side and carelessly tousled, and he’d chosen a navy suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean waist. Instead of a tie, he’d decided to leave the collar of his crisp white shirt open.

“You didn’t have to get so dressed up, you know,” I said, unable to resist fixing a lapel that didn’t need to be fixed. “Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“You’re dressed up.” He gestured to my cranberry colored silk Zac Posen cape dress.

Admittedly, with the dramatic swoop of fabric that hung from my shoulders, I could have been a background actor from a Luc Besson space opera. “My family knows what to expect. I’ve always been a little...”

“Extra? Is that what the kids say these days?” El-Mudad teased. He looked down at his outfit. “Perhaps they will expect that of me, now?”

I smiled, but it felt stiff. I honestly didn’t know how my family would react to El-Mudad.

Whom my Uncle Doug had already referred to as our “foreigner friend.”

“So, um...” I had no idea how to broach the subject, and I cursed myself for not doing it sooner. “You’re going to be in a room like...full of Midwestern white people. And I just feel like I need to pre-apologize for that.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of that already?” he asked, and my cheeks instantly burned with shame. “Sophie, I don’t live in some bubble where I’m protected from American opinions. I know what people from your background may think when they see me. I’m suspicious. I’m a terrorist. I’m a Muslim threat to your freedom.”

I hated that he was right. I hated that, before I’d left my home and my isolated culture, I had shared some of those same assumptions.

“Having money doesn’t protect you from prejudice,” he explained. “Not from the world. Not from your girlfriend’s family...not from your girlfriend.”