Chapter 5
The cornfields and wide pastures dotted with lazy cows slowly gave way to small, tidy homes. Then businesses. Each shift in the landscape sent a fresh wave of tension coursing through Tabitha’s body.
Five years.
She hadn’t been home in five long years. Not even for the holidays.
She knew it hurt her mother—how could it not?
But working for someone like Ramzi meant long hours, last-minute flights, and being halfway across the world when most people were carving turkeys or opening gifts around a tree.
She’d tried to make it up with extravagant gifts and invitations, always excited to show off her new apartment or upgraded house when she wasn’t jetting off to Tokyo, London, or Dubai.
Her mother had probably bragged to friends about her glamorous daughter in glamorous cities.
But she hadn’t come home.
And that…that hurt.
Ramzi had been right. The silence had created space for gossip. And people in small towns always filled silence with the worst assumptions. That she was heartbroken. Still pining for him. The one who’d humiliated her. Left her.
“It’s going to be okay,” Ramzi murmured, breaking through the noise of her thoughts. His voice was smooth, confident—quietly grounding her. “But this is going to help.”
She turned to him, really looking at him—and saw him through a different lens. Not as the powerful executive she worked for every day. Not even as the maddeningly gorgeous man who haunted her dreams.
But as her plus one. Her… fake fiancé.
Ramzi El Sandir, through the eyes of her hometown, would be a fantasy made real.
Dark, smoldering eyes. Tanned skin and nearly black hair that always looked just a little rakish from his impatience with stylists.
Clean-shaven for now, though she knew the scruff would return by evening.
He hated the unkempt look. Said it sent the wrong message.
Still, she remembered those late afternoon meetings, when his five o’clock shadow appeared like clockwork. When she’d sit across from him, trying to focus, only to find her eyes drifting to the dark stubble and wondering—what did it feel like? Was it soft? Rough? Would it scrape her palm or tickle?
Damn, she wanted to know.
“What’s going to help?” she asked warily.
Without answering, Ramzi reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring she’d tossed back at him previously.
Before she could protest, he took her hand and slid it onto her finger.
She gasped.
The sparkle hit her eyes like a spotlight. She lifted her hand instinctively, stunned at how… perfect it looked. How easily her fingers curled, as if to keep the ring from slipping off.
“I can’t,” she whispered. But her hands refused to take it off.
“You can.” He adjusted in his seat, unbothered by her panic. “The subterfuge works better if we’re engaged. More convincing.” His lips curved into a playful smirk. “Plus, it gives your mom more to brag about.”
Tabitha bit back a smile. The man was dangerous. Too clever by half.
She stared at the ring again. It really was beautiful. What if she just… wore it? Didn’t say anything either way? She didn’t have to confirm or deny anything. Just… exist.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.
Tabitha stiffened. “I was wondering if the new window film that Istern Chemicals developed actually works as well as they claim.”
His smile deepened. “Liar.”
The way he said it—low and husky—made her toes curl.
What did his voice sound like first thing in the morning? Was he grumpy until coffee, or deliciously quiet like her? Did he like morning sex? Or was he more of an evening kind of man?
“You’re nervous about something,” he added, his voice dipping another octave. “But I’m going to discover every one of your secrets this weekend, Tabitha.”
The SUV came to a smooth stop.
He leaned in just a little closer, eyes gleaming.
“You’ve been warned.”
Then he stepped out and extended a hand to help her down.
Tabitha hesitated before taking his hand.
Not because she didn’t want to touch him. Ramzi always helped her out of vehicles when they traveled together. His touch wasn’t new.
But this moment felt different.
Maybe it was because she was home again, after five long years. Maybe it was the familiar streets and distant memories pressing in from all directions. Or maybe it was because everything inside her felt tender and exposed, and Ramzi’s touch—steady and warm—might do something reckless to her heart.
“Tabitha?” he prompted, voice low and gentle.
She slipped her hand into his and stepped out of the SUV.
The jeans and sweater set she wore were perfect for the cool morning. She could lose the cardigan later when the sun grew hotter, but for now, she needed the comfort of layers.
“Tabby!” a male voice called.
She froze, then turned toward the sound—her breath catching.
Her father.
Ben Jones jogged around the back of the house, wearing jeans and his favorite plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up just like always. Her heart ached at the sight of him. Without thinking, Tabitha ran to him and threw herself into his arms.
“You’re finally home,” he whispered, holding her tight.
His voice—gruff, emotional—sent a lump straight to her throat. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sawdust and coffee.
“I’m home,” she whispered back.
When she pulled away, his hazel eyes met hers with quiet affection.
“You look good, Dad,” she said. “How’s the wood turning going?”
He chuckled, the sound as familiar as sunrise. “It’s going,” he answered, the same way he always had. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything. He’d retired from his accounting firm a few years ago with a tidy profit. He and her mother weren’t wealthy, but they were steady. Content.
“Of course,” she teased, smiling—and turned slightly. “Dad, you know—”
“Ramzi el Sandir,” her father said, cutting off the need for formal introductions. He extended his hand to Ramzi, and Tabitha felt her chest ease. No titles. No barriers. Just one man greeting another.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Ramzi replied as he took her father’s hand.
“And you!” Ben said warmly. “I’ve heard plenty about you from Tilda and my girl.”
There was a beat of silence between them. A pause. The kind that held weight. Something unspoken passed between the two men as they looked at each other.
Tabitha didn’t know what it was, but it settled deep.
Before she could ask, the screen door banged open.
Her mother bustled down the steps, wiping her hands on the ruffled red-checked apron she’d sewn just last year to replace the blue one from the year before. Tilda Jones—steadfast, apron-wearing, small-town solid—moved like a woman who had waited long enough.
“You’re home!” her mother gasped, arms open. “I can’t believe you’re actually here!”
Tabitha stepped into her mother’s embrace with a soft laugh, wrapping her arms tightly around the smaller woman. She glanced over her mother’s shoulder at Ramzi, who stood a few feet away, watching the reunion.
“Mom, I just saw you a couple days ago.”
Her mother pulled back, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Yeah, and you should have been home for your birthday instead of forcing your aging mother to take the train into that awful city to eat one meal with you on your special day.”
Behind her, Tabitha heard her father chuckle.
She turned and rolled her eyes at him. “Sorry, Mom.”
Tilda sighed dramatically, waving away the apology as if she hadn’t eaten perfectly grilled salmon at one of the finest restaurants in the city. “Well, never mind. You’re home now, and we’re going to have a grand time this weekend.”
She flapped her hands, shooing her husband and Ramzi toward the SUV. “Go on, get the bags. The beds are already made for both of you.”
Tabitha’s mouth dropped open.
She turned to Ramzi, stunned.
Did her mother just assume that her boss—her very famous, very wealthy, very powerful boss—was staying at the house for the weekend?
“Uh… Mom…” she said slowly, panic already climbing. “Ramzi… can’t stay here with us.”
Tilda didn’t answer.
She was too busy zeroing in on Tabitha’s left hand.
“Is that…?” her mother whispered.
Before Tabitha could respond, Tilda reached out, gently grabbing her hand and lifting it to the sunlight. The diamond sparkled like it was trying to show off.
Tilda was silent.
Then she looked up—first at Ramzi, then back at Tabitha—and squealed.
“You’re engaged! My daughter is engaged!”
She threw her arms around Tabitha again, practically bouncing with excitement. The ruffles on her red-checked apron fluttered in time with her gleeful hops.
“Did you see that, Ben?” she called to her husband, eyes still locked on the ring.
Tabitha glanced over to her father.
Unlike Tilda, Ben wasn’t hopping. Or smiling. Or even speaking.
He looked… cautious. Concerned. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and his mouth was tight as he looked between her and Ramzi.
“You proposed?” he asked, his voice low and even.
Oh no.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach.
Of course her dad would see through this. He knew her too well. This was the worst possible way to reveal the “engagement.” She should have waited—taken the ring off, eased into it all with a calm explanation, planned.
But the ring… It had felt so perfect on her hand.
And now?
Now, the neighbors were watching.
Mrs. Harmon across the street had stopped mid-watering her roses, garden hose forgotten in her hand.
Mr. Dobbins, two doors down, was “checking the mail,” even though everyone knew he got his mail after dinner.
And Carol-Anne—sweet, relentless, gossip-loving Carol-Anne—was already snapping photos from behind her azaleas.
The Hendersonville rumor mill wasn’t a mill.
It was a damn rocket launcher.
“Dad, I know you would have preferred Ramzi to—”
“I’ve got this, Tabitha,” Ramzi interrupted gently.
He turned to her father, his expression cool and serious. “Mr. Jones, may I have a private word with you?”
Ben looked at his daughter, then back to Ramzi, studying him.
“Of course,” he said after a pause. He turned and started toward the back of the house, toward his woodworking shed.
Ramzi gave Tabitha a reassuring smile, then bent down and lifted her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.
“Relax, Tabby,” he said, voice teasing, using the nickname only her father ever used. “I’ve got this.”
And just like that, he followed her father.
Right around the house.
With his security team trailing behind him.
Three large, suited bodyguards… in small-town Hendersonville.
Tabitha watched them disappear around the corner, horror bubbling in her chest.
Oh, the neighbors were going to love this.
“Tabitha!” her mother called from the porch. “Come inside. I baked cookies for the barbeque this afternoon. You can help me pack them up while you tell me everything about how that gorgeous man of yours proposed.”
Tabitha didn’t move.
Telling her mother that her boss had tossed her a ring like a poker chip… wasn’t going to cut it.
Not when Tilda Jones had waited years for this moment.
With a silent groan, Tabitha turned toward the porch, bracing herself for a story she hadn’t yet figured out how to tell.