Chapter 8
Ramzi looked around the room, irritation tightening his jaw.
The space was clean and comfortable, but it was smaller than his dressing room in Philadelphia—and tighter still than his shower suite back in Uftar.
Pale blue curtains hung in soft folds over the single window, their edges lifting gently in the late spring breeze.
A delicate scent of lemon polish lingered in the air, faint but persistent, blending with the warm, yeasty smell drifting up from the bakery downstairs.
The town’s only bed and breakfast was fine. It had charm, flowers in hand-painted vases and crisp linens. But he wasn’t here to appreciate charm.
All he wanted was to get back to Tabitha.
That kiss…
He ran a hand over his mouth, half-annoyed that he could still feel her lips on his. That kiss had been a detonation. A line crossed. Far more than he’d expected so early into this plan. She'd responded with fire—raw, sweet fire—and he hadn't been able to stop himself from matching it.
He was halfway to the door when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Only a select few had this number. His fingers curled around the device, tension immediately coiling through him when he saw the caller ID.
With a sigh, he pressed Accept. “What do you want, Zayn?”
A low chuckle filtered through the speaker. “Is that any way to greet your favorite enemy?”
Ramzi rolled his eyes and leaned a shoulder against the worn, pine-paneled wall. The texture was rough beneath his shirt, a far cry from marble and velvet, but somehow grounding.
Zayn. His cousin. Crown Prince of Lativa. Firstborn of his Uncle Khal, and older than Ramzi by six years. Absolutely family. Perpetually irritating.
Zayn, Angela, and the twins—Laith and Rafi—had been raised more like siblings to each than cousins.
Ramzi, his younger brother Rylan, and their close-knit pair of cousins, Saif and Nahla, made up the younger branch of the Al-Sintra clan.
Their families had grown up crisscrossing palaces and holidays, all thanks to his mother, Queen Marianna, the youngest sister of Khal, Joran, and Raj.
The eight of them all laughed, fought, and survived the royal fishbowl together. No political maneuvering. No cold-blooded power plays. Just teasing, fierce loyalty, and a never-ending supply of shared secrets.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your latest acquisition,” Zayn continued, his tone breezy, “and see if there’s any way we could work out a deal. The recipe for those building blocks you sent me—it’s genius. They’re going to change the face of construction in our region.”
Ramzi straightened, smoothing his expression. “I agree,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But could we discuss this later? I’m running late for a meeting.”
“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
Ramzi’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Zayn sighed, and the amusement in his voice made Ramzi want to slam the phone down. “You’re in a small town in Pennsylvania. Hendersonville, to be precise. The very same town where the lovely Tabitha Jones used to reside.”
Ramzi’s entire body stiffened. “What do you know of Tabitha?” The words came out low and clipped. The kind of tone that warned most people to back away slowly.
“Easy,” Zayn said, not at all intimidated. “I’m a happily married man now. And I have no interest in poaching your future bride. I’m just calling to see when we’ll be welcoming her into the family. I understand a diamond ring was exchanged?”
Ramzi glanced down at his hand, then around the room, as if looking for listening ears. How the hell had his family already heard about the ring? He’d only slipped it onto her finger this morning. The moment hadn’t even been real. Not entirely. Not yet.
Still, the ring was on her hand.
And the rumors had started.
“Things are still… unsettled,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Complicated.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Zayn said, with surprising gentleness, “I think I understand.” A chuckle followed. “And since I went through my own awkward phase trying to get a ring on Azlyn’s finger, I’ll respect your request. I’ll stay away.”
Ramzi exhaled, tension leaking from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“For now.”
His spine snapped straight. “Zayn, just—”
“I’m backing off,” Zayn interjected, and in the background, Ramzi heard the faint voices of Zayn’s son and daughter.
Relief swept through him. Thank goodness for toddlers with good timing.
If Zayn’s little ones were present, the man would soon become useless in conversation—his cousin transformed into an absolute marshmallow around his kids.
“Still,” Zayn added, “if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Ramzi murmured, scanning the quaint room again, though his thoughts were nowhere in it.
His hand drifted to his mouth, brushing across his lower lip, and he wondered—not idly—how soon he could engineer another moment alone with Tabitha.
Another kiss. A proper one this time. No SUV. No onlookers. No performance. Just her.
“I appreciate the offer. But I need to—”
“Just so you know,” Zayn interrupted again, “my dad and yours have already heard about her. They know something’s up and are making plans to meet her.”
Ramzi groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing with a resigned breath. “Okay,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The muscles there tightened further, a cord of tension pulled taut. “Could you try to hold them off? Just for a bit?”
There was unmistakable amusement in his cousin’s voice. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can. But you know your mother has been waiting for this for years. She’s been talking about grandkids more and more lately.”
Ramzi opened one eye and muttered, “And whose fault is that?”
Zayn laughed, then there was a muffled whisper through the line—Zayn’s daughter, from the sound of it. A tiny, pleading voice.
Ramzi smiled softly just as a loud smacking noise burst through the speaker, followed by a proud sigh.
“Can I help it if my children are adorable?” Zayn replied smugly. “All right. Finalize the deal. I’ll keep you posted on happenings here.”
The call ended with the same suddenness that it had begun, leaving silence and the faint ticking of a nearby clock in its wake.
Ramzi stared at the phone for a moment, then lowered it, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
The image of Zayn kissing his daughter’s cheek lingered.
And not for the first time, Ramzi felt the low, insistent tug of envy.
His older cousins had families now—real ones.
Love, laughter, bedtime stories, and tiny hands reaching for theirs.
And now, after that kiss—that kiss—he knew something had shifted. It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It wasn’t just a plan.
It was her.
He turned toward the door, the polished brass knob cool beneath his fingers. Anticipation hummed through his blood, sparking beneath his skin. He was going to see her again.
And this time, he wasn’t going to let circumstance dictate the moment.
He’d already memorized the layout of the town. Quaint sidewalks, shaded alleys, garden paths lined with blooming hydrangeas and wrought iron benches. Hendersonville offered dozens of private corners where he could steal a few moments—and maybe a kiss or two. Not for show. Not for anyone else.
But to remind Tabitha Jones exactly who she belonged to now.
And to make damn sure no one in this town ever confused her again with a woman pining for a man who’d been fool enough to let her go.