Chapter 14
“Momma, there was no need to—”
“Is that man really a prince?” her mother interrupted, already waiting in the foyer with her arms folded tightly across her ample bosom like a general about to demand answers from a wayward soldier.
“What?” Tabitha gasped, glancing around like the walls might suddenly sprout ears. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s all over town, Tabitha.” Her mother’s scowl darkened with suspicion and a touch of maternal anxiety. “Is it true? Is he a royal prince? Someone said he was.”
Tabitha closed her eyes and groaned. Of course it was out.
She and Ramzi should’ve anticipated this.
A reverse image search would’ve taken all of ten seconds.
There were hundreds of photos of Ramzi online, many of them official, sharp-jawed and regal.
Crown Prince Ramzi of Uftar, photographed at galas, shaking hands with prime ministers, or looking entirely too good in military dress uniforms. The man wasn’t exactly anonymous.
“Yes,” she whispered, reluctant to confirm it. “It’s true.”
When she opened her eyes again, her mother’s fierce expression had softened into something else entirely—concern. The maternal kind that scraped a little too close to Tabitha’s carefully guarded heart.
“Does that mean he’s just playing with you?” she asked gently. “Is this just… a game to him?” Then her eyes widened in horror. “Oh no—Tabitha. Are you his mistress?”
Tabitha laughed, startled and more than a little amused. Especially considering that before today, she hadn’t even kissed the man. “No! Momma, no. I’m definitely not his mistress.”
To prove it, she lifted her left hand and wiggled her fingers, the diamond glinting beneath the foyer light. “Mistresses don’t get rings,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted.
Then she stepped forward, putting her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “And men don’t usually meet the parents of their mistresses either.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes, weighing that logic like a scale. After a beat, she sighed and gave Tabitha’s arm a pat. “You’re right,” she admitted. “You’re a good girl. You wouldn’t put yourself in a bad situation.”
Tabitha had barely exhaled in relief when her mother added, “However, there have been rumors about the… uh… displays you and Ramzi have been giving. The neighbors are talking about those moments. It needs to stop, dear.”
“Yes, Momma,” Tabitha replied automatically as she turned toward the stairs. “We’ll be better tomorrow.”
Her mother gave a noncommittal “hmph,” and Tabitha bit back a grin as she climbed. She didn’t dare let her mother see her smile—not when she was still clutching her imaginary pearls over imaginary public indecency.
Once inside her room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, smiling for real this time.
So. The secret was out.
Was it a problem that Ramzi was royalty? Probably not. In fact, it was likely to become her mother’s new favorite brag. Oh, your daughter’s dating a dentist? That’s lovely. Mine’s engaged to a prince.
Tabitha rolled her eyes at the thought. She hated that kind of social one-upmanship, but she’d seen it everywhere.
Big cities, corporate boardrooms, PTA meetings, church parking lots—it was universal.
Humans had a deep, compulsive need to rank themselves, to find out where they stood in the pecking order.
Maslow probably had a pyramid just for suburban gossip.
Still, there was something about seeing it so plainly, in a small town, that irritated her more than it should’ve.
With a sigh, she crossed the small room, the carpet soft under her feet.
Her bedroom hadn’t changed since elementary school—twin bed, battered dresser, tiny closet that barely held her sundresses.
It was cozy, but not exactly grand. Ramzi had once hosted a summit with four heads of state in his palace dining room.
She doubted he’d ever seen a room this size and called it a bedroom.
Then again, her townhouse in Philly wasn’t much grander. A primary suite, two guest rooms, and a kitchen that doubled as a laundry station. She had a two car garage and a family room that was barely ever used because she worked long hours.
Still thinking about Ramzi—and needing to apologize for letting his identity leak—Tabitha walked over to her window.
She unlocked it and pushed it open. She couldn’t leave the house via the front, or back, door.
The floorboards and stairs were too old.
Their creaking would immediately wake up her mother, even with the ear plugs.
So she did what she’d done too many times over the years.
The oak tree stood steady just outside, its thick branch still strong and familiar. It might’ve grown a couple of inches since she was a teenager, but not enough to deter her.
With deft movements honed in childhood and perfected by years of stubborn independence, Tabitha slipped out the window and down the thick limbs of the oak tree, her fingers curling around the bark as she moved with quiet determination.
The night air was cooler now, crisp against her skin, and the cicadas hummed in the distance.
Ramzi’s bed and breakfast wasn’t far—just three blocks through the sleepy streets of Hendersonville.
Her plan was simple: sneak over, apologize for the identity leak, and figure out a strategy to keep their fake engagement out of the press and off social media.
The last thing either of them needed was a scandal that made headlines.
Or worse—a diplomatic incident over something as ridiculous as a pretend relationship with a small-town woman in borrowed heels.
She slowed as she approached the charming Victorian inn, pausing in the shadows beneath a spreading maple tree. One of Ramzi’s guards emerged from the darkness like a shadow, his stance casually alert but unmistakably protective.
“Is he up there?” she whispered, nodding toward a second-floor window softly aglow with light.
The man glanced upward, then gave a sharp nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If I climb that tree, are you going to give him a heads-up?”
The bodyguard chuckled, a deep, amused sound. “Yes, ma’am.”
Tabitha groaned and scanned the perimeter. Every door and window was dark except the one she wanted. “The owners?”
“Locked up for the night. Gone to bed,” he confirmed with a hint of glee.
She glared at him, crossing her arms. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “Would you like a boost?”
Tabitha narrowed her eyes at the offending tree, then shook her head. “Nah. I’ve got this.”
She walked around the base, calculated her angle, then jumped.
Her hands found the lowest branch and she hauled herself up, muscles straining slightly in the snug dress.
Her tomboy past came roaring back to life, and within moments, she was climbing like she was sneaking into the high school gym through the top window to prank the cheerleaders.
Just as she reached the window, it flew open.
Ramzi appeared, shirtless, scowling—and sexy as sin.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, reaching for her.
His voice was low but sharp, thick with panic and anger.
She had no doubt he was cursing her in three languages under his breath.
Before she could answer, he hauled her inside, then slammed the window shut and yanked the curtains closed with a snap.
“Tabitha! I swear, I should spank your adorable ass for pulling a stunt like that!”
She blinked, her brain short-circuiting at the sight of him shirtless. Oh my God. He was every fantasy come to life—muscled, golden-skinned, and looking far too good for someone woken in the middle of the night by a lunatic climbing a tree.
Her hand lifted before she could stop it, fingers brushing against the heat of his chest. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t. This wasn’t real. None of it. They were pretending. Pretending to be in love. Pretending to be engaged. Pretending—
“Ah, Tabitha,” he groaned, covering her hand with his, pressing it more firmly to his skin. His eyes fluttered closed as if savoring the sensation. “You drive me crazy.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, trying to make her hand pull away.
He opened his eyes slowly, dark gaze focused and unwavering. “Why the hell not?”
He stepped closer, keeping her hand pinned to his chest as his free arm wrapped around her waist. “We’ve been building to this for years, Tabitha,” he said, voice low and intense.
“Years of stolen looks and what-ifs. And now you’re in my arms, in my room…
and there’s no press. No friends. No parents spying from behind curtains.
” His eyes gleamed. “There’s no one here to interrupt. ”
Then he kissed her.
This kiss was raw. Possessive. Deep. His tongue swept into her mouth with hungry precision, and her entire body arched into his. There was no audience. No pretense. Just them.
She moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing closer because she couldn’t get close enough. Her legs lifted and wrapped around his waist with natural instinct. Ramzi didn’t hesitate. He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing at all.
As the mattress cushioned her back, she loosened her grip around his neck—but not around his hips. She wanted that solid, delicious weight. And God, she could feel every inch of him pressing against her, hard and ready.
Her breath caught in her throat as she rolled her hips, pushing into him.
A hiss escaped his lips.
“Tabitha,” he breathed, forehead resting against hers. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I know.” She arched again, emboldened by the way his body tensed. “But I don’t care.”
He pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. “This isn’t pretend anymore.”
“I agree,” she whispered back, both of them accepting the gravity of that statement.