Chapter 17
Ramzi watched as Tabitha’s mother pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven, set it onto the cooling racks, then bustled over to the coffee pot to fill the ridiculous monkey mug with coffee.
The whole time, his eyes were locked on Tabitha.
She met his gaze, radiating sexual frustration and indignation.
Damn, she was adorable. And absolutely furious.
He couldn’t blame her. He was currently hiding one hell of an erection under the kitchen table, courtesy of her scent, her soft gasp, and the heat in her eyes when he’d pressed his thigh against that one, perfect spot.
Yeah, he’d seen Tilda heading back in from the front window. Had he aroused Tabitha on purpose? Not at first. He’d meant only to kiss her good morning.
But once he’d started… hell yes, he’d leaned into it.
His gaze dipped down to her bare legs, trailing all the way to the ridiculous—and somehow irresistible—bunny slippers.
Those had started this whole thing.
When he looked back up, she was glaring at him. If looks could kill, he’d be sprawled across the linoleum. He grinned wider. She didn’t seem even slightly embarrassed about her slippers. Good. They were absurd and perfect and very Tabitha.
And now, the fantasy of her naked and draped in diamonds had a new twist.
Maybe not diamonds. Not exclusively.
What about furs?
No—never furs. Tabitha would be furious if anyone killed an animal for her.
But why was he so sure of that? She didn’t own a cat or dog. Neither did her parents.
Still… he just knew.
He liked that about her. Hell, he liked everything about her.
There were layers to this woman—unexpected, fascinating layers. And Ramzi couldn’t wait to spend the rest of their lives exploring them.
In and out of bed, he amended silently.
“Breakfast is ready,” Tilda announced, setting a steaming casserole dish on the trivet in the center of the table. “Tabitha, can you get the plates and utensils, please?”
She paused, peering out the window over the kitchen sink. “Where is your father? I just told him breakfast would be ready a minute ago.” With a huff, she turned to Ramzi. “Would you mind getting him?”
Ramzi blinked.
No one had ever asked him to fetch someone. He was the one people fetched for. But Tabitha smirked from the other side of the table, and before he could overthink it, he pushed to his feet and headed outside.
The shed was quiet when he stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through a dusty window, lighting up curled wood shavings and the gleam of polished tools.
Ben looked up from the long, gleaming blade he was wiping clean.
Ramzi paused, waiting until the knife was stashed away in a custom drawer before he stepped farther inside.
“How’d things go last night?” Ben asked, tossing the rag aside.
Ramzi cleared his throat. Was he asking about the dance?
Or about the part that had happened after the dance?
“I know you’re not used to a country dance,” Ben added, sparing Ramzi from answering the wrong question. “But it looked like you and Tabby were having a good time.”
Ramzi nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yes, sir. It was… nice.”
Nice didn’t even come close.
“Think you’ll do it again?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, a touch hoarse. He was definitely hoping for a repeat. Several, actually.
Ben studied him for a long, weighty moment. “Tabby’s a good girl.”
Ramzi almost bristled. Girl didn’t cover it. Tabitha was a woman. Smart, passionate, stubborn, and impossible to ignore. But he kept that to himself.
“Yes, sir,” he said again.
Ben held his gaze a beat longer, then sighed. “I suppose my wife sent you out here to get me?”
Ramzi nodded.
“Well then,” Ben grumbled, pushing off the workbench, “let’s go eat.”
He paused at the shed door and turned, his expression conspiratorial. “Don’t tell my wife I ate the last of her lasagna this morning.”
He rubbed his belly with a satisfied groan. “That woman makes the best damn cookies and pies in the county. Not fair she can do lasagna too.”
Ramzi closed the shed door behind them, still chuckling as he followed Ben along the stone pathway back to the kitchen. The air was crisp, birds chirped from nearby trees, and despite the weight of his title, he felt surprisingly light.
When they stepped into the cozy kitchen, the scent hit him first—warm, buttery, and mouthwatering. Tilda had placed a basket of fresh rolls next to the egg casserole on the table, and the aroma made his stomach growl in anticipation.
They sat down, and as coffee was poured and plates were filled, the conversation flowed as easily as the laughter.
They bickered playfully about the previous night’s dance—Tilda insisting Ben had stepped on her foot (he hadn’t), and Tabitha teasing them both about their matching outfits.
Then came debates over the town’s best pie from last year’s contest, a shared rant about the declining quality of cinnamon at the general store, and fond recollections of disastrous family vacations.
Ramzi found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t in years.
He shared stories about growing up with a mischief-loving younger brother and a father who could silence a room with a single look.
His mother, regal and radiant, had always reminded her husband—usually with a cutting remark or a well-timed arch of her brow—that he was a mere mortal beneath all that royal armor.
That got a laugh out of everyone.
As they chatted, Ramzi felt something shift. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just…warmth. Like he’d been folded into something soft and genuine.
It felt like belonging. Like family.
And he didn’t want to leave.