Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Your poor security detail,” I say, dragging my finger up the ladder of his abdominals. My core mirrors their contraction, though much less visibly. “I bet they’re so jealous.”
“Jealous of my waffle skills? Or the woman I have in my bed?”
“I was thinking more about your big cock. Those undies don’t exactly leave much to the imagination…”
“Ah-ah.” His hand catches my questing one, his low chuckle as dirty as the gallery’s much-abused microwave. “Come. Let’s eat before it’s cold. Then, mi amor, you can tell me more about how you enjoy my big cock.”
“Note to self,” I say as Raif moves gracefully off to the side, “cock compliments get me darling’d.”
“English might not be my first language,” he replies, propping his head on his hand, “but I know that’s a noun, not a verb. And I feel like we might’ve had a similar discussion before.”
“Really?”
“Yes, when—”
“No, not that.” I turn to face him, mirroring his position. “English isn’t your first language?” How did I not know? Because you don’t know him, obviously.
“It was the first I actively learned, but Arabic and Llanito were spoken at home. Spanish and English I learned later at school.”
“So your dad spoke to your mother in Arabic?”
“He spoke to her as little as possible.” His words seem carefully delivered as his eyes follow the path of his finger over my hip. “I didn’t really know him. My birth was… an unexpected event. He didn’t live in the country much after I was born, and he didn’t really have any impact on my life until I was a teenager.”
“Oh. I’m sorry I didn’t know that.”
“Can’t miss what you didn’t have.” His gaze lifts, but I see the lie.
“What about your sister?”
“My father married a woman from his hometown when he returned to the UK. He never married my mother, which left her in some disgrace. And dire straits. But she did her best. She cleaned houses, bars, and restaurants to keep a roof over our heads.” His eyes meet mine without giving up one hint of the thoughts behind them. “To put food on the table. To keep us in the country. There was no question of her going back to Morocco by then.”
“Wow.” What a bitch. Me, not his mother, obviously. I just assumed this was his life—that he was born into wealth and privilege. “I had no idea.”
“How could you have? I never said.”
I’m touched, though that doesn’t really cover how I feel, that he’s confiding in me now. I suppose you never really know what’s gone on in another’s life. Emotional wounds scar but not visibly.
“It was tough,” he adds, his attention seeming to turn inward. “Things for the Moroccan community those days weren’t easy in terms of visas, which affected our stability. Also, the housing and my schooling. I was a late starter,” he offers with a sad smile. “Immigrant kids weren’t allowed a state education back then. Only private, which we couldn’t afford. But, somehow, I got a British passport. I was entitled to one by birth, but it meant tracking the asshole down first. I have no idea what that must’ve cost my mother.”
My heart gives a pang in sympathy. More than financial costs, I imagine it cost Raif’s mother her pride. I’m sure she suffered humiliation and felt inadequate as a parent when she couldn’t get her son into a school on her own. Women always bear the brunt of these very human costs.
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Hana.” His smile is soft, maybe reflective. Pained, even.
“She sounds like a strong woman.”
“Yes, I suppose she was.”
And now I suppose I know why the huge fridge is always overflowing and why mealtimes are so extravagant. What would a child who suffered insecurity ensure as a man? A haven would be my guess. The security of a permanent shelter. Or maybe even a glut of them. I guess it also goes some way to explain why his houses are dotted all over the world. Because he’s rich enough to do so, sure. Because he’s had an international upbringing, too. But maybe it’s also because he doesn’t feel at home anywhere in particular.
And then there’s Daisy, sweet, worried, little Daisy. He’d uprooted his life because he understands what instability and loss feel like.
Have I had him wrong this whole time?
“And now, just look at you,” I say, determined not to show him one ounce of pity. Pity for a man of his station and means seems ridiculous, but I feel it. I also know if the shoe was on the other foot, I’d hate any acknowledgment of that. “You’re a big ole overachiever.” For good measure, I punch him in the shoulder.
“Or product of my kind of upbringing.”
“Urgh. Therapy,” I mutter, pulling a distasteful face. “Do not recommend. Let’s drag out all the ick and talk about it ad nauseam. How is that supposed to make people feel better?”