His eyes widened, the calm in his gaze fading, and he grabbed his phone from the counter.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“My lawyer.”
My brows pinched. “The hospital has one. Why do you have a lawyer on speed dial?”
He didn’t answer, cheeks flushing just slightly, his jaw tight. Instead, he said, “Wait for me. I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to—” I began, but he cut me off.
“I’m coming, Lillian.” He placed a plate of fluffy and golden pancakes on the island. “Eat first.”
I hesitated, trying to shove down the knot of fear that had settled in my chest. The scent of warm maple syrup drifted up, entirely too comforting for the morning I was currently having.
My throat thickened. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I feel sick.”
He pulled out the chair beside mine and sat down. Without a word, he hooked his foot around the leg of my seat and dragged it closer until my knees slid neatly between his thighs, the space between us disappearing in one deliberate tug.
“Just a few bites,” he said, cutting a perfect triangle from the top slice and holding it up. “How are you supposed to take on the world on an empty stomach?”
I squinted suspiciously at the fork. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m also right,” he countered, nudging my jaw. “So open up.”
Before my brain could form another excuse, he slipped the buttery and sweet bite between my lips. He fed me another. And another.
“See?” he murmured, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “Not so bad.”
I tried to glare, but my traitor self was already opening up for the next bite. A drop of syrup trickled at the corner of my mouth, and he caught it with his thumb. Electricity shot through every nerve I owned. His thumb lingered—just long enough for my imagination to leap to mortifying conclusions. For one deranged heartbeat, I wanted to part my lips and lick the sugar from his skin. To pull his hand back just so I could feel that touch again and again and—
The intrusive thought hit so hard and so fast that Istartled—mid-chew—and immediately began choking on the stupid bite of pancake like my lungs had simply resigned.
His eyes went wide. “Are you okay?”
I waved him off, coughing through the most undignified attempt at a thumbs-up. “I’m—”cough“—fine,” I croaked, tears pricking because apparently embarrassment activated every bodily function.
He hovered anyway, hands ready to do the Heimlich, panic written across all forty-three muscles in his face.
I forced one last swallow and tried to pretend I hadn’t just almost died because of a raunchy brain glitch. I wiped my eyes, inhaled carefully, and attempted cool composure, but he was still sitting so close,tooclose, close enough that I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises, the faint worry lines on his forehead, the syrup still clinging to his finger. And like a complete menace, my mind promptly supplied images of those same hands and what they would feel like on my bare waist, my hips, my—
I froze, horrifyingly disoriented. In my wholesome thirty-two years of life, I had never had an inappropriate thought about another human being. My mind felt like someone had set off a glitter bomb in a monastery.
Growing up in the West, I’d been surrounded by scandalous girl talk—non-Muslim friends whispering about hookups and hookups-in-progress and hookups-to-be. I had always smiled and nodded politely, secretly wondering what malfunction of biology had skipped me entirely because I'd never had those musings. Not once. About anyone.
But now, staring at this beautiful man who just happened to be my husband, sitting there with concerned eyes and sticky hands, and all those unfamiliar feelings were suddenly loud, and bright, and painfullyeverywhere—
My thoughts collided, tripped, and staged a full-scale mutiny. I squeezed my eyes shut, slapped my hands over my ears, and let out a small, strangled, “Ah!”
When I opened my eyes, his expression had shifted slowly from panic to pure, baffled confusion. “Lillian? What’s wrong?”
Lillian, habibti, what’s wrong?
Nothing was wrong.
Everythingwas wrong.
Because I wanted to lean in. Because I wanted him to touch me again. Because I suddenly understood every immodest brunch conversation I’d spent my adult life pretending to understand.
