Page 17 of Bred By the Sheikh

“What about now?”

“Now I’m considering pastry theft.”

“Is that an unfamiliar field for you?”

“I have no experience at all.”

She speared a piece of melon with her fork.

It escaped.

The cube shot from the plate, bounced once against the white tablecloth, and landed neatly in the folded napkin beside my coffee cup.

The room went silent.

Chrissy stared at the melon.

Then she looked at me and the attendants.

“Oh no.”

I looked down at the offending fruit.

“This is an escalation.”

“I swear I’m normally allowed to use forks unsupervised.”

The senior attendant who had corrected her earlier took one step forward.

I picked up the melon with my own fork and put it on my plate.

“Evidence removed.”

Chrissy pressed her lips together.

It didn’t work.

A laugh burst out of her.

Mine followed.

The room remained silent around us.

Most people learned very quickly how to behave in my presence.

They waited to be addressed. They chose every word. They watched my face before deciding whether something was amusing.

Chrissy had launched breakfast at me and laughed.

I took a sip of coffee.

“Did you sleep?”

Her laughter faded.

“I did. I woke up at four-thirty convinced it was afternoon, went back to sleep, and woke up again at seven wondering what country I was in.”

“That will improve.”