Page 22 of To Tango, with Desire

Despite my disinterest, I had actually enjoyed meeting one or two of the men here tonight. Not that any of them were interested in friendship. They wanted forever and I was only here to appease my parents. I glanced at the clock, willing for it to speed up.

There had been no time for a solo session before this meetup and I was so sexually frustrated, I was liable to do something stupid. As soon as this ended, I was going to get back on the dating apps and just pick a random guy to have sex with. Not that I could bring him home.

I imagined the horror on my parents’ faces if I had a guy spend the night in my bed.

My shoulders slumped. Maybe what I needed was a fake boyfriend. Some guy stuck in the same situation I was, desperate to escape the disapproval of his parents. Then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with their moody reprimands. Because it was becoming really clear to me that living with them was unmanageable. I couldn’t stay in that house with their old-fashioned rules anymore.

Lying about my virginal state to my conservative parents was one thing, but a fake fiancé . . . another matter entirely.

I glanced over at Zane for the zillionth time. I couldn’t seem to get our kiss out of my mind.

When the bell rang, I breathed a sigh of relief. That guy, while attractive, was only too happy to talk about himself. The speed-dating portion of this evening was coming to an end. Thank the Lord.

When a silver-haired man sat before me, I decided to be polite. We spoke for a few minutes before he dropped the bombshell.

“So, how many children do you see us having?”

I pressed my lips together, trying my best not to laugh at the presumption. As the oldest man in the room, not far off my dad’s age, I thought his question absurd at best.

I squirmed in the soft, diamond-patterned velvet chair. The lush gold complemented the rest of the fixtures and furniture. It was classy but not overly ostentatious. I couldn’t say the same for the attendees. Despite the understated luxury of my surrounds, I felt like I was sitting on hot coals, burning in some bizarre version of hell.

“I don’t want children,” I eventually responded.

The man smiled at me, as if he were indulging a child’s whimsy. “That’s what all women your age say. But that clock will start ticking soon, habibti, and then no man will want you. Trust me, I’ve met many women who wanted to put their career before their biological needs, and they’ve all ended up alone and bitter.”

“How very distressing for them to not have you to offer such sage advice, habibi.”

The man’s creased face wrinkled in further disapproval. “You think this is a joke?”

“That a man of your age is lecturing me on my reproductive timeline? Frankly, yes. It is.”

“Girls like you are all the same.”

“Thank you. And yes, we are. Able to sniff out egotistical narcs who want a woman to be their sycophant. Such a tragedy,” I mocked, placing my hand on my chest.

When the bell rang, I tried not to curse at him.

I sat through the next few rounds, making small talk, pretending like I gave a damn about marriage and children. While some men showed an interest in my opinions, I found there was always something lacking. Or wanting. Or weird. I knew myself well enough to know the type of guy I would gel with, and none of the men on offer were it.

And then Zane sat down.

And my whole world tilted a little off its axis.

It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be capable of having this effect on me.

I wanted to blame the Champagne, the nerves, the fact that we’d shared that smokin’ hot kiss two weeks ago. But it was all a lie. It was him. The way he looked, the way he moved, the way he said my name.

“Amira.”

God, I needed to buy a better vibrator. My Rabbit was just not cutting it these days.

“Zane.”

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

“As am I. Zane Nasser, looking for a wife . . . Found any interesting candidates? Checked any teeth?”

“Excuse me?” A bemused expression flitted across his face.