“It’s my fault. I was chatting with the pitmaster. I smoke my wings differently—was trying to show him and accidentally grazed the grill.”
“You got injured while mansplaining how to cook chicken?”
“Hey now! Is it mansplaining if you’re in a room full of men, explaining to a man?”
She bit back a smile. “Fair point.”
“It looks worse than it is. What really hurts is getting my ass handed to me at poker. These people are sharks. Now I have to learn how to be a lefty so I can apply this.” He opened the kit and reached for the Neosporin.
“Let me do it.”
He followed her to the lobby sofas. His hand relaxed in hers as she applied the medicine, unsealed the gauze, and pressed it against his skin.
“You do this often?” he asked.
She didn’t look up, but she felt his gaze. “Bandaging up guys who think they’re invincible? I guess I’m a certified pro.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’d say so.” She smoothed the bandage in place. “There. All better.”
“Thanks, Hena.” He gave her hand a grateful squeeze.
Be cool, Hena,she thought, withdrawing her hand from his.
“What’s on deck for the evening?” she asked.
“Khaled said he’s arranging a hookah bar on the back patio tonight. I’m hoping to get out of it. You?”
“Room service and calling it a night.”
“Room service sounds perfect,” he said wistfully.
“You’re welcome to join me.”
“Yeah? The dessert menu looked tempting.”
She took in his broad shoulders, his almond-shaped eyes, and groaned inwardly. After last night, she assumed he literally meant dessert—but she’d still welcome his company.
They exchanged numbers. He promised to call once his plans firmed up.
Back in her suite, she kicked off her heels. Her phone buzzed. A text from Reza.
Reza:No getting out of the hookah bar. I’ll have to hang back.
Hena:Sorry to hear.
Reza:I’m sorrier.
Reza:Rain check?
She thumbs-upped the message. It was just as well. While she would’ve welcomed another evening in his company, sleepiness was setting in fast. A shower and pajamas were the smarter choice.
She reached into her clutch for lip balm and felt something crumpled inside—a pastel cocktail napkin from thebridal shower. She was about to toss it in the wastebasket when she noticed the handwriting on it.
Unfolding the napkin, she grew still.
The writing was messy, but the words were unmistakable:
