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He’s close. I stiffen, keeping my back turned to him, studying the elaborate, detailed tapestry on the canvas wall opposite instead. There is the sound of metal on metal and then a moment later, the aroma of something salty and piquant. Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder. He’s removing small containers from a fridge.
A fridge? I frown, moving towards it. “There’s electricity here.”
“A generator. Yes.”
“So this is just pretend camping?”
His smile is brief. “It is camping with convenience.”
“I should have thought you’d be too uber masculine for that.”
He lifts a brow, studying me slowly, his eyes raking over me, making me aware of just what I’ve admitted. That I find him uber masculine – and I fear the next logical conclusion is that I find him desirable. I rush to correct that assumption.
“I mean, that you’d want to prove your masculinity to the world.”
He leaves the smile in place, rich with mockery. “We both know this is not the case, but if you feel better to taunt me, then go ahead.”
Damn him! I spin away, feeling as though I’m on the back foot. Nerves fire through me. I am torn between a desire to ease the silence and a wish to act completely aloof.
The former wins, an ingrained dislike for awkward silences stretching through me. “Do you come out here often?”
He places the dishes in the middle of the table, gesturing with his hand for me to take a seat.
“Often enough.”
I move to the chair, drawing it backwards. “What does that mean?”
“Once every few weeks. More if I can.”
“You like the desert?”
He takes the seat opposite and by accident I’m sure, our knees brush beneath the table. I jolt and then wish I wasn’t so damned obvious. I glare at him to compensate for the fact I’m annoyed at myself. “Qabid is sixty per cent desert,” he says quietly, and I’m pleased he doesn’t push his advantage. Instead, he reaches for a plate and begins to place various pieces on it. “I did not have much choice, growing up, but to like it.”
“Surely you don’t have to spend much time out here,” I point out. “This is by choice?”
“It’s in my blood,” he agrees.
“And mine?”
His eyes spear me. “You look so much like your mother. It’s almost impossible to believe any Qabidi genes run through your blood.”
“It’s too late for a DNA test,” I quip. “We’re officially married.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he says, placing the plate in front of me. “You’re a figure of the Hassan family, regardless of your looks and parentage.”
I sit still, waiting for him to continue.
To my frustration, he instead points to the meal in front of me. “This is pickled fig,” he says, then points to another item. “White bean spread, spiced rice, smoked fish and lamb with chickpeas.”
I nod, reaching for the ornate metal fork to my side. “There is only one Qabidi restaurant in my nearest city,” I say, stabbing a piece of fish and holding the fork near the plate. “Dad took me there a couple of times. I think I ate something like this rice.”
“Undoubtedly. It’s a staple here.” He spoons his own plate high with food. “You say he only took you there twice?”
“I think so.”
“And the food you ate at home?”
“My mom cooked,” I say, a reminiscent smile touching my lips. “Mac and cheese was always my favourite, so she made it lots.” I don’t add that she never cooked Qabidi food after dad’s exile. It was too hard for her.
