Page 53 of Her Older Sheikh

I shake my head. "No, really. I don't recall—-"

A memory flashes in my mind, and my body jerks in shock.

Daria is looking at me expectantly. "Well?"

Oh God.

"Have you heard back from your smoking hot,consciencelessdoctor yet?"

I jump to my feet so fast, I accidentally knock my chair over, and Daria looks at me, startled. "What?"

"I, um, need topoop."

Daria chokes out a laugh, but I'm too much in a panic to feel embarrassed.

Shit, shit, shit.

I'm sure Daria thinks I'm running because I'm about to shit myself, and that might as well be true, figuratively speaking.

What the hell have I done?

I wait until I'm back inside my room before I get my phone out, and my fingers shake as I scroll through the emails in my inbox.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

My stomach twists in dread when I see an official email from Smut Fantasies Inc. There's a PDF file attached to it, and just like I feared, it's an air-tight contract between SFI and me.

I skim its contents in hopes of finding a loophole that would allow me to back out from willfully participating in its beta stage, but all I find is a penalty clause that I would never be able to afford.

How can you be so stupidly drunk, Leah Raptis?

I chew on my lip as I start pacing the length of my room. I know I can always ask for Andie's help, but if I do that, she'd be forced to let "both" of her daddies know she broke her word.

Think, Leah, think.

Karen's last bit of advice flashes in my mind, and my steps come into an abrupt stop.

I tried a lot of things, but honestly? You know what worked the most?

SEX.

There's honestly nothing like lots and lots and lots of sex to make you forget everything except what you're feeling.

I know it's absolutely blasphemous to even think that my predicament is heaven sent, but...can I just fool myself into thinking that all of this isstillpart of His plan?

Five

Stanhope Medical Center of Miami was already bustling with activity when Joelle walked past its doors at half-past seven. Even though she still had thirty minutes to kill before her shift officially started, Joelle wasn't surprised to find all the lights already on when she reached the clinic she worked in.

"You're late," her world-famous, internationally acclaimed surgeon boss drawled as he straightened off the doorway of his consultation room.

"No, I'm not." Joelle perched her butt on the high-backed stool behind the reception counter. "You just have a habit of coming to work freakishly early, which is so not my fault."

Her cousin only grunted, and Joelle studied him surreptitiously while she started sorting through the dozen or so letters and invitations addressed to Dr. Adam Al-Masri.

Adam would've usually said something mean by now, and the fact that he didn't was telling.

Two years had already passed since Cora Mitchell's death. The woman had been in her seventies, and it was by account of her age that various top surgeons had refused to operate on her. Adam had been her last hope, and while he was the type of man who would've willingly risked his reputation for a chance to save his patient—-

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