Page 12 of The Sheikh's Secret Heir

I stop on the step next to him, shocked. It’s the closest thing to sweet that he’s ever said to me. “Oh. Um… Thank you,” I manage to reply, looking down to hide the blush blooming on my cheeks.

His compliment shouldn’t bear any weight to it — it doesn’t mean anything beyond simple politeness. Yet, his words seem to echo in my ears, adding an unusual note of warmth to his cold demeanor.

“Is Ali awake?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from the unexpected compliment.

Too late, I realize that’s exactly the opposite of what I want to do. I’d rather continue this delicate moment, hold on to this olive branch he’s extended me. But I’m a mess, no good with my words unless they involve data and prescriptions. I’ve been putting my foot in my mouth since I could talk, and that doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.

“Yes.” Something flickers across his face. Disappointment?

I can’t tell. Without another word, he turns and leads me inside.

This time, we don’t see anyone on the way to Ali’s room. I’m sure the staff is around somewhere, but the house is big enough that you probably wouldn’t hear someone yelling from the other end of it.

“Dr. Tara!” Ali’s brown eyes light up at the sight of me, and for a moment, the whole world seems a little lighter.

I’ve always loved children, and Ali, with his irrepressible spirit and radiant smile, is impossible not to adore.

“Hey, Ali.” I smile, setting my medical bag down. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better!” He shows off his bravery like a badge of honor, but the faint pallor of his skin betrays him.

“Good to hear.” I check his vitals — steady; improved — and then offer Faiz a small bottle of probiotics. “These will help his gut recover from the antibiotics,” I explain, meeting his gaze only because it would be rude not to.

It’s even harder to look at him now, following that compliment outside. Even though I know he didn’t mean anything by it — he was only being polite — it shook loose the crush that I’ve been trying so hard to stuff away. Plus, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take a little extra time getting ready today… specifically because I was coming here.

“Thank you,” Faiz says, his voice low, always measured.

His fingers brush against mine as he takes the bottle — a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt through me. I pull away, professional boundaries snapping back into place.

“Make sure he takes one with every meal,” I add, packing away my stethoscope.

Footsteps sound in the hallway, and I look over to see a small, older woman entering. She peeks into the room with concern then flashes a smile at me.

“Amina!” Ali says. “This is Doctor… Doctor Tara.”

“Amina is Ali’s governess,” Faiz explains, and I’m more than a little surprised to hear the answer come from him. What happened to essentially demanding that I don’t talk to anyone here?

“He’s been looking forward to your visit,” Amina tells me.

“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” I reply, my gaze flickering to Faiz, who stands quiet by the doorway. His expression is unreadable, but the slight tension in his shoulders tells a tale of vigilance and concern.

“Ali is easy to love,” Amina says, returning her attention to the boy now tugging at my sleeve, eager for more of my presence.

“Can we play, Dr. Tara?” Ali’s large brown eyes mirror Faiz’s, but whereas Faiz’s are often shuttered, Ali’s are wide-open windows to his soul.

“Maybe next time, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Right now you need to rest and get better. I also have to talk to Faiz for a bit.”

“Okay.” He looks disappointed, but when Amina pulls a short stack of comic books from her bag, his eyes light up. Attention diverted.

As I stand, Faiz’s eyes lock onto mine, a command ushering me to follow him.

“Care for a drink?” he asks in the hallway.

At first I don’t understand. A drink? The two of us together? I would have expected to see pigs fly before he ever invited me to such a thing.

“Sure,” I manage, even though it’s too early for me to be drinking. “That sounds nice.”

We walk several hallways to his study — a place built of rich mahogany and leather-bound books. I try to find something to say as he pours two glasses of scotch with practiced precision, but it’s like my brain just isn’t working right. I can’t think straight at all around this man.

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