Page 16 of Her Irresistible Sheik
Her brain melted slightly.Why was this man touching her like she was breakable?And why did she have to go and notice the size of his hands?
“Why are you avoiding me?”he asked, his voice low and gritty enough to need a warning label.
Nahla’s throat went dry.Her dreams had prepared her for many things—shirtless Mikail, handcuffed Mikail, Mikail saying something deliciously wicked.But not flour-covered reality Mikail asking emotionally direct questions with those intense, dark eyes.
“Why am I avoiding you?”she echoed, mostly to buy time as her brain rebooted.
He nodded slowly, brows arching in clear challenge.
“Because…,” she drew a blank, “…why wouldn’t I?”
It was the wrong answer.
Mikail’s scowl deepened, but his hand shifted, gently flicking a lock of flour-sprinkled hair over her shoulder.The gesture was oddly intimate, like something a lover would do before telling her she smelled like vanilla and bad decisions.
“You are my guest,” he said, his voice thick with restrained annoyance—or something darker.“You’re not here to hide in kitchens and make…bricks.”
“They’re scones,” she muttered defensively.
“They’re doorstops.”
Heather snorted from the stove.
Nahla sighed and stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron.“Look, I know I’m just the favor you’re repaying.You don’t have to dine with me, talk to me, or worry about what I do with flour.I’m trying to stay out of your way.”
His scowl deepened, a hard line cutting sharply between his brows.Despite that glower, his hand moved with a surprising tenderness.The rough pad of his finger grazed the delicate skin just below her jaw.Nahla tried not to react, but her body betrayed her—an involuntary shiver swept over her neck.
His eyes darkened.He’d noticed.
Mikail tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, unrelenting.His callused fingertip lingered for one breath too long before he spoke.“Okay,” he said, his voice low enough to sting.
One word.It shouldn’t have hurt, but it settled in her chest, cold and heavy.
“But I can still treat you with respect,” he added, his voice rougher now.“And you will have dinner with me tonight.”
His statement wasn’t a question.It was a fact laid down like stone.For a moment, he simply watched her.His eyes moved over her face, registering everything—her dusting of flour, the hint of embarrassment behind her expression, the little twitch near her mouth as she tried not to frown.
Nahla stood there, painfully aware of everything wrong about her appearance.Her hair was frizzing at the crown, her face was chalky with flour, and she was wearing a T-shirt that had once been white.Why now?Why couldn’t he have walked in five minutes later, after she’d at least wiped her face and pretended to be elegant?
He stepped away before she could compose a reply.She didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move, not until he reached the far end of the kitchen and—
He paused.His gaze shifted downward.
The scones.
Mikail stood beside the tray, regarding them the way a general might inspect a failed weapons test.Then he glanced back at her, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“Did you really bake these?”
There was no sarcasm in his voice.No amusement either.Just curiosity laced with something Nahla couldn’t quite read.
She could have lied.Could have thrown Heather under the bus or blamed a kitchen apprentice.But she simply nodded.
To her astonishment, he reached down, picked one up, and walked off.
She stared after him, baffled.
He’d touched her with shocking gentleness, questioned her presence with a voice full of gravel and fire, then walked away with a pastry no human should consume.He hadn’t said anything flattering.He hadn’t even smiled.And yet…something inside her twisted.
