Page 10 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

“It didn’t work!” Nahla groaned, frowning down at the tray of scones with the soulful despair of a woman watching her dreams of domestic goddess-hood crumble—literally.

Heather, the palace chef and unofficial sass queen of the kitchen, laughed as she wiped her hands and walked over to inspect the tray of scone-shaped failures. “They can’t be that bad,” she offered diplomatically, reaching for one.

The second her fingers curled around the nearest one, her brows lifted. “Good grief. This thing has the density of a collapsed star.”

She tapped it against the stainless steel counter. The resulting thunk echoed like a warning bell. One of the junior kitchen staff flinched and dropped a spatula.

“Okay, wow,” Heather whispered in reverence. “You’ve created something new. A defense weapon disguised as a pastry.” She grinned at Nahla. “We could probably market these to the royal guard.”

“I followed your recipe exactly!” Nahla protested, picking up one of the traitorous scones and letting it drop back to the tray. It landed with a dull clunk .

Heather tilted her head. “Did you follow the order of the recipe?”

Nahla bit her lip, then shrugged slightly. “Mostly.”

The chef’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘mostly.’”

Nahla sighed helplessly. “There were steps. I just didn’t follow them in a strict…chronological way.”

Heather burst out laughing and returned to the stove. “You know that’s kind of the whole point of a recipe, right? It's not a choose-your-own-adventure novel.”

Nahla rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll try again. But if this batch turns into hockey pucks too, I’m done. I’ll spend the rest of my time here alphabetizing your spice rack or knitting booties for the security guards.”

“You’d need to knit helmets at this rate,” Heather muttered, giving her sauce a stir. “I’ll supervise this time. But you have to promise not to wander off in order to invent new baking laws.”

Determined, Nahla smiled just as she reached for the flour bin again. She plunged her hand inside, mentally counting the scoops. But before she could finish, a voice thundered across the kitchen like Zeus spotting a mortal with a match.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Nahla jerked, startled. The cup of flour went airborne, creating a snowy cloud that engulfed her face, hair and shoulders.

She sputtered, coughed, and blindly waved a hand in front of her eyes.

“I was baking, not committing treason!” she gasped, trying to blink through the fog of flour coating her lashes.

And there he was—Sheik Mikail al Acantra, glowering like some avenging warrior with no patience for pastry.

Great. Just perfect . Nahla had successfully avoided him for five whole days, and now here he was, crashing her impromptu bake-off.

And he’d caught her just in time to make an absolute fool of herself.

She blinked up at him, wiping her face with her wrist. “What are you doing in here?”

He ignored the question and stalked closer, his gaze sweeping over her face and down to the flour-dusted front of her shirt. She half expected him to pull out a hazmat suit.

Then, inexplicably, he vanished.

Nahla blinked. Had she hallucinated that whole interaction? Was the flour in this kitchen laced with something?

Before she could chase the thought, Mikail returned—this time with a clean cloth in his hand. Without a word, he began brushing the flour from her cheek with a gentleness that didn’t match his frown.

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.

He’d taken the scone.

She’d baked three failed batches today and not even Heather had wanted to taste the latest attempt. But this brooding, unreadable man had taken one. Willingly.

Nahla barely had time to process the moment before she saw him pause at the exit. His steps halted just before he reached the door. Slowly, deliberately, he brought the scone to his mouth and bit into it.

He took a bite, then pulled it away.

Stared down at the scone.

Turned his head and met her eyes again.

Nothing. No smirk. No compliment. No complaint.

Then, without changing his expression, he turned and pushed through the swinging doors.

Nahla stood frozen.

What the hell had just happened?

She blinked, trying to steady her breath. Her chest felt tight. Her heart was moving far too fast. She glanced around. At some point, the kitchen staff had made themselves scarce. She was alone, standing in a cloud of flour that had settled around her shoes.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.

A year ago, she’d walked away from that man at a gala and told herself she’d imagined the pull between them. But now she’d seen it again. Felt it. And been reminded exactly why having a crush on Mikail al Acantra was a very bad idea.

There were too many contradictions. He was a puzzle without edges. A man who scowled harder than thunder but brushed her hair from her face with reverence.

She needed clarity. Purpose.

Spotting the broom near the cleaning closet, she grabbed it and began sweeping. The rhythm of bristles against tile helped settle her nerves. It wasn’t diplomacy or strategy or baking expertise, but cleaning up flour was one task she couldn’t mess up.

“You don’t need to do that,” Heather called out, reappearing with a whisk in one hand and a gleam of mischief in her eye. “The cleaning crew’s on rotation. This place will be spotless in twenty minutes.”

Nahla straightened, the broom still in her grip, and narrowed her eyes. “You left me alone with him,” she hissed, voice low and dramatically betrayed.

Heather’s neutral expression cracked into a wide, unrepentant grin. “I sure did. And now you’re having dinner with the tall, dark scowler. You’re welcome.”

“Traitor,” Nahla muttered.

Heather leaned forward on the counter, her grin deepening as she mentally went through dining options.

“So. What’s on the menu? I’m thinking candlelight.

Maybe steak and lobster, something rich and sensual.

Or—wait—sea scallops with a creamy lime drizzle.

Delicate. Sophisticated. The kind of dish that says flirt with me, but respectfully. ”

“No!” Nahla gasped, flailing slightly. A fresh puff of flour exploded off her shoulder. She coughed and swatted the air. “Nothing romantic! I need…culinary distance. Something that screams ‘thank you for the bulletproof guest room’—not ‘kiss me by dessert.’”

Heather tilted her head, amused. “You’re really fighting this, huh?”

“He’s just paying off a debt to my cousin,” Nahla insisted, voice brittle with effort. “That’s all this is.”

Heather arched a brow. “Sure. That explains the way he looked at you before he ate one of those... weapons-grade scones. Risked gastrointestinal trauma for you, that man.”

Nahla swept harder. “It was one scone. Probably curiosity.”

Heather held up both hands, backing off—barely. “Fine. No lobster. No lace tablecloths. Just a simple, neutral, emotionally void dinner.” She paused. “With the best wine in the palace.”

“No wine either!” Nahla pointed a flour-covered finger. “I’m already one eyebrow raise away from acting ridiculous around him. Alcohol would just speed up the humiliation.”

Heather laughed as she washed her hands again, unfazed.

“Got it. Dinner for two. Warm but platonic. Charming but non-suggestive. I’ll make steak medallions.

With a lemon-herb sauce—bright, sharp, friendly.

” She paused, then made a face. “Definitely not garlic. Garlic plus potential kissing is not a winning combo.”

Nahla groaned and pressed the dustpan into the bin. “There will be no kissing.”

Heather didn’t respond—just smiled and looked thoughtful.

“Broccoli’s off the table too,” Nahla added quickly, grasping for any sense of control. “I hate it. It tastes like punishment.”

Heather gave a mock gasp. “You insult my beloved brassica in my kitchen?”

Nahla barely glanced at her new friend. “It’s horrifying. I won’t apologize.”

Heather sighed dramatically and opened a drawer. “Fine. Green beans then. Grown in the greenhouse. Fresh, crisp, cooperative little things. Unlike you.”

Nahla smiled despite herself. “Thank you. Really.”

Heather gave her a side glance and lowered her voice. “You okay?”

Nahla nodded, then ducked her head, brushing a streak of flour off her cheek. “Just…nerves,” she admitted. “Dinner with a man who frowns better than I breathe? Who looks at me like I’ve committed diplomatic treason every time I walk into a room?”

Heather slid a bowl across the counter. “That’s definitely not how I’d interpret that look. But don’t worry. You’ll do fine.” She turned away, but said over her shoulder with a cheeky grin, “Just don’t feed him scones.”

That drew a laugh from Nahla, and for a moment, the tension eased—until she remembered what time it was and what was coming. She took a deep breath, clutched the broom a little tighter, and stared at the spotless floor.

Only six more hours until dinner. And she already needed another shower, a new outfit, and possibly a new personality.