Page 11 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

He’d had to walk away.

If he’d stayed even one second longer in that kitchen, Mikail would’ve kissed her. On the mouth. With tongue. And maybe flour. And then his life would’ve been over.

Those bright, stunned blue eyes. Those soft, flour-dusted lips that parted when she gasped. He’d seen the moment her expression turned dreamy, and it had nearly done him in. Just one more heartbeat and he would’ve been brushing flour from her jaw with his mouth instead of his thumb.

The woman was a menace.

As he strode down the corridor, every purposeful step filled with the sheer force of his restraint, Mikail tried to shake her from his thoughts.

No good. The image of Nahla standing there, curves wrapped in an apron, looking like some sort of adorable domestic disaster, was now burned into his brain.

And her scones… good grief. He glanced down at the disc in his hand. The thing had the density of industrial concrete. The thing could possibly double as riot gear. And yet—he couldn't throw it out. That rock-hard pastry was a symbol of something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

With a sigh that could’ve cracked marble, Mikail turned to the guards still shadowing him like ghosts.

“Why was Princess Nahla in the kitchen?” he asked, his voice low and loaded.

All four guards exchanged glances, shoulders twitching with fear and confusion, like they’d just been asked to explain quantum physics during a lightning storm.

Silence.

His good mood—already on life support—flatlined.

He resumed walking, his steps heavier, his jaw set to stone. Once in his office, he dropped into his leather chair with a grunt and opened the top file on his desk. A report on the new irrigation systems for the eastern provinces. Very important. Vital, even.

He read the first paragraph four times.

And couldn’t remember a single word.

“Desmond!”

His assistant appeared so fast, Mikail suspected the man had been lurking just outside the door like some overly formal ninja.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“I need a security update on Princess Nahla.”

Desmond nodded.

Mikail raised a hand. “Also…” He looked down at the scone still sitting like an accusation on the corner of his desk. “Find out why she’s baking. And if I’m going to need structural reinforcements for my countertops.”

Desmond, to his credit, didn’t react. He just nodded with that same efficient solemnity and slipped away to do Mikail’s bidding.

Left alone, Mikail stared at the “scone.” He couldn’t throw it away. Not because he wanted to eat it—he valued his dental work too much—but because something about the thought of her finding out… the look on her face if she thought he’d rejected her attempt…

He growled and shoved the scone to the farthest corner of his desk. That was safer. Emotionally. Possibly structurally.

He was unraveling.

This was not how things were supposed to go. Princess Nahla Al-Sintra was supposed to be a porcelain doll with a dozen assistants and no spine. Spoiled. Vain. Bored. Someone who would sneer at his palace and complain about the thread count in the guest sheets.

Instead, she was quiet. Kind. Witty. She tried. She failed. She tried again.

And she was sexy as hell in a flour-covered apron.

When Saif had called asking for the favor, Mikail had agreed without hesitation. He hated owing anyone. Preferred to be the one calling in debts, not paying them.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

For her .

Now here he was—sitting behind a desk, glaring at a pastry that could double as a discus, completely unable to focus on national infrastructure because a beautiful, stubborn woman had flour on her eyelashes and dusting her hair.

Hell. He was doomed.