Page 15 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Mikail watched as Nahla’s pert behind settled on the embroidered dining room chair.

It took every ounce of his considerable self-discipline not to lean in and brush the loose wisps of hair off the nape of her neck.

He wanted to trace the delicate curve of her spine, press a kiss against her bare shoulder, and risk undoing every ounce of restraint he’d spent a lifetime perfecting.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, curled his fingers into fists, and marched to the other side of the table with all the dignity of a man on the edge.

He sat. Napkin over his lap. Jaw clenched. Controlled.

Then the waiter set a bowl of soup in front of Nahla—and she smiled at the other man. A full, glowing, devastating smile that hit Mikail like a sniper bullet.

He glared at the waiter’s back, wondering if a glare could cause spontaneous food poisoning. Unfortunately, the man remained upright.

Ealayk allaena . He was losing his damn mind.

Desperate to redirect his thoughts from soup-delivering, smiling waiters, and the graceful woman across from him, he grasped at the one conversational topic that had softened her expression earlier. “What’s your favorite genre to read?”

Nahla turned that same bright smile toward him.

It wasn’t quite the same wattage as the soup smile, but it was enough to keep him from breathing for a second.

“I love to read all sorts of things.” She sipped her soup, then tilted her head.

“But I’m not a fan of biographies. And I detest autobiographies. ”

“Why?” he asked, even though her lips were glistening from the soup and his brain had temporarily short-circuited.

“Because biographies are always someone else’s interpretation,” she explained.

“It’s just like journalists today, right?

” When he stared at her blankly, she continued.

“I mean, you go to a party, make polite small talk, and the next day, some journalist claims you were declaring war with your eyebrows.”

Mikail snorted. “To be fair, your eyebrows are fairly expressive.”

“They’re innocent,” she countered, pointing her spoon at him, her tone mock-wounded. “They’ve never started a single conflict.”

He smiled. “But they’ve definitely raised suspicions.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Regardless, biographies twist things. Even when they use letters or old documents, you never know if the person was telling the truth. People embellish all the time.”

“You’ve never exaggerated in a text?” he asked, watching her over the rim of his wine glass, one eyebrow arching in challenge.

Nahla smirked. “Only once. I told my cousin I was dying of boredom during a state dinner with the Sultan of Norrak.”

Mikail gave her a dry smile. “I’ve been to one of those. It’s like trying to stay awake through a twelve-course punishment.”

“Oh, it got worse,” she said, her eyes lighting with mischief. “Saif started making faces at me across the table. Completely deadpan—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, the whole thing—while the Minister of Fisheries was giving some tragic speech about algae.”

Mikail chuckled, imagining the scene. “Let me guess. You held it together like a true professional?”

“I nearly snorted wine out of my nose,” she said primly. “Half the diplomats thought I was mocking their trade policies. Three nearly walked out.”

He laughed, low and surprised. “You’re dangerous at formal events.”

“I warned them not to seat me next to Saif,” she said with a shrug. “But no one listens until the international incident is already in motion.”

Mikail choked on a spoonful of soup, coughing as he wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“Anyway,” she continued, swirling her spoon, “autobiographies are even worse.”

“How so?”

“They’re just a parade of ego.” She took another delicate sip of the soup. “I mean, imagine waking up one day and thinking, ‘You know what the world needs? Every detail of my life. Let me include my deep thoughts about a cheese sandwich I had in 2006.’”

Mikail barked out a laugh. “A cheese sandwich?”

“I’ve read it! Some guy spent three pages describing how the cheese was a metaphor for his existential dread.” She wrinkled her nose. “I prefer stories with dragons or detectives. People solving murders. Or kissing in libraries. That sort of thing.”

“That’s… oddly specific.”

“Maybe,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “Maybe not.”

He couldn’t stop smiling. “So if you ever wrote an autobiography, would you call it I Am Not a Cheese Sandwich ?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Only if the subtitle is But I Am Full of Existential Dread and Slightly Toasted .”

Mikail leaned back, genuinely amused—and a little captivated. She was funny. Sharp. Her mind was as dangerous as her smile, and he was in serious trouble.

Before he could respond, the waiter returned with the main course. Nahla beamed again.

Mikail glared again.

But this time, the waiter noticed.

And made a hasty retreat.

Smart man.

“So, you don’t like biographies because they might not be true. And you don’t like autobiographies because the writer is arrogant.”

“Exactly.” She nodded decisively. “Plus, I’m fairly certain most autobiographies are ghostwritten, which means the subject isn’t just arrogant—they’re also a liar.”

Mikail chuckled, setting his wineglass down. “I suspect you’re right. Though… I do enjoy biographies.”

“Are they military leaders? Or stoic diplomats who suppress all their feelings and make their own clothes out of burlap sacks?”

He lifted a brow. “I don’t recall burlap being mentioned, but yes—military leaders and the occasional visionary strategist.”

“Of course,” she said with mock solemnity. “Next, you’ll tell me you highlight key passages and store them in a color-coded filing system.”

He gave her a level stare.

Her lips twitched. “You do, don’t you?”

“I believe in organized intelligence.”

She snorted and lifted her wine glass. “I believe in stories where the heroine doesn’t have to footnote her feelings.”

That made him laugh. And then she grinned.

To protect his dignity and his sanity, he pivoted to safer ground—books.

Fictional ones. He steered the conversation toward spy thrillers and mysteries, watching as her face came alive.

She spoke with her hands, her spoon forgotten in her fingers as she recounted plots and twists with a vibrancy that made the rest of the room disappear.

Mikail didn’t interrupt. He just listened. Or at least he tried to. But her lips—soft, pink, slightly glossed—kept catching his eye. Especially every time she licked the spoon. Which, apparently, was often.

He was doomed.

Before long, the dessert course arrived—raspberry mousse, artfully plated. The chef had even done one of those sauce swirl things. Mikail frowned at it. It was…festive. He preferred steak. Or black coffee. Possibly a wall to glare at. But mousse?

Across from him, Nahla moaned softly with pleasure after her first bite. “Oh wow,” she whispered. “This is amazing.”

Mikail shifted in his chair, trying not to notice the way her eyes fluttered closed or how her tongue flicked out to catch a smear of raspberry from the corner of her mouth. He tried not to imagine replacing that spoon with his fingers. Or his mouth. Or—

Nope. Time to retreat.

“I have some work to finish up,” he said abruptly, standing so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Nahla blinked up at him, clearly startled. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“Thank you for the… for your company.”

He nearly groaned. For your company? That was what he came up with?

Mikail strode from the room before he did something idiotic. Like taste the raspberry mousse on her lips.

Or ask her to stay. Or kiss her. Or clear the entire table with one sweep of his arm and—

No. Cold shower. Now.

By the time he reached his suite, he was practically tearing off his shirt. Cold water wasn’t enough tonight. It never was where she was concerned.

And yet as he stepped under the spray, Mikail knew exactly what image would haunt him through the night: her laugh. And the way she said “mousse” like it was a sacred offering from the gods.

Damn that raspberry dessert. Damn his weakness.