“I’m afraid I don’t know what is so funny. Do you care to share it with us?”
She sucked in several deep breaths and wiped her eyes with the tissues. Finally, she seemed to have it under control. “I’m so sorry. But, well, it’s you.” She clutched her arm around her belly, as if willing herself not to laugh again. But the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile she couldn’t quite control. A smile that quavered at the corners.
Kadir thought that he ought to be insulted, but he was having a hard time figuring out precisely why. Not to mention seeing her this way—lit up from the inside instead of calm and controlled and professional—was somehow addictive in a way he hadn’t expected.
“And what have I done to amuse you so much, habibti?”
She sucked in another breath, let out a giggle, swallowed hard. “You. Bridezillas.” She waved the tissue back and forth, as if fanning herself. It was a very inadequate fan. “I never knew that a prince such as you would—” She took a deep breath, let it out again. Closed her eyes. He could tell she was biting her lip. When she spoke again, her voice shook. With laughter, he realized. “Watch a show about insane brides wreaking havoc on their grooms and everyone connected with their wedding. It’s just so, so...”
“Amusing?”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, God, yes.” She waved a hand at him without looking at him. “Because you’re so, well, you. And I just can’t picture you with the remote and a bag of potato chips, settling in for the latest episode.”
“Emily.”
She cracked open one eye. “Yes?”
“I think you are blowing this out of proportion. I may have seen something while in a hotel room once. I also read the newspapers. The American fascination with the perfect wedding has not escaped my notice. And what I am saying is that couples in my country don’t feel that same need. They have ceremonies. They throw parties—or their families throw them—but this is how it begins. At a table, with marriage documents.”
She focused on the papers. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to insult anyone. It’s just not what I expected I would do someday.”
“I am not insulted. Daoud is not insulted. Philippe is French—and he is most certainly not insulted.”
Her eyes were warmer than he’d ever seen them. So green, like fresh fields in summer. She made him think of sunshine and long afternoons with a book and a bottle of wine—things he’d not done in a very long time. Since he’d started Hassan Construction, he’d had no time for anything but work and the kind of erotic play that happened with the opposite sex.
He did not mind that so much, usually.
“Good.” She put her hand on the marriage documents and took a deep breath. “Do I sign first, or do you?”
“The bride signs first.” The words were tight in his throat for some reason.
Emily picked up her pen and wrote her name quickly. Then she sighed and pushed the papers toward him. Kadir signed and handed everything to Daoud, who affixed the official seal of Kyr. Then both lawyers stood and bowed to Kadir and Emily both before taking their leave.
Soon, the room was empty but for the two of them.
Kadir had stood to see the lawyers out, but Emily was still sitting in her chair and looking somewhat shell-shocked. He sat down beside her, took her hand in his. She gasped softly and stared down at their clasped hands. A current of warmth slid through him.