They’d been going through his collection of Turkish films every night. Action-packed thrillers, to mysteries, and even the occasional romance. Zara never lasted for very long, her bedtime early. It left him and Maryan to watch more of the films together. He’d grown to cherish the time more than he felt he ought to. Attachment was a dangerous thing.

  “Do you watch Salma’s films?” Maryan asked.

  He’d told her about Salma beginning her acting career in small Turkish roles. She picked up the language quickly when she’d been living with him.

  “Only small clips, but I’m saving them for Zara.”

  “She loves watching her mom on TV,” she approved.

  “I bet she does.” He checked the fryer, seeing that she’d had the oil changed and readied for the fritters. That time allowed him to sort and organize his thinking. “One thing that we’d agreed on is to keep Zara in both of our lives. I’d never hold her back from her mother.”

  “It’s a solid rule for co-parenting.” Maryan rolled and sliced her second piece of dough. She had one left, and she was making quick work in completing it.

  He found tongs for her to use. Fetched a cooling rack and cookie pan to drain the fritters once they were done. He did all that he could do until he ran out of errands to run around the kitchen. She noticed, too, her eyes having followed him while he’d moved around his kitchen and helped her in his own way.

  “She thinks pretty highly of you, too.”

  “Does she?” A sense of unease shivered through him. He didn’t want to stand there and talk about Salma, not when he kept stealing glances at Maryan’s lips and wondering what they might feel like against his. The air in the kitchen was growing to be stiflingly hot—

  “Why aren’t you together?”

  A coldness showered over him, her query the trigger to the ice flooding his veins and the frost seeping into his heart.

  It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t understand how loaded the question was, how complicated the response to it would be if he allowed it. He stuck to the simplest answer. “We aren’t together because we don’t want to be. And we didn’t want to pretend to be, either.”

  “Do you ever plan to marry someday? Give Zara a stepmother? Maybe brothers and sisters?” She plated the last of the dough and switched on the fryer. Working and talking and avoiding his eyes all at the same time. “Billionaires are a catch, aren’t they?”

  “Funny thing about money. It attracts all sorts of people.” And it was difficult to distinguish between who was with him for his wealth and who wanted him.

  None of which he said aloud to her, fearing he’d come across pathetic. Like she’d have any sympathy for him.

  The poor billionaire can’t reel in a serious relationship. Boo-hoo, he thought derisively.

  Tired of the spotlight being on him, Faisal shifted gears and focus.

  “And you? Has your ex jaded you beyond the point of no return?”

  * * *

  Maryan should have known. She couldn’t even fault him for asking, not after she’d pried into his love life. It didn’t stop her from stalling with her response. Luckily the fryer was ready. She popped in a few pieces of dough, the crackle and scent of fried oil diffusing in the kitchen. It took all of thirty seconds. Seconds she relished before she faced the one-man firing squad.

  Faisal’s good looks dulled some of the pain murmuring through her heavy chest.

  She breathed in deep, expelling as much of the negativity as she could. What she couldn’t shake off she carried into her story.

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘no return.’ Just a long, long vacation from the warfare of dating.”

  He snorted. “That bad?”

  Hassan’s betrayal had cut deeply. But he hadn’t been her first boyfriend. She’d dated duds like him through high school and college. Enough men to know she had a type. A rough-around-the-edges but charming type. Hassan had been that. His confidence and winsome personality had lured her in. He seemed a perfect fit at her aunt and uncle’s restaurant. Working his way up from busing to the kitchen. When their old sous-chef retired, Maryan talked her aunt and uncle into taking a chance on Hassan.

  She’d liked him.

  But it had taken a while—nearly most of their three years of dating—for her to realize she didn’t love him.

  Breaking up felt appropriate. Even the kind thing to do. She’d thought Hassan understood why she had to do it. She never would have guessed he was angry enough at her to steal from the restaurant and flee before he was caught.

  The two-faced idiot.

  Maryan turned the fritters over in the crackling oil, tucking her anger away where it couldn’t leave her unguarded in front of Faisal. For some reason still unknown to her, she didn’t want him to see her weakened. She liked that he thought her strong, a fierce lioness, and someone who’d protect his daughter to the ends of the earth. It was the exact opposite of how she saw herself when she looked in the mirror. After all, to be strong meant to be willing to fight for one’s values...and she hadn’t done that. With her parents, she’d allowed them to do as they wished, and it resulted in her being shipped off to grow up without her family. Then Hassan used and abused her trust, robbing her and her family blind, and leaving her feeling like his accomplice. She’d brought him into the confidence of her aunt and uncle. They had relied on him, and only because they placed their faith on her word.

  If Maryan hadn’t vouched for him, her aunt and uncle wouldn’t have taken the hit to their finances. Once she was done in Istanbul, she owed it to them to return and help them earn what they’d lost and assuage her persisting guilt.

  She brooded and nearly missed the pastries turning the right shade of golden brown.

  “Here.” Faisal held a spider skimmer under her nose.

  She’d completely forgotten she would need the long-handled spoon to fish the fritters out.

  Their hands touched when he passed her the handle. She froze at the same time he did. They stared at each other, and then she took hold of the kitchen tool and scooped the fritters out into the safety of the colander at the end of the handle.

  As she added the second batch of kac kac, Maryan sensed Faisal’s eyes on her.

  He reached over to the freshly baked fritters. “A kac kac for your thoughts?”

  “Careful, they’re hot,” she warned, her sternness melting when he grabbed a fritter, bit into it and groaned his pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t think eating could conjure such a sexual picture. And yet Faisal had her imagining a dimly lit bedroom, slippery silk sheets and heated limbs intertwining in passion.

  Maryan blushed furiously when he opened his eyes and stared at her with an altogether different hunger.

  The emotion flashed briefly in his half-lidded gaze before blinking out of existence.

  “Damn. I think this might be the best kac kac I’ve had.”

  “You think?” she taunted, watching him demolish the fried delicacy. Surprised she could flirt when he left her feeling breathless physically and emotionally.

  He smirked and licked his fingers slowly until they were crumb-free. “It’s definitely the best I’ve had.”

  A pleasurable shudder rippled through her at his double entendre. Flushed all over, it felt like, she cleared her throat and muttered, “Thank you.”

  She popped the latest batch of fritters out and placed the last set into the cooling oil. Cranking up the heat slightly, she glanced up to his intense stare.

  “I’m sorry to have asked about your ex.”

  Maryan shrugged. “It’s only fair. I asked you about Salma.” She’d done more than ask; she’d poked and prodded him for information, convincing herself it was to help Zara when she wanted the details for herself just as much.

  “Still, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  He’d noticed the change in her mood then. What he didn’t have was the full story to work with, otherwise he would know that nothing he’d asked had deliberately instigated her turn in mood.

  Before she thought too much on it, she said, “He stole from us.”

  Faisal’s jaw hardened visibly, his face transforming into steel.

  “It wasn’t that much.” A few thousand out of pocket. The restaurant was doing well enough for the stolen money not to cause a massive problem. It was just the principle. The fact that they’d been betrayed by Hassan. Taken for fools.

  I’d been the fool.

  And now she felt foolish when she heard it said aloud. “He didn’t like it when I broke up with him. I’d thought that it was mutual...”

  She’d been wrong.

  “How is that your fault?”

  “I should have figured he was upset.”

  Faisal pulled in a loud breath, his hand quicker to the spider strainer on the counter. He flipped the fritters, saving them from being scorched on one side. Frown in place, he looked at her. “You’re shouldering blame senselessly.”

  She sputtered, bouncing between whether she should be annoyed he’d butt in with his opinion, or relieved that he could see how ludicrously tough she was being on herself.

  In the end it was near impossible to remain irritated when he plucked a fritter from the plate and waved it in front of her face.

  “Indulge yourself,” he urged. “I can’t think of anyone who’s more deserving of a treat right now.”

  She accepted the soft fried dough, gaining immediate comfort from biting into it.

  He snagged another one, too.

  “Feeling better?” he asked her when they finished eating in silence.

  “A little.” She was feeling silly that he even had to ask. Sighing, she said, “It’s a trust issue. I trusted my parents, and it brought me to America. I trusted my ex, and he stole from my family.”

  Maryan let that truth settle over her. She’d thought it plenty of times before. Registering Faisal’s empathetic smile wedged open room for growth beyond that circular thinking. Like she’d found in him a kindred spirit.

  “Trust is fickle,” he agreed gruffly.

  “Mine is close to nonexistent.”

  Rather than ridiculing her for being dramatic, he dipped his head. “On that, we can agree.”

  “Are we talking from experience?” She quirked an eyebrow, checking on the slowly frying fritters.

  “Yeah.”

  His monosyllabic response should have persuaded her away from the subject, but she recalled how he’d lifted her up when she had been hard on herself. And when he turned his back on the plate of deep-fried pastries, she had to speak up.

  “Bad breakup, too?”

  “A string of them, actually.”

  Her mouth flopped open. She should have known. Faisal was hot. His model-worthy good looks had to be reeling in all sorts of interest. Mostly her surprise was because he’d had more bad luck it seemed than she did. Not that she likely dated as much as he had, or that any of her dates were internationally renowned like his former partners were. Really, there was very little comparison to go on between the two of them. Worlds apart as they were.

  “I mentioned money being a problem.”

  He had.

  “It’s a real thing. There are loads of deceptive people who would date me for my net worth. Loads who have.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then there’s the paranoia.” His brows scrunched, deep brackets framing his scowling mouth, his eyes looking ahead but his features revealing the pain his dating experience had taught him. “The overthinking is the worst part of it. It’s ruined a date or two...or three. I keep asking myself if I’m who they want, or if I’m a package deal. And if they’ll take the money someday and run.”

  “Have you tried dating online? It’d be easier to hide your identity. At least until you could get to know someone.”

  He shook his head and didn’t look like her suggestion made him any happier. “It won’t change that there will always be a part of me that questions, wonders, doubts. And I can’t enter anything serious and long-term with that hanging over me. It wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t be true to myself.”

  She pulled the fritters out one by one, flicked off the fryer and closed its lid.

  “Guess we’re both jaded in similar ways.”

  “Trust,” he echoed her unspoken thought, his laugh raspy and joyless. “Where does that leave us?”

  “Clinging to hope?” she offered.

  Faisal tipped his head to the side, his eyes boring into her, face closed to any emotion. “How old are you?”

  “Why?”

  “You look young enough for hope.” He raked a hand through his silky-looking black curls, the longer ones on top clinging to his fingers and distracting her more than they should. His huff of indignation grounded her. “But I’m thirty-eight next month. Old enough to be worrying my mother that I’ll never properly settle down and give her another grandchild.”

  “I’ll be twenty-seven this September.”

  “I’d have guessed your mid-twenties. I was right, then. Young enough for things like hope.”

  She oscillated from flattered to puzzled, to finally landing on insatiably intrigued.

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Don’t you want to get married? Have kids?” He answered her question with a question, but it was a good one. Annoyingly so.

  “Possibly. Someday. Though not anytime soon.”

  “Because you have plans after you head home. For your aunt and uncle’s restaurant.”

  She nodded. “That, and I’ll likely take a second job.”

  “Where?”

  “Before Salma hired me, I used to teach cooking classes at my neighborhood’s community center.” Maryan smiled at the fond memories of working alongside her students of all ages. Young and old, novice and aficionado, and from a variety of backgrounds. Everyone had shared one thing in common: a passion for making tasty meals. Reminiscing had her thinking of her aunt and uncle and her obligations back home.

  “They’ve been talking about renovating the restaurant’s dining room for a while now. But that means they’ll have to close shop temporarily.” And they were already a little tight with money after her ex’s stupid stunt. That was where the job at the community center would come in handy. Maryan’s boss had liked her, and she’d left on good footing. She made a mental note to reach out for job prospects soon as she returned to California.

  Which was sooner than she liked...

  But it’s not like any of this with Faisal and Zara was permanent.

  “That explains a lot.” Faisal lifted the plate of fritters, holding it between them when he angled his body to face her fully. “These are phenomenally good. Have you ever considered opening your own business?”

  “A bakery, you mean?”

  “Sure,” he said, all lopsided smile and irresistible charm. “I could be your first investor. You could pay me in baked goods.”

  She swatted his hand before he reached another fried pastry. “Save some for Zara.”

  “No fair. You two cleared out my baklava stash.”

  Noting her confusion, he traded the plate of pastry to open a top cabinet and pull down a nearly empty container.

  Maryan recognized it and realized where he was going with this. “My stash. You’ve demolished it.”

  “We didn’t ‘demolish’ anything. We’ve had a few,” she lied.

  Faisal shook the nearly empty container at her.

  “Okay, we ate a little more than that, but there wasn’t much left in there.”

  Chuckling, he said, “Try harder to convince me.”

  “First the tea stash, now baklava. This secret snacking is concerning, Faisal.”

  “Don’t turn this around on me.” He laughed. “I’ll negotiate for another one or two kac kac to stock more baklava.”

  She pretended to think about it before nodding. “You have yourself a deal.”

  He offered her a hand.

  Maryan hesitated a second, and then she grasped his hand, his long, strong fingers holding hers in an even-pressured grip.

  Their hands remained clasped longer than necessary.

  Longer than she’d have normally liked.

  But Faisal had made her feel like she wasn’t alone. Like her troubles were his in a way, and she’d come out of this baking and talking feeling lighter, calmer.

  Happier.

  “Maryan.” He spoke her name in a breathy whisper; a reverence pulsed from those two syllables. So much so that it sounded less like her name and more like a prayer. She shivered visibly, unable to help the reaction. Her body temperature rose when he closed the short gap between them and his hand brushed up her arm before moving to cup her too-warm cheek. It was a simple touch that set off a firework of desire in her.

  “Thank you for listening. For asking. For pushing to know.”

  He spoke her mind. Those were the exact words she wished to utter to him. And she would have, had she had a voice to do it with.

  His next breath was drawn out, the heat of it brushing her cheek when he planted a quick kiss there.

  She stood frightfully still, the pressure of his soft mouth, the emotion behind the gesture, forcing open an ocean’s worth of yearning for him. When he slowly drew his head up, almost reluctantly, Maryan made her choice.

  Or maybe he’d made it first, and she went along for the ride.

  Because when his eyes regarded her, and his face pushed in closer again, their noses brushing, she pulled up onto her toes and connected their lips in an intimate play of his chaste kiss on her cheek. A hunger accentuated their lip-lock. It colored the moan rumbling through his chest and the heated press of their bodies as he backed her into the opposite counter.

  Resurfacing for air was expected but unwanted.

  Maryan would’ve gladly allowed Faisal to steal another kiss and rob her of breath again. A clanging alertness took hold of her when he growled, “Maryan,” and splayed his heavy, warm hands on her hips.