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Calla Clark tipped her head back to look up at the King of Amatbah. His crotch was technically in her face, and this wasn’t the first time. As the royal seamstress, she was often on her knees in front of King Fatim.
“Hrmmghhgm,” she mumbled from around the pins jutting out of her mouth.
“Come again?” He didn’t look down at her as he scrolled on his phone. This was so routine for him he probably didn’t even care that a twenty-something woman of child-bearing age was in the classic, submissive pose, eye-level with the royal jewels. But for Calla, it was all she could think about every time they met to tailor his outfits. She’d tailored countless men’s slacks, caftans, and robes—enough that she no longer had feeling in her thumbs from sticking herself so often with pins. But Fatim threw her decade of professional experience out the window.
She ripped the pins out of her mouth and sat back on her heels. “Could you, uh…” She hated correcting the king. Or anyone from his family. Really anyone. “Stand up straighter?”
Fatim sniffed and straightened his posture. His dark chocolate eyes swept her way, and for a moment their gazes locked. Electricity snapped through her. It always did when she looked at this man, or thought too much about him, or got within a ten-foot radius.
“Thank you,” she said, returning to the seam she worked on. Today’s project was a new pair of traditional linen pants—not her own design yet, but soon. Calla had the king’s measurements, but many of the fabrics she worked with in the Amatbah tribal kingdom were slippery, diaphanous, and billowy. These slacks were no exception.
As she returned to her task, the door to the sitting room clanged open. Footsteps stormed their way, and before Calla could turn around to see who it was, Fatim spoke.
“Nasser,” Fatim said with a sigh. The king’s younger brother, the youngest of the three. Calla had only been working at the palace for a handful of weeks, but she’d come to learn the quirks of the three brothers very quickly. Fatim had been exasperated with Nasser of late.
“Don’t start with the tone.” Nassar let a disgusted groan. “Always the tone, with you.”
Calla rolled her lips inward, fiddling with a seam that didn’t need fiddled. Really, she could have been done already. But she loved these quiet visits with the king—even better if she got the scoop on some drama. As the palace’s newest employee, she wanted to gobble up everything. To establish herself as the royal seamstress, sure, but her path didn’t end there. The goal posts stood much further away than that. Calla aimed for the esteemed position of royal designer, which would hopefully lead her to the ultimate goal within the next five years: showing her designs at the world-famous Amatbah Fashion Week for the first time in her life.
She just had to keep her head down, work hard, and do an amazing job. And don’t let the king’s naughty area distract you.
“I have no tone,” Fatim said. And it was true. He sounded quite monotonous when he spoke. As if he’d already heard and dealt with it all in his stint as Amatbah’s youngest king. “You’re the one flinging yourself around like a petulant child.”
Nasser scoffed, heading for the far wall. A round window overlooked part of the royal gardens. He scowled out at the scene.
“What’s the issue?” Fatim asked.
“Nothing,” Nasser spat. Calla glanced up at Fatim, almost wishing he would glance her way just then so they could share the yeah, right look. But she wasn’t part of this family. She was just an outsider, peering in.
“I don’t believe that.” Fatim pocketed his phone, twisting a little to look at his brother. “You broke up with Alana two weeks ago. I thought you’d be over it by now.”
Nasser grumbled something.
“You need distraction,” Fatim went on, sounding bored. “And trust me, I can give you plenty.”
Nasser huffed in response but didn’t disagree.
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“I have a slew of projects coming up that I could use help on,” Fatim said. Calla tugged at his pants, wishing that just once she could catch a glimpse of the body beneath. Last week, she’d seen him in his undershirt as he switched from old caftan to new, and she just about tipped over. This was the result of so much time spent in the handsome man’s nether regions. It had rendered her incapable of thinking about anything else. “Charities that need the royal touch. Military shows that could use a family member in attendance. Or how about the routine inner-city visits?”
“No, no, and no,” Nasser said, tugging at the front of his hair. Fatim’s mouth turned downward. Calla licked her lips, going over a seam for the third time.
“Then what is the plan? Continue partying like a playboy after your break-up?” Fatim scoffed, his voice finally breaking out of its monotone. “It can’t go on forever. And I can only give you so many perfectly valid ideas.”
The heat in Fatim’s voice sent a thrill through her, even though she shouldn’t be enjoying this family dispute so much. Still, it was hard to pull herself away. She wanted to know more about this side of Fatim—what he was like when angry. Damn near everything about him fascinated her. Working on his wardrobe was one of the highlights of her job.
She missed Nasser’s response, only felt the shift as Fatim pulled away from her. She tilted her head up to look at him and found him staring directly at her.
“What do you think?” Fatim asked.
Calla blinked a few times. He couldn’t possibly be talking to her. “Excuse me?”
“What do you think my lovesick brother should do to get his mind off his ex?” Fatim’s lips curled up on one side, and Calla realized with a jolt that she would never tire of looking at his face. Not even if she worked here for the next century.
“Um,” she began, furrowing her brow, trying to recall the past few weeks of clandestine eavesdropping and general research. “Well, Your Highness, I think you had a great idea with the charities needing a royal touch.” She swallowed, wracking her brain. “It seems like whatever connections Nasser has been making out and about could potentially be used for increasing donations to the charities.”
Nasser smirked. “From taking shots to giving to charities.”
“Perfect headline,” Calla cracked.
Fatim nodded slowly, turning to his brother. “Satisfied?”
Nasser didn’t give a definite answer, but his lack of a response was overshadowed by the doors bursting open again. Fatim’s nanny scurried through, dragging each of his two children by their wrists. She didn’t look pleased.
“King Fatim,” the nanny began.
“Excuse me, Fatim, we need to speak.” A man strode into the room behind the nanny and children, wearing the common burnt orange and sienna caftan of the tribe. He clutched folders at his side and hurried past Fatim’s children.
“You let your father speak in peace,” the nanny hissed to the children in a low voice as the newcomer approached the king. Calla got to her feet, the sudden flurry of activity signaling that she needed to wrap this up. The nanny yanked at Fatim’s daughter’s hand, causing the girl to stumble forward. “Did you hear me?”
