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“But it’s not,” Yaret urged. “And we’re just lucky I caught this before your birthday!”
His birthday was two weeks away. Fatim refused to consider the idea that he’d be married by then. Married again. As if once wasn’t enough.
“How sure are you that this is law is solid?” Fatim asked, scanning the text of the decree. But it passed by in a blur. He couldn’t focus on the words to save his life.
“One hundred percent.” Yaret said slowly. “And that’s a conservative number.”
Fatim huffed, pushing away from the table. This was bullshit. He stormed over to the round window overlooking the gardens, scowling out just as his brother had twenty minutes ago. Near a small cluster of trees, Calla sat on a stone ledge, braiding Nara’s hair, while his son Rashid hopped like a frog between bushes. He smiled briefly. He’d known the last nanny wasn’t ideal, but he thought she’d work out well enough. His kids weren’t poorly behaved. They were simply high energy and still in some ways, Fatim believed, dealing with the death of their mother.
His children wanted a mother, and badly. Nara sometimes even picked out mommies at the market, and Fatim always begged she not shout to her chosen one across the square. He couldn’t blame them. The cancer that had claimed their mother had arrived stealthily and swiftly. The best royal doctors could do nothing. And then Fatim was a widower.
“I never wanted to get married in the first place,” Fatim said, turning back toward Yaret. “I hardly want to do it a second time.”
Yaret had been with the family long enough to know about Fatim’s austerity when it came to interpersonal relationships. Nobody beyond the nucleus of family got Fatim’s affection. Everyone else—countrymen and colleagues alike—were respected and adored but in a distant way. In a ruler-and-subject way.
Because Fatim knew what love and romance could do to a king. He’d seen it happen with his own eyes. His father and mother had a love that was wonderful and rare—but once Fatim’s mother passed away when Fatim was an early teen, his father turned reticent and cold. The loss of his love had hardened him, made him cruel, affected his leadership.
For Fatim, marriage needed to be a business move. Something convenient to produce heirs—which he’d already done. The romance part didn’t figure in, much less love. And going through the business transaction a second time just felt redundant.
“Figure out a loophole,” Fatim finally commanded, ripping his gaze from Calla and his kids. “Because I am not getting married a second time.”
Yaret grimaced. “Sir, there’s just not—”
“Find. A. Loophole,” Fatim repeated slowly. As king, there wasn’t much beyond his control or influence. And this, of all things, he desperately needed to control.
“I’ll do my best,” Yaret finally said in a small voice, scooping up his papers. “But I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Yaret let himself out of the sitting room without another word, leaving Fatim to his tumultuous thoughts. He returned to the window, gaze settling back on the children. They’d moved toward the swing set now. Calla grinned as she pushed Rashid in the swing. Nara pumped her legs furiously, going higher and higher.
First order of business for now was finding a new nanny. Finding one who fit with the children had been a struggle. Of all the failed hires over the past two years, none had meshed so seamlessly as Calla. Sure, it was just a little outing. But usually they shied away from strangers, even when going to the swing set.
He buried his hands in his pockets, mulling over his options.
What if the royal seamstress became the royal nanny for a spell?
Only one way to find out.
3
When Fatim found Calla and his children in the royal gardens an hour later, Calla could have sworn there was a sparkle in his eye. He sauntered over to them, looking every inch the dashing off-duty king, hands stuffed into the pockets of the linen pants he wore with grace. A simple navy tunic fluttered in the breeze as he came their way. Calla’s heart nearly stopped.
“Having fun, I see.” He paused at the edge of the stone-laid path, grinning down at his children. They bounded over to him, tripping over themselves and giggling in the process.
“Yes. We had a lovely time out here.” Calla offered a smile up to the king. “Your kids are fun to be around.”
“I wish all the nannies thought like you,” Fatim said.
“Have you had trouble with nannies? Discounting what happened today, of course.”
“You could say that.” Fatim eased to sitting on a small stone-carved bench nearby. Rashid climbed into his lap, and Nara sat primly at his side.
“Papa, Miss Calla told me she makes clothes,” Nara gushed.
Fatim hefted with a laugh. “Is that so, dear?”
Nara nodded exuberantly. “She says she’s going to make clothes for celebrities,” the six-year-old stated matter-of-factly.
Calla froze. She’d forgotten that children harbored no secrets. Not that this was a secret, per se. But still, it seemed weird to have a six-year-old tell the king of Amatbah that she aspired toward Fashion Week. Like she’d admitted something to a friend, who then went and tattled to her parents.
