Given her very finite income, Willow had only ever walked past most of the posh restaurants of downtown Houston. Nearing them now, she was stricken with anxiety. Beneath her dress, she knew her legs were tanned and firm from her long runs, and her body was the stuff of athletic magazines. But she felt certain that the people around her could see how cheap her clothing really was.

She continued to fidget as she entered the restaurant, hoping beyond hope that the Sheikh wasn’t perched somewhere, watching her as she made her awkward way toward his table.

She approached the maître d’, feeling small, like a child. Smoothing her hair, she said, “Hello. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

“I’m sorry?” the maître d’ asked, glaring at her. “You’re going to need to speak up.”

Willow swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet someone. Sheikh Ibrahim.”

“Right this way,” the man said, lifting his nose.

He marched toward the dining room, guiding Willow through seas of white tablecloths and sparkling chandeliers. Willow felt oddly dizzy, being surrounded by such wealth, and she brought her hands together, clenching them tightly.

In the furthest room, the tables were fewer and farther between. In one corner was a bar, where a bored-looking bartender with a curled mustache stood. At the table in the opposite corner, the Sheikh was already situated, sipping what looked like a whiskey. When he saw Willow, he stood up and bowed his head in a gentlemanly fashion.

“Willow,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it, as if this were a business deal. “So glad you found the place.”

Willow wanted to laugh at this. She’d lived in Houston all her life, and Dans les Etoiles was a veritable institution.

But instead, she said, “Of course. You come here often?”

“About once a week, when I’m in town,” Ibrahim replied, sitting back in his chair. “Please, for the lady. A cocktail? What do you like?” he said, holding the bartender’s attention.

“Um,” Willow said, her wind whirling. “I suppose I’ll just stick with wine.”

“Wine. Of course. Does Bordeaux suit you?”

“Sure,” Willow said, feeling clumsy.

She perched on the edge of her chair, immediately enraptured with how handsome this man was. He gave her that smile once more, flashing his teeth, and then clasped his hands over the white table cloth. He was wearing a gorgeous gold watch, something that probably cost more than everything in Willow’s entire apartment.

She cleared her throat. “Truth be told, I don’t know much about wine,” she offered, feeling it best to be at least a bit honest.

“Neither does anyone else here,” the Sheikh joked, waving his hand toward the crowd. “They’re all pretending. That’s all life is, don’t you think? Fake it till you make it, and all that.”

Willow glanced around her at the sea of Houston’s finest, the upper echelon of the world in which she’d grown up. She’d long felt she could never compete with these people, let alone be viewed by them in a similar setting.

“I don’t know…” she said, giving Ibrahim a shy smile.

“Trust me. No one knows much about wine outside of Europe, really. Heck, I don’t know anything about wine, just because I’ve spent so much time over here, in Texas. This is the land of barbecue. It’s not the land of Bordeaux. But it has its payoffs, I think,” Ibrahim said.

As if on cue, the server appeared back with the bottle of wine and poured them both deep glasses of the burgundy liquid. Willow made momentary eye contact with the Sheikh before lowering her eyes, staring at the white tablecloth awkwardly.

Ibrahim raised his glass in a toast, so she followed suit. They clinked their glasses together, with the Sheikh saying, “Thank you for meeting me here today. This is to the success of your brilliant race.”

“My legs still feel like rubber,” Willow said, chuckling. She sipped the wine slowly, taking in the many layers of flavor.

“I can only imagine,” Ibrahim replied.

Gesturing for the server, he ordered them a string of items from the menu—small plates, he explained—and said to bring them throughout the evening.

“Any time we look a bit peckish, bring another dish,” he said, giving the server a wink. “I want this woman well-fed. She just ran a marathon, you know.”

The server bowed his head in response, clearly accustomed to taking orders from people like the Sheikh. Willow’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her normal life of asking for dollar tacos from the side of a truck hadn’t prepared her for such high-caliber dining.

Ibrahim turned his full attention to her, then, tilting his head. He seemed to be inspecting her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her golden hair, her shapely body. Willow felt strange and shifted in her chair, hunting for something to say.

“So. I hate to be so forward,” she began. “But I was wondering why exactly you wanted to meet with me today? The photo in the paper. The mix-up. But what does it have to do with…um…reality?”

“Ah. Yes,” the Sheikh said, rubbing his palms together. “I like that you’re not wasting time. I appreciate that in anyone. In businesspeople. In girlfriends…” He trailed off, taking a long sip of his wine. “Right. The truth of it is, the mix-up actually works in our favor.”

“But what about your fiancée?” Willow asked, her throat feeling tight. “I’m sure she wasn’t too happy about that.”

“That’s the thing, Willow. She’s no longer my fiancée. Things have been falling apart between us for a long time, and we finally ended things yesterday,” he explained.

Willow thought it was curious that his face showed no sense of sadness—he didn’t pause to mourn the relationship’s recent death.

“Oh. I see,” Willow said. “I’ve heard about your reputation around here,” she continued. “Your, uh, nickname…”

“The Playboy Sheikh?” Ibrahim laughed, his face lighting up. “I loved when they coined that nickname. That was almost three years ago, now, and I think I really leaned into it.”

Despite the shallowness of his words, Willow found herself drawn to his smile, the way he tilted his head when he talked. She had to blink several times, just to force herself to concentrate again.

“What was that?” she asked, feeling dizzy. Perhaps it was the wine.

“I was saying that I’m very, very grateful that things are over with Eva. She wasn’t exactly the type of woman I wanted to take home to meet my mother, if you know what I mean. Very much the definition of a gold-digger.”

“It wasn’t love, then?” Willow asked, knowing just how foolish she sounded, seconds after the words left her mouth.

“Hmm?”

The sheikh lifted his fork and dove into a dish of roasted eggplant with paprika and aioli, taking it to his mouth and chewing slowly. He closed his eyes, taking in every flavor, then wiped his napkin across his lips and looked back at her, clearly avoiding the question.

“Anyway, with your photo already in the paper right beside mine, I was thinking you would be perfect to play the role of my fiancée, in my home country.”

Willow wasn’t initially sure if she’d heard him correctly.

“What do you mean? Go with you to your home country?”

“Yes. You see, as a royal, I’m expected to return and present my fiancée, within the month. Before my thirtieth birthday, to be completely frank. And, if you do this one-time performance—get your photo taken, maybe say a few words to a journalist, nothing big—then I will repay you ten-fold. The paper said you’ve raised one hundred thousand dollars for Jayne’s syndrome, right?”

Willow nodded, her lips parting slowly. Could he really mean what he was saying?

“Ten-fold?”

“That’s right. I’ll give you a million dollars if you agree to play the role of my fiancée, no strings attached. What do you say?” His eyes sparkled after he asked the question, and he leaned back casually in his chair as if propositions like this were everyday occurrences for him.

Willow tried to gather her thoughts. After stuttering for a second, she said, “I don’t know if you know anything about me at all, but I’m definitely not an actress—”

“That shouldn’t be an issue,” the Sheikh interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “And, actually, I’ve read that you are in fact something of an actress. You work in a call center, right?”

“So…?” Willow said, feeling almost uncomfortable. She suddenly felt that the Sheikh knew far more about her than she did about him. She felt naked, and exposed.

“So, that means you pretend to be happy and interested and ‘on’ in every sense, for hundreds of people every single day. I’m asking you to do just exactly that: smile, nod, all that—for my country. You can essentially skate by with your beauty, anyway. Stand there and look pretty, as the phrase goes.”

Stand there and look pretty? Willow internally snickered at the words, her heart hammering. Could she actually pull something like this off? It didn’t seem likely. And yet, she couldn’t turn a sum like that down.

“With a million dollars, they could make huge leaps in research…” she murmured, almost to herself.

“That’s right,” the Sheikh said, leaning in closer to her.

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand for a moment, making a bolt of electricity shoot up and down her spine.

“I know that you and your parents went through worlds of pain, after your brother’s death. And I appreciate how hard you’ve worked for this cause. Know that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been given this chance for a reason. I’m able to help you, your cause, and the memory of your brother. And you’re able to, well…”

“Help you lie to your country?” Willow asked, exhaling sharply.

“I don’t want it to come off so sour,” the Sheikh said, giving her a wink. “They have different customs back home. And I just want them to believe I’m all right.”

Willow didn’t speak for a moment. Reaching for the stack of toasted baguette pieces, she munched at the edge of one. The warmth of it gave her new life. Over and over again, her thoughts spun from Why not? to Don’t trust him. Regardless, the one million dollars constantly trumped any other idea.

“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll do it.” Reaching forward, she gripped the Sheikh’s hand and shook it, sealing her word. “Am I going to regret this?”

“I don’t think you will,” Ibrahim said with a laugh. “I think you should think of it as the best vacation of your entire life. A vacation from Houston, a vacation from the call center…”

“I haven’t left the city in almost three years,” Willow said, offering him a small smile. Her stomach clenched at the sudden idea of getting on a plane with that gorgeous billionaire and flying halfway around the world. “But won’t they know I’m not your typical model girlfriend?”

The Sheikh’s eyes shone mysteriously, and Willow wasn’t entirely sure how to categorize his expression. But, after a long, almost dramatic pause, he answered her.

“I think you’ll do better than you think, Willow. Gorgeous looks aren’t just reserved for models. They’re right here, in a Houston native who’s stuck in a call center and plotting to save the world.”