By Friday, I’d mostly kept my word to myself. Despite my little ice cream setback with Khabib, I’d been good at work. I’d kept my conversations with the Sheikh as brief and professional as possible. I’d kept my distance, and done my job. It wasn’t that hard; it had been a busy week after all. We’d been planning almost non-stop for Samara Motors’ biggest car launch of the year, so calls and meetings had pretty much consumed my entire week.

Now, however, my hand on my glass door, I was face-to-face with Khabib, who looked as surprised as I was. With a laugh, he stepped back and gestured for me to come out.

“My apologies, Lucy. I just came to ask you something.”

“Oh, sure. What’s up?”

“About our big launch tonight—”

“Yes, I know you said I’ve done enough already, and if you really don’t want me to be there, I won’t come. I just think with all the happenings and events…” I trailed off, seeing his amused face.

“Sorry for cutting you off.”

He shook his head.

“Not at all. It’s just funny. I was actually here to ask you something to that effect.”

“Oh. To come?”

“Yes, but not in the way we discussed. As…my date.”

I gaped at him. My study of his face—gaze flicking to the right corner of his lips, which lifted when he joked with me—revealed nothing. The longer I scrutinized Khabib’s face, the more I saw that he was not joking.

“My date—a beautiful yet unreliable Hollywood starlet who will remain unnamed—dropped out at the last minute. And, while I was sitting at my desk over there—” he swept his arm over in the direction of his marble artwork of a desk, “I glanced over here and thought to myself: why don’t I invite a woman who is both more reliable and beautiful?”

For a moment, I stared blankly at him. Then, as my face transformed with comprehension, Khabib’s smile broadened.

“So?”

When I opened my mouth, I had to stop myself from bursting out with hysterical laughter.

“Khabib, sir, are you sure?”

He grinned again.

“Nope.”

“Uhh…”

“Well, Lucy, how can I be sure, when you’re rejecting me already?”

I caught his merry eye and we laughed together.

“Fair enough. All right then, I’ll go. I just… Thank you, Khabib.”

He waved his hand.

“And don’t worry about a dress. I chose one out a few minutes ago online. It should go beautifully with that beautiful golden mane of yours. You’ll have it on your doorstep by the time you get home tonight.”

We stood there for a few more seconds, grinning stupidly at each other.

“You’re making me feel like Cinderella or something.” I giggled nervously. “Well, I’m gonna go on my lunch.”

Khabib nodded.

“Yes. You should. I’ll be leaving early again today, though. Got lots to do.”

He walked off a few paces, then paused.

“And, Lucy?”

“Yes?”

He shot me one of his megawatt smiles.

“See you tonight.”

“See you tonight!”

I hurried off to the bathroom so I could skip around its small interior unseen, whispering “Yes, yes, yes!”

* * *

Nighttime and the launch party came in what seemed like seconds. Seconds to finish up my work, race home, and get changed into the teal, jeweled wonder that was my dress. Seconds to feed and walk Oscar. Then, a split-second to fly out the door and into the limo that was picking me up, where Khabib was waiting inside.

At the sight of me, his grin became a jaw-dropped look of awe.

“Lucy, you look…”

I took a worried look down, to make sure my dress hadn’t gotten wrinkled or drooled on by Oscar or something.

“Is it all right?”

He nodded, his face still star-struck.

“You look gorgeous. That dress suits you even more than I thought it would.”

I flicked my gaze to my hands. I couldn’t bear looking at him as he said that; how I felt about him would be written all over my face.

“Thank you, Khabib. For this dress, inviting me, for everything.”

Leaning over to close the door behind me, Khabib stopped inches away from my face with a soft smile.

“Don’t thank me yet; the night’s not even begun.”

And he was right. The limo ride was comfortable and wonderful, with the two of us chatting easily, and the driver even offering us drinks at a stoplight. The car launch, however, was something else.

The second we got to the venue, I knew I was in for a big night. The Majestic Downtown Event Hall was almost unrecognizable, with the whole exterior transformed to resemble Samara Motor’s first fully electric sports car, the Samara Reseda. Its sleek noir exterior glinted more the closer you got, with lights that seemed to beam out in all directions.

At the wide-open doors, Khabib paused and turned to me.

“You ready?”

I nodded, and he squeezed my hand.

“Let’s go, then.”

Inside was a whirl of well-dressed people, waiters with hors d’oeuvres, and cocktail waitresses in Samara-logoed dresses. Around the edge of the room was a partition-separated platform, where people were test-driving the Reseda. Another one of the cars was on a slightly raised platform, its doors opened, people clambering eagerly inside. At the sight of the Sheikh, everyone seemed to come alive, greeting him like the prince he was.

Khabib greeted them all warmly, as if they were old friends. To the various questions fielded my way (“Who’s your pretty friend?”, “And who, may I ask, is this lovely lady?”) Khabib only smiled mysteriously. Each time he declared, “She’s the most important woman in my life,” the words sent a new torrent of butterflies rushing through me.

The dinner itself was sublime, with more food than you could ask for—sushi, lobster, filet mignon, lamb—with each dish more delicious than the last, which didn’t even seem possible.

Although everyone seemed to have something to say or some question to ask Khabib, his conversation and attention, invariably, returned to me. First it was chitchat about work, the people, the display. But then, as the spread of food before us was replaced with a spread of desserts—luscious cakes, tarts and pastries alike—Khabib turned to me with a knowing smile.

“So, you have a dog?”

“How did you know?”

He laughed, shrugged, took another sip of his drink, then raised it.

“I have my sources.”

I raised mine to his.

“Well, yeah. Oscar is my little pug. He’s grumpy, chubby, perpetually constipated, and I love him to bits.”

At this, Khabib’s drink shot out of his mouth. He began choke-laughing, attracting the attention of several people around us.

“Sheikh Khabib, sir, are you all right?” one of the suited men asked.

Still laughing, Khabib nodded.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

With one final laugh-cough, he turned back to me.

“Sounds like he’d get along splendidly with Bruno, my wiener dog.”

I tilted my head at him.

“No.”

“What?”

“You do not have a wiener dog.”

“What—why not?”

“You just…you can’t. You must have, like, a husky or something. No way do you have a hilarious little wiener dog.”

Now Khabib was tilting his head at me curiously.

“Why not?”

“Just—I mean, I figured…you’re a sheikh, the CEO of Samara Motors. You’d be the type to—”

“Have a fancy, expensive dog like all rich, successful people?”

There was a note of hurt irony in his voice, but I could only nod my head in agreement. Khabib shrugged.

“I like things that make me happy. Whether it’s nice cars or every ice cream flavor that was ever made, I like what I like because it makes me happy, not because it gives me status. When I saw Bruno, with his chunky little body like a wobbly hot dog with legs, I couldn’t help but love him.”

We laughed together, but after, Khabib was still regarding me with a hurt expression.

“I thought you understood, Lucy.”

His voice was low, so I whispered my answer.

“What do you mean?”

Under the table, his hand clasped mine.

“That you and I, we aren’t like these other people. We don’t value the same things, live the same lives.”

His honey eyes were searching mine for understanding, agreement. But my mind was blank, my heartbeat pounding like gunshots. All I could think was that I didn’t want him to stop clasping my hand.

“And now, a few words from the head of Stateside operations—Sheikh Khabib bin Samara!”

The announcer’s excited voice boomed us back to reality. Releasing my hand, Khabib rose. He didn’t look at me, instead extending his gaze to the crowd, all who were paying such attention to him that they’d stopped eating.

“I was enjoying myself so much that I forgot I was here to launch a car!”

He chuckled along with the crowd, then his face grew serious.

“But it’s good, really. Because, at Samara Motors, that’s what we want our cars to do for you. Effortless luxury that makes you forget that you’re in a car, driving even—that streamlines every single aspect of the driving experience.”

Applause.

“Now, we’ve been known for this effortless luxury of our vehicles, and you can’t argue that we’ve accomplished this to the utmost. Leather seats that mold to whatever body is placed in them, increasingly adaptive artificial intelligence technology which is removing the need to even click or press controls—you name it, we’ve done it. But tonight, we’re here to celebrate something a bit different.”

He strode over to the wall and pressed a button. The lights snapped off and a holographic image appeared in the center of the long table. More applause sounded, which Khabib quieted with another raise of his hand.

“Tonight, we’re here to celebrate what is nothing less than a revolution. Ladies and gentlemen, what you are looking at right now, is the future.”

Now the Sheikh had a remote in his hands, and was pressing it. The illuminated car in the center of the table did a slow 360 spin, then started to move.

“A future where we aren’t burning away the planet, a future where we roll across the earth as easily as a stone, a future of luxury, and longevity.”

More applause, but Khabib wasn’t close to finished with his speech.

“Samara Motors doesn’t want you to have to choose between high-class and high mileage, saving the planet and saving time, treating yourself and treating Mother Nature. We’ve created a vehicle that meets all of your needs—needs you have now, and needs you might have in the future.”

As Khabib spoke, the car’s sunroof, back doors, and trunk opened, revealing a surprising amount of space.

“The Samara Reseda is going to change the way the world thinks about electric cars. So, here, tonight, I invite you to raise a glass and, more importantly, write your names on our order sheet. This is a one-night-only deal for all the valued guests that are here tonight. As of tomorrow, the price will be going up—if you’ll even be able to get this sold-out superstar in the next few months, that is. So, to one, to all, to the future, to Samara Motors!”

At this, the crowd of attendees and I raised our glasses, clinking exuberantly and repeating, “Samara Motors!”

The applause continued as Khabib snapped the lights back on and returned to his seat beside me. He turned to me with a pained, nervous expression.

“So, on a scale of 1 to 10, how bad was that?”

“Khabib, are you kidding me?”

This time, the right corner of his mouth was twitching unmistakably, so I batted him playfully. Immediately when my hand came in contact with his arm, I realized my mistake, a spark of electricity flowing through my body.

“Sorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking—”

Once again, under the table, Khabib clasped my hand.

“Please, Lucy. Enough with this formality. We’ve spent enough time together that I’d prefer you think of me as a friend, rather than an uptight boss.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.”

His voice was stern, but his laughter afterwards was infectious. The beautiful, tall presenter at the front was still making announcements in her melodious voice. Khabib nudged me with his elbow.

“What do you say we step outside for a bit?”

To my uncomprehending stare, he continued, “I just did my part, made my speech. No one will expect anything of me for at least another twenty minutes.”

At my continued silence, he shrugged, released my hand, and got up from his seat.

“See you in twenty, then.”