“Hi! Hi! Don’t be mad at me.” I say nearly three weeks into Ramadan when Zahir steps off the elevator onto our floor shortly after six o’clock to find the twins and me waiting for him outside the Otis doors.

“Prin, girls, what are you—?” he starts to ask, and I can tell he’s in no mood to be derailed from his original destination.

He’s been taking meetings during the daylight hours of his fasting month, but by the end of an entire business day without food, he’s usually through. And with the time until sunset getting later and later as summer creeps in, I’ve learned the “get snapped at” way not to come between him and the nap he takes until one of his staff tells him it’s time for his prayers and sunset dinner.

Slightly behind Zahir, Erick, one of the American guards he’d taken on, after most of his elite guard was sent back to Jahwar to honor Ramadan, shook his head quickly at us in code for, “Dude, don’t poke the bear.”

But I have to poke the bear. “I’ve been calling you for, like, half an hour. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I was in an important meeting—” he starts to explain.

But then I cut him off with, “You know what? Never mind. Superfast, because you have got to get into your suite. I know your business is your business, and I am your personal life, but I was talking to my cousin Kyra about this song the twins and I are working on. It’s been driving me crazy because I just can’t nail the second verse. But she writes country music and you know, she’s married to Colin Fairgood…”

“Wow, you don’t know who Colin Fairgood is?” Kasha says when his expression blanks. “That is crazy! He’s, like, the biggest name in country.”

Zahir shakes his head at her. “What does that have to do with—”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” I quickly agree, waving my hands. “But she mentioned that Colin is producing Roxxy Roxx’s new album, like right now. And I’m, like, ‘wait, Roxxy Roxx is in your house? Like, right now? You’re shitting me!’ Sorry for cursing, but that’s what I said. And then I’m like, ‘can you put her on the phone?’ And she does and, oh my God, Roxxy totally gives me her brother-in-law’s number. And after I explain your situation to him in my best law school voice, he’s all like, ‘grumble-grumble I don’t like being cold-called, but I happen to be in New York at the moment, and my wife will be upset if she hears I didn’t agree to meet with a friend of her sister’s, so, ugh, where are you staying? I’ll come over right now.’ I tell him, and then I immediately start calling you, so you can get here, but as we established you were in a meeting…”

“A very important meeting with a New York senator,” Zahir adds.

“….and you weren’t picking up. And senator, yeah, that makes total sense, but now Roxxy Roxx’s brother-in-law is here. Right now. In your suite and the Jahwar guards won’t let us hang out in there with him alone…”

“Even though he’s totally married to Roxxy Roxx’s identical twin sister,” Sasha points out.

“Yeah, you don’t get hotter than that,” Kasha adds.

Zahir just regards us, his expression tired and hungry, “What is this about? Who are this people, and why should they mean anything to me?”

Kasha widens her eyes at him. “Seriously? Okay, I get not keeping up with American music…sorta…not really—but the Roxxy Roxx secret twin sister reveal story was everywhere!”

I’ve been working hard on my cultural sensitivity, but even I’m surprised at Zahir’s ignorance of this particular topic. “Yeah, how do you not know her sister turned out to be Layla Sinclair?”

Zahir finally stops looking confused. “Sinclair? You mean as in Sinclair Steel? That Sinclair?”

“Yes! The only steel magnate I’ve ever heard of is here in your suite, waiting to talk to you.”

“And you should get in there,” Sasha says. “I don’t want to say he’s totally grumpy, but he makes me look like sunshine and rainbows and I don’t think he likes to be kept waiting.”

“Happy Ramadan!” Kasha cheers.

Zahir pauses, a tired smile spreading across his face. “Habibti,” he says, cupping my face in both his large hands with that tender look I am really starting to out-and-out adore. “You did this for me?”

I nod, and I get the feeling the look in my eyes is as tender as his.

“And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Sasha points out again, breaking up the moment.

But instead of releasing me to go back to the suite for our pre-sundown dinner, he takes me by the hand. “Come…” he says, and though I have never sat in on a non-IP or non-music business meeting in my life, he walks into the suite with me. Like there’s no other place I should be but by his side.

Sasha’s right about Nathan making her look like sunshine and rainbows. He is super brusque and, and unlike Zahir, cuts people off without a second thought.

“Fine,” he says when Zahir inquires after his wife and children and their health. “But let’s talk about your project. I want to be on the road to the airport as soon as rush hour ends.”

Zahir adjust smoothly enough and explains that his kingdom’s oil pipe infrastructure, which dates back to the 70s, needs a complete overhaul, much like the work Sinclair Steel did for Drummond Oil when it changed hands…but at ten times the scale.

I don’t follow much of the conversation, but I soon realize why Nathan hadn’t been on Zahir’s shortlist of steel companies he would meet with while here in the States. As arrogant as the steel magnate appears, his company has never worked on a project outside the Americas and Asia.

And I feel bad, because though it is the third week of Ramadan and Zahir must feel even grumpier than Nathan with fatigue and hunger thrown in. But he’s obviously taking this meeting I accidentally arranged, just to indulge me.

“No, my company wouldn’t be able to handle a project that big,” Nathan fine concludes. We don’t have enough manufactured steel on hand. Have you checked with Calhoun Metals?”

“I have met with Mr. Buck Calhoun Jr., but he is not interested in taking on work outside of the UAE,” Zahir answers, even though we both know the real reason that deal didn’t work out.

To my surprise, Nathan grins at Zahir’s answer. “In that case, we can play ball, Zaman. My friend, Lex Rustanov, doesn’t like competing against other Texans for projects because it makes his wife’s job harder—she’s running for Senate this year, and they’re already batting around her name for president in a few more years. But if Calhoun’s already passed, I think Lex’d be more than interested in a co-venture.”

I have no idea who Lex Rustanov is or why Zahir’s face suddenly lights up with more than polite interest. But the conversation at once becomes livelier and despite still not having eaten, Zahir sweeps me up in his arms and swings me around as soon as Nathan leaves to get back on the road.

The handshake he’d just given Nathan may very well have solved all his pipeline and mall reconstruction problems. Nathan’s friend Lex, as it turns out, is some beyond rich Russian oligarch. Such a huge name in steel manufacturing and oil pipeline construction that Zahir’s people still hadn’t managed to get a meeting with him, though they started the process months ago. But thanks to my random cousin connection, Zahir is now not only scheduled to meet with him over the phone, but with Nathan’s help, will secure him as a project partner.

Or, as Zahir puts it to the twins when we gather for his post-late-night dinner dessert, “This Vanzant lady called your sister and screamed at her for taking her job and doing it so much better than she ever has.”

During Ramadan, I’ve been making a special effort at night. Climbing on top and taking care of Zahir until he releases with little effort. But that night, when I tell him to “Lay back, baby” he shakes his head, his eyes crinkling as he says, “No, habibti, though my religion is not yours, you have taken such good care of me this holy month that tonight, I must thank you.”

Then his voice hardens with a command…for me to sit on his mouth.

And despite some weight loss during his weeks of fasting, his strength remains. Pushing and pulling on my hips, he fucks my pussy with his face, and he does not stop until I come in this filthy, filthy position.

He spoons me afterwards, letting my heart rate slow. But eventually he tells me to open my legs.

“Habibti,” he whispers in my ear as he slips into me from behind. And his voice, is so filled with emotion, it sounds like more than a general endearment. It feels like that special word…the one neither of us would be cruel enough to say, knowing there’s an expiration date on our now.

But I feel it…I feel it for him as he sexes me so good in the deep of night, his hip action languid and tender. Like this is where he lives and the only place he has ever wanted to be.

There’s still over two weeks of Ramadan to go, and tomorrow in daylight we’ll have to be good. But we fall asleep naked. Sated in every way and happy that we stayed up, even if we’ll have to get up at four am.

However, Zahir’s phone shocks me awake a few hours later.

“Baby…?” I mumble, seeing the hour on the clock. There’s a two at the front of the read out, not a four.

His deep voice answers, “Go back to sleep, habibti. It is a call from home. They’ve probably forgotten the time…”

After all that loving, I don’t have to be told twice. I sink back to sleep with the thought that maybe when we wake, we’ll make special celebration plans for the upcoming weekend after the girls take the SATs on Saturday. Maybe go see the 8’clock show of Hamilton after sunset, or something like that…I’m sure he can score us tickets….

But I never get the chance to make those plans with him. When I wake, the sun has already risen, and the bed is cold. I sit up with a start to find a note on the pillow where he’s been resting his head for the last four weeks: