Another Shot at Forever, page 17
Her mother had come along to help settle them in for their new lives here. Though Zaynab was still unsure of when she and Ara and little Aasma would return to London, she was ready for it to be anywhere from a month to several years, as long as she had her family and they were all happy together.
“Though if you want to incur the wrath of your sister and my mother, then by all means. Just leave me out of it.”
Ara mock-shuddered before grinning. “Put like that, I suppose it would only make sense for us to wait it out a little longer.”
Zaynab snorted with laughter, her humor lingering but muted when he took her in his arms again, her hands wrapped around the railing of his ship, the ocean spread out before them and Ara grounding her from behind with his firm hold. “Remember when we first met.”
“How could I forget?” he rumbled affectionately into her ear. “You were standing right about here and you were looking out at the ocean, gazing at the sunset. And then you turned, and looked right at me, and I knew that we were meant to be.”
“Oh, did you now?” Because for a while it had felt like they would never have made it this far. That they would never have this at all. And yet they’d persevered together, and now here they were, as happily fated as Ara believed they were.
“I did,” Ara said, so solemnly that Zaynab looked back over her shoulder at him, his face right there, his lips sealing hotly over hers.
And when he moved back, his hooded gaze shifted from her mouth up to lock eyes with her. “It’s because, Zaynab, I loved you from that moment onward.”
If she hadn’t seen that love shining back at her so openly she wouldn’t have believed it.
Touching a hand to his smooth jaw, Zaynab leaned in and kissed him sweetly, injecting all the boundless joy he gave her into the gesture. Yet still not enough, she drew away and said, “I love you, too, Ara. From the moment I saw you, maybe, but certainly now and forever.”
“Forever,” Ara agreed resoundingly, and Zaynab had no doubt that their love would be everlasting.
* * *
If you missed the previous story in the
The Abdullahis duet, then check out
Falling for Her Forbidden Bodyguard
And if you enjoyed this story,
check out these other great reads
from Hana Sheik
The Baby Swap That Bound Them
Forbidden Kisses with Her Millionaire Boss
Temptation in Istanbul
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Driving Her Impossible Billionaire
by Ella Hayes
PROLOGUE
Today’s Sporting News:
British Touring Car Championship driver Max Lawler Scott walked away from a horrific crash at Donnington this afternoon, clutching his left hand.
The thirty-three-year-old celebrity publicist, who achieved a podium place four times last year, refused to be stretchered off, but was clearly in pain as he withdrew from the track surrounded by officials and medics.
His sister Felicity Hewitt, anchor for News Global, later confirmed Lawler Scott’s injury to be serious, saying that it might well preclude him from driving again for the rest of the year. She admitted that this would be an immense blow to the speed-loving playboy who loves to race.
Neither Lawler Scott’s father, media mogul Sir Gerald Scott, nor his mother, News Global Editor Tamsin Lawler, have made any statement, but were snapped arriving separately this evening at Cromwell Hospital, where their son is being treated...
CHAPTER ONE
Three weeks later...
‘HELLO, YES? WHAT?’
Tommie felt herself flinch. Hardly the warmest of welcomes. Three words, not even polite ones, barked over the intercom! The man sounded impatient, irritated, as if she was interrupting something—but that couldn’t be right because this was definitely the correct address, the correct day, and she was bang on time.
Breathe...
Maybe there was a simple explanation. Maybe this wasn’t the person, but some poor, hard-pressed minion, who didn’t know she had an actual appointment—in which case all she had to do was set him straight...
She aimed a smile into the security camera, making sure to keep her gaze and tone level. ‘I’m here for the interview.’ And in case that wasn’t enough information... ‘I’m Tommie Seager.’
Short pause.
‘Tommie...?
Oh. Of course. Here it was. The familiar note of surprise. Next would come the half-beat of recalibration while assumptions were laid to rest. Her sister Billie got it all the time too.
She widened her smile a touch. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Ah...’
Slithering off his high horse now, wasn’t he? Regrouping. It was hard not to smirk, not to show just a touch of enjoyment, but it wouldn’t endear her to him any—which was, after all, the whole point of coming. To make a good impression. Never mind that Prince not-so-Charming didn’t seem to be similarly motivated. Still, if he was the person—the prospective employer—she didn’t have to like him to work for him.
The intercom emitted a cough, then a little throat-clearing noise. ‘Apologies, Tommie. I was...’
She held her breath. How could he be struggling when the words were so obvious? Curt. Gruff. Rude. Any of them would do.
‘...distracted.’
Slippery, much?
And then his tone steadied, seeming to find its groove, public-school-polite, formal. ‘Please, come in.’
A buzzer sounded, then a lock sprang in the high black gate.
She pulled in a slow breath and pushed it open.
Wow! The house was impressive. Architect-designed. Vast, but not cold, not austere. Rather, it was warmly appealing. Acres of plate glass and external lighting. A flat roof covered its two storeys, overhanging the walls by a deep margin. The walls themselves were of a polished light grey block, softened in places with narrow vertical strips of golden cedar cladding—like barcodes. The whole thing was softened further by lush, exotic planting around the perimeter and around the edges of the pale monobloc frontage. It was all very Zen. Neat. Private.
Beautiful!
She felt her eyes going to the four—yes, four—garage doors. What was behind them? A sleek, gull-winged sports car? Some high-end electric fantasy? Or something classic and sedate? Probably all of the above. And none of the usual garage junk. No rusty barbecue on wheels, no rolls of old carpet that ‘might come in handy one day’. No way—not in a pristine place like this.
She checked herself. Now who was the one making assumptions?
She shut the gate and set off towards the front door—all charcoal-grey and brushed steel—trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Hard not to conjecture, though, when you had no actual information. That was the thing about the agency Billie worked for—Neville Cutter Services, recruitment for the rich and famous—it was all so discreet, so cloak and dagger. She’d had to sign a non-disclosure agreement just to come for this interview, and even Billie didn’t know who the employer was, because names were never supplied until a candidate was accepted for a role, only details of the post being offered.
In this case, Personal driver. Eight-month contract. Live-in. Luxury annexe accommodation. Stapled to a Strictly no guests, day or night stipulation. Free run of the owner’s pool and gym—although since ‘erratic, unsociable hours’ were promised, even at weekends, it was probably a token gesture. Days off were to be allocated on an ad hoc basis to fit with the employer’s schedule. It was basically twenty-four-seven, which was why the job paid a fortune—a fortune that could change Tommie’s life. That was why Billie had called her the moment it had landed on Neville’s desk.
‘It’s got your name all over it, Tommie! You’ve got the skills. The experience. And I know you’re going to say you don’t want to go back to driving, but think of the money and the free accommodation—in Hampstead, no less. No more living with Mum and Dad! And I get that it’s demanding, but it’s only eight months, and then you’d have the funds you need to go for it. And, yes, there’s all that waiting around—but, hey...old news, right? And I’m not trying to wind you up about New York, because I know you’re still livid, but you learned a lot too—so why not use it? Use the waiting around time to sketch, develop some new ideas, make overtures to buyers. I mean the Lincoln Lawyer worked out of his car, so why not you, Tommie? Why not you?’
Launching her own fashion label from the front seat of some billionaire’s luxury ride seemed a tad far-fetched—but, oh, the money...the possibilities it could deliver. As for the annexe accommodation... A place of her very own for the first time in her life. Never mind that it would only be for eight months, at least for those eight months it would be hers—all of it. A place to be herself, to breathe, think, sketch, dream... No Mum and Dad, no New York roomies, no Jamie...
She felt her chest tightening on cue. Ridiculous to still be feeling guilty about Jamie. It wasn’t as if any of what happened was by design. She hadn’t asked him to chat her up in the pub that night...hadn’t asked him to ask her out, or to offer her a job three months later, driving for his family’s start-up business Chauffeur Me.
She hadn’t asked, but of course chauffeuring was a step up from delivery driving—more glamorous, better paid—so of course she’d accepted. Who in their right mind wouldn’t have? But she’d never asked to become so involved in the business, to get caught up in the constant in-fighting—Jamie and his dad; his dad and his brother—had never asked to become chief mediator or to become the driver most favoured by their female celebrity clients, the one businesswomen felt most comfortable with. She’d never asked for those five years to slip by in a blur, never asked Jamie to propose. And she totally should have but never had asked herself why she’d said yes, moved in with him.
It had all been slow drifting—until it hadn’t. Until the day she’d got the gig driving iconic fashion designer Chloe Mills for the whole of London Fashion Week. A glorious week! Talking non-stop fashion with Chloe, feeling the old fires stirring, brightening inside, confessing to Chloe-freaking-Mills, of all people, that she designed stuff too—had used to do Spitalfields Market with a friend every Saturday, selling her own creations.
Used to... Because she didn’t any more.
Didn’t have the time, or the focus, because of Jamie and his business...because she’d somehow let her dreams drift away.
It had been a sobering behind-the-wheel realisation—one that would have been bound to change things anyway. But that last morning she hadn’t asked Chloe to offer her a dream job, to be her personal assistant in New York, and she hadn’t asked to be faced with making that decision in that moment.
Chloe had asked her. And how could she have turned it down, the chance of lifetime, when mostly life had dealt her short straws?
Yes, it had meant blindsiding Jamie, hurting him, leaving him a driver short. And, no, it hadn’t been her finest hour. But she hadn’t planned it—any of it. Still, Jamie could content himself with the last laugh, because here she was eighteen months later, back in London with her tail between her legs, shafted, and smarting.
So much for once-in-a-lifetime chances, so-called golden opportunities!
She shook herself. But now wasn’t the time to be dissing golden opportunities—not when she was staring down the barrel of another one, and not when Billie had pushed her to the top of Neville’s pile to give her the jump on the other candidates. She owed it her best shot—owed Billie. And maybe chauffeuring again did feel like a backward step, but at least this time it was a means to an end. And it was infinitely better than tidying the ravaged clothes rails at Belle & Trend, for little more than minimum wage, kidding herself that she was still working in fashion.
Bottom line: Billie was right. This job had her name all over it. All she had to do was win over Mr Grumpy!
She squared herself up to the door, lifting her hand, but before she could bring it down to knock the door was opening wide, revealing a tall, fair, sickeningly familiar figure.
‘Tommie?’ Laser-blue eyes swept over her without a vestige of recognition, and then he broke into a slightly forced-looking smile, extending his hand for her to shake. ‘Max Scott. Thanks for coming.’
She felt dryness seizing her throat, her heart seizing altogether. No, no, no! This could not be happening. Max Scott! Well, he could call himself that if he liked, but it didn’t alter the fact that this was the Maxwell Lawler Scott, publicist to the rich and shady. Worse, he was Chloe Mills’ publicist—lying, thieving Chloe Mills, who’d stolen her designs and passed them off as her own, then fired her when she’d got up the nerve to challenge her about it. Not that he was likely to know about that, since Chloe would hardly have confessed it to her publicist, of all people, but, still, he was on Chloe’s team, and as such the enemy.
She found a steadying patch of breath. At least he didn’t seem to recognise her. Then again, why would he? Thanks to Billie, there was nothing in her application to jog his memory. No mention of New York, no mention of her working for Chloe. Billie had said they should leave it out because it was irrelevant, and it might actually count against her—make her seem like not a serious enough candidate for a personal driver position. And it wasn’t as if he’d given her more than a passing glance that long-ago night when she’d run into him—literally—back in her early days of working for Chloe, back when it had all still felt so exciting...
New York Fashion Week... Chloe’s after-show party...
Chloe had sent her scurrying to organise more canapés, because they were going to run short. She’d said it to her in that arch way she had, implying it was her fault—which it absolutely hadn’t been. But, as she’d quickly learned, Chloe was a highly strung control freak who insisted on signing off on everything from buttons and fabric swatches to the exact number of freaking canapés.
She’d been flying out through the door as Max had been coming in, with supermodel Saskia Riva on his arm. She’d caught him with her shoulder momentarily, and nearly died on the spot because he was so utterly drop-dead gorgeous. But before she’d been able to stammer out an apology he’d swept on as if he hadn’t felt the impact—as if she’d made no impact on him at all.
And now here he was, looking at her with a perplexed and visibly narrowing gaze. Narrowing because she was still silent, rooted to the spot, instead of greeting him back, shaking his hand like a normal person, falling over herself to make a good impression.
Well, that boat had clearly sailed. His expression spoke volumes. He wasn’t going to employ her, was probably wondering why the agency had sent her at all.
Her heart lurched. Oh, God! And that wasn’t going to reflect well on the agency or on Billie, was it?
For Billie’s sake—even though this was suddenly the last job in the world she wanted—she needed to step up, show Max she was a contender, not a complete waste of his time.
Breathe, Tommie.
‘Max...’ She put her hand into his, shaking firmly to seem confident. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’ And now smile... ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
He gave a slow nod, his lips parting slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to say, and then he seemed to rally, stepping aside with a new, tight smile. ‘Please, come in.’
She forced her feet to move, but a few steps in they were faltering again, along with her breath.
It was so light inside...so airy, calm and serene. Unexpected, somehow, for a renowned man about town. A player! She pushed the thought away. Maybe all the plants had something to do with it—large, expensive specimens, lush and green and not remotely dying, like her plants always were. Or maybe it was the acres of solid Maplewood flooring, the pale couches, and all the lovely natural textures that made the place feel so tranquil and homely...those warm accents of red earth and charcoal-black.
A soft thunk filled the silence. Max closing the door.
‘Come on through.’
And then he was skimming past, trailing a pleasant soapy smell, leading the way towards the rear of the house, where vast windows were pulled back, letting in the balmy morning air and the dappled green of the garden beyond.
She felt her lungs releasing. Here was a second to breathe, to take him in. Dark blond hair, curling at his nape, nice shoulders...broad, muscular, shifting smoothly as he walked. He was wearing a plain black tee shirt, loose black trackies and...she heard the quiet catch of her own breath...some kind of splint on his left hand.
She stared at it. So that was why he needed a driver—and why he was dressed like that. Pull-on, pull-off stuff was probably the best he could manage with one hand. Her heart pinched. It must be awkward as hell. And this was an eight-month contract, wasn’t it? So he would be anticipating eight months of awkwardness. No wonder he wasn’t exactly radiating sunshine. She wouldn’t be either, in his shoes. Not that she could let herself feel sorry for him. She had one job: to spend five minutes presenting herself well, so that Billie wouldn’t seem incompetent, and then she was out of here!
Copyright © 2025 by Ella Hayes
