Chapter Seven
I stare, too shocked to speak.
Do I frantically try to cover myself with my arms and hands? Demand he leave? Scream? Run into the bathroom and hope someone left me a towel? I mentally flip through each option like I’m searching for the best possible scene for an in-production rom-com.
“Where…uh, where are my clothes?” I ask lamely.
Not the best first line. The producers at His Majesty definitely would have made me do another take. But I’m standing here buck-a*s n***d, while Zahir—save for his wing-tip half boots, which I can see near the door— is fully dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit. Forgive me for not being able to think up a pithy one-liner.
Zahir picks up a tall silver coffee pot with a beaked spout and pours steaming dark liquid into a small gold-etched glass.
