Page 19 of Prince of Her Heart
Chapter 6
The scent of sawdust hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint, sharp tang of varnish and old wood smoke.Ramzi paused just inside the wood shop, taking in the sun-speckled dust floating through the beams of light streaming in from a high window.Tools hung in neat rows behind Ben Jones, their metallic edges dulled with use, handles worn smooth by decades of hands.
“Sir,” Ramzi began, his voice measured and respectful, hands clasped loosely behind his back.He waited for eye contact, but Ben was still staring at the ground.“I’d like to explain.”
Ben leaned against the scarred wood shop table, the heavy oak creaking slightly beneath his weight.He folded his arms across his broad chest, the plaid of his shirt straining just a bit at the shoulders.His jaw was tight, clean-shaven but shadowed with stubble.Slowly, he shook his head.
“I’m not sure I want to hear it,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with age and something deeper—worry, maybe.Resentment.His gaze finally rose, and he frowned hard at the floor for a beat before lifting his eyes to meet Ramzi’s.“I know my daughter is in love with you, and has been for the past few years.”
Ramzi’s breath hitched.
Ben’s words landed like a punch.The casual certainty of them, spoken so plainly, sent a ripple of disbelief through him.His face didn’t move, but his spine stiffened.He didn’t even blink.
Ben’s glower deepened.“And I suspect you’re using my little girl for some… nefarious purposes.You’re using her vulnerability to your benefit.”He shook his head again, this time slower, the disgust evident in the pinched corners of his eyes and the tight line of his mouth.“After everything I’ve heard from Tabby and my wife about you, Iwantedto believe you were an honorable man.”
Ramzi stood very still.The rough wood floor beneath his polished leather shoes suddenly felt miles away.For a moment, he was speechless—truly speechless—and that almost never happened.
Tabitha was in love with him?
He'd suspected admiration, attraction maybe.Butlove?
His fingers flexed behind his back, jaw tightening before he drew a slow breath through his nose, centering himself.His voice, when it came, was low and even.
“I would never harm Tabitha,” he said.“She means… a great deal to me.More than I can fully express, especially now.”
The next thirty minutes passed in a tense, deliberate back-and-forth.Ramzi outlined their fabricated engagement, explained the situation with the ex, the town, the wedding, the gossips—everything.He watched Ben carefully throughout, noting the subtle changes: the hard crease between his brows softening, the arms slowly lowering to his sides, the furrowed mouth relaxing into something more contemplative.
Finally, Ben’s lips twitched.The grey in his beard caught the light as he exhaled through his nose and let out a low chuckle.
“Well, hell,” he muttered.“What do you need me to do to help with this plan?”
The spark of amusement in his eyes reminded Ramzi of Tabitha when she was teasing him over coffee or calling him out in meetings.He smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Just play along, sir.”
“Call me Ben,” the older man replied, stepping forward to slap Ramzi on the shoulder with a firm, fatherly thump.Then, with an impish gleam in his eye, he reached into a lower drawer, pulling out a dusty bottle of whiskey.The label was worn, half peeled away.
Ben grabbed two mason jars—both clouded with fingerprints and rust spots—and dumped their contents onto the table.Nails, screws, washers, a random hex key.The clatter was deafening in the quiet shop.
Without a word, Ben uncorked the bottle and poured a generous amount of whiskey into each jar.
He slid one across the table toward Ramzi.
Ramzi stared down into the amber liquid, a smile tugging at his mouth.The rim of the mason jar was nicked, and a stray wood shaving floated lazily along the edge.He chuckled, lifting the jar and giving it a swirl before tossing the whiskey back in one clean motion.
It burned—hot, bold, and shockingly smooth.
His eyes watered, just a little.“That’s damn good,” he said, voice roughened by the swallow.
Ben raised his own jar and tipped it toward Ramzi in salute before downing his own in one big gulp.
“Let’s go join the ladies,” he said, recorking the bottle and sliding it back into the drawer.He scooped the nails and bits back into their respective jars, metal clinking in a chorus, and then tucked the jars back onto a nearby shelf like nothing had happened.
As they stepped out into the bright sunshine, the crisp scent of cut grass hit Ramzi’s nose.The breeze carried the sweeter scent of sugar and cinnamon—Tilda must be baking again.One of the bodyguards nodded silently as they passed, and Ben shot him a friendly smile, patting his own slightly rounded belly.
“Tilda and the other ladies compete to bake either the most or the fanciest.Been like that for decades.Me?”He patted his stomach again.“I benefit either way.”
He eyed Ramzi’s flat midsection with mock envy, chuckling as he led the way toward the porch.“We’ll see how you’re looking after three days of pie and corn muffins.”
