Page 42 of Prince of Her Heart
When they stepped into the cozy kitchen, the scent hit him first—warm, buttery, and mouthwatering.Tilda had placed a basket of fresh rolls next to the egg casserole on the table, and the aroma made his stomach growl in anticipation.
They sat down, and as coffee was poured and plates were filled, the conversation flowed as easily as the laughter.
They bickered playfully about the previous night’s dance—Tilda insisting Ben had stepped on her foot (he hadn’t), and Tabitha teasing them both about their matching outfits.Then came debates over the town’s best pie from last year’s contest, a shared rant about the declining quality of cinnamon at the general store, and fond recollections of disastrous family vacations.
Ramzi found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t in years.
He shared stories about growing up with a mischief-loving younger brother and a father who could silence a room with a single look.His mother, regal and radiant, had always reminded her husband—usually with a cutting remark or a well-timed arch of her brow—that he was a mere mortal beneath all that royal armor.
That got a laugh out of everyone.
As they chatted, Ramzi felt something shift.Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.Just…warmth.Like he’d been folded into something soft and genuine.
It felt like belonging.Like family.
And he didn’t want to leave.
Chapter 18
She wanted to go home.
Not to her parents’ house—but back to Philly.Back to her real life.
Tabitha sipped her lukewarm beer, her fingers loosely wrapped around a pool cue as she waited for her turn.She was bored.Deeply, achingly bored.
The bar hadn’t changed.Ever.Same sticky, wobbly stools.Same loud music thumping through outdated speakers.Even the playlist hadn’t evolved—she could practically recite the order of the songs from memory.
Her high school friends were scattered throughout the crowd, mingling with old enemies.Leandra was in the corner, baby bump on display as she tossed her head back and laughed at something a man—who definitely wasn’t Martin—had said.And of course, Martin himself was here.Not watching his pregnant wife.No, he was glaring at Tabitha from across the bar, his expression a thundercloud.
So maybe noteverythingwas exactly the same.
She turned back to the game, doing her best to ignore him.She was playing against Tim, who had graduated a few years ahead of her.He was taking forever to line up his shot, his stance exaggerated like he was starring in a tournament.Tabitha didn’t bother to hide her irritation.The angle was wrong—anyone could see it.
Sure enough, the cue ball bounced around aimlessly, tapping a few solids before skittering away from the obvious striped ball perched at the lip of a corner pocket.
“Your turn, sugar!”Tim called out over the noise, clearly unaware of how condescending he sounded.
Tabitha examined the table.She could end the game in a single turn.But then what?Another beer?A forced dance with a man who smelled like fryer grease?Winning this game was the only thing holding off the tedium.
She lined up her shot with steady precision, grateful for something—anything—to focus on.
Maybe the beer tasted terrible because her palate had changed.She’d grown used to better things.A rich merlot.An oaky chardonnay.That pinot noir she’d found in the boutique wine shop just two blocks from her townhouse.
The cue cracked, and two balls dropped cleanly into opposite pockets.She didn’t glance at Tim.He was probably scowling.Men around here didn’t enjoy being beaten by women.Especially not in public.
Another shot lined up.She leaned in, released, then straightened—
A shift in the atmosphere stopped her cold.
Voices quieted.Then came the buzzing hum of excitement.
She didn’t need to look to know what was happening.Stacy’s delighted squeal confirmed it.Her friend raced across the bar and threw herself into John’s waiting arms.He caught her easily, spun her around, then kissed her like a man who didn’t care who was watching.
And there he was.
Ramzi.
Standing beside John, tall enough to see over the heads of the crowd.His eyes were locked on hers.
