Jounieh Summer Heat

حرارة صيف جونيه

He arrives in August.

When Jounieh swelters and everyone wants a piece of the bay. My beach club isn't for sale.

He doesn't accept no.

I'm Rania.

Forty-five, built like a Greek goddess (my grandmother was), and I've run Plage d'Or for fifteen years. My curves in a swimsuit bring men to their knees.

Khalid Al-Mansour thinks his millions will do the same.

"Kem baddik?"

"It's not about price." I sip my lemonade. "My father built this place."

"Your father passed five years ago." He's done his research. "The resort fees are killing you."

"I'm managing."

"You're drowning." He slides papers across. "This saves you."

"This erases me."

His offer: buyout, rebrand, turn Plage d'Or into another soulless Gulf resort.

"I'd keep you on. As manager."

"Ta'a hon." I laugh. "Manager of my own legacy?"

"Better than losing it entirely."

He's forty-eight.

Saudi-Lebanese, Dubai-based, made his fortune in hospitality. His suit costs more than my monthly revenue.

But his eyes—his eyes linger on my hips when he thinks I'm not looking.

"Shu 'am titfarraj?"

"The view." He doesn't look away. "It's exceptional."

I throw him out.

Twice. He comes back with better offers that I reject, then worse attitudes that I enjoy rejecting.

"Why won't you sell?"

"Why won't you leave?"

"Because I've never wanted anything this much."

We both know he's not talking about the beach club.

The summer burns on.

He rents a suite at the casino resort, comes to Plage d'Or daily. Sits at my bar, orders arak, watches me work.

"Inta stalker."

"I'm a customer."

"You're a problem."

"W inti mshakli." And you're a situation.

One night, the generator fails.

Tourists clear out. Staff goes home. I'm alone with candlelight, inventory, and—

"Marhaba."

"We're closed."

"I saw your lights go out." He holds up a bottle. "Thought you might need company."

I should throw him out again.

Instead, I pour two glasses. The bay stretches silver under moonlight. His suit jacket comes off. His sleeves roll up.

"Li shu badik hal club?"

"I don't want the club." He sits beside me. "Baddik inti."

"Shu?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not part of any deal—"

"This isn't business." His hand covers mine. "I haven't slept since I met you. I've closed a hundred deals. Never lost one. But you—inti hazemtini."

"I've defeated you?"

"Completely." He turns my hand over, traces my palm. "I withdraw my offer. Officially."

"Tab w li shu ba'dak hon?"

"Because walking away from the deal doesn't mean walking away from you."

The first kiss tastes like salt air and surrender.

His hands grip my waist, pull me onto his lap. I'm straddling a Saudi billionaire in my dead father's beach club.

Baba would either laugh or kill me.

"Rania..."

"Khalid."

He carries me to a cabana.

The ones I rent for five hundred dollars a day. Tonight, it's ours.

"You're—" He stops undressing me to stare.

"Too much?"

"Perfect." He resumes with reverence. "Inti ghalyi aktar min kil el sahel."

Moonlight paints my curves silver.

He worships each one—mouth on my breasts, hands spanning my waist, groaning like I'm salvation.

"Mashallah. Mashallah."

"Khalid—baddik—"

"Shu baddik inti?"

"Iyyak. Killon."

He enters me slowly.

The Mediterranean laps at the shore. I wrap thick thighs around him, pull him deeper.

"Ya Allah—"

"Ahh—Khalid—"

We move together like tides.

His rhythm matches the waves—building, cresting, pulling back. My nails rake his back.

"Aktar—"

"Aiwa—"

The orgasm crashes through us simultaneously.

I scream into his shoulder. He groans into my neck. The cabana shakes, or maybe that's just us.

We lie tangled in poolside cushions.

"I have a counter-proposal," he murmurs.

"Shu?"

"Partnership. I invest, you operate. Your name stays. Your vision stays."

"And you?"

"I stay too." He kisses my forehead. "Iza btirda."

Five years later

Plage d'Or is the premier beach club in Lebanon.

Khalid moved his base to Beirut. We married on the beach, my father's photo at the altar.

"Worth the investment?" I tease.

"Ahsan safqa bi hayati." Best deal of my life.

Alhamdulillah.

For stubborn women who won't sell.

For persistent men who learn to partner.

For summer heat that burns into forever.

The End.