The Property Proposal
"Realtor Samira shows houses to difficult clients, but none as challenging as Omer—a perfectionist bachelor whose impossible standards might just match her own."
The Property Proposal
"This kitchen is three inches too small."
Samira counted to ten. In Urdu. Backwards.
"Mr. Hassan, this is the twelfth property I've shown you. They've all been three inches too something."
"Three inches matters." Omer Hassan looked at her with those infuriatingly handsome eyes. "I'm not spending half a million pounds on 'almost right.'"
"Then tell me exactly what you're looking for and I'll find it."
"I don't know until I see it." He smiled—actually smiled. "But I'll know when I do."
Ya Allah, give her strength.
Fifteen properties later, Samira was ready to commit murder.
"The balcony faces the wrong direction."
"It's south-facing. Optimal light."
"I prefer east." Omer leaned against the railing. "Morning sun. For my prayers."
She blinked. "You pray?"
"Is that surprising?"
"Nothing about you surprises me anymore." She crossed her arms. "What else do you need? What am I missing?"
He studied her for a long moment. "Room for a family. Eventually. Space for children to play. A kitchen big enough to cook proper dawat meals." His voice softened. "I'm not being difficult for the sake of it. I'm looking for a home, not just a house."
"You should have said that at the start."
"You didn't ask."
She found it.
A Victorian townhouse in Walthamstow—four bedrooms, east-facing garden, massive kitchen. Perfect family home.
"This is it," Omer breathed, walking through the empty rooms. "This is exactly—" He turned to her. "How did you know?"
"You told me what mattered. I listened." She smiled despite herself. "I'm good at my job."
"You're exceptional at your job." He stepped closer. "And I've been a nightmare client."
"The worst."
"Let me make it up to you." His hand found hers. "Dinner. Somewhere with properly sized portions."
"That sounds suspiciously like a date."
"It is." He wasn't smiling now. "I've spent three months pretending to be difficult because I didn't know how to ask you out. Turns out I'm as bad at romance as I am at finding real estate."
"You're terrible at both." She stepped closer. "Dinner sounds nice."
Dinner became dancing. Dancing became his car. His car became his hotel room—he hadn't bought the house yet.
"I should wait," Omer said, even as his hands found her zipper. "Be a gentleman."
"I've been waiting through fifteen property viewings. No more waiting."
He kissed her like she was the home he'd been searching for—thorough, devoted, determined to find every perfect detail.
"Meri jaan," he murmured, laying her on the bed. "You're exactly what I was looking for."
"I'm three inches too short."
"You're perfect." He proved it with his mouth, his hands, his complete attention. When he finally entered her, Samira cried out at the sensation.
"Found it," he breathed, moving within her. "Finally found where I belong."
"Less poetry—"
"Never." He thrust deeper. "You're going to hear poetry every day. Get used to it."
She came apart with a laugh and a moan, and he followed her over.
"So," Samira said afterward. "Are you buying the house?"
"Are you coming with it?"
"That's not how property works."
"I'll make it work." He pulled her close. "Marry me. Move into that ridiculously perfect house with me. Let me spend the rest of my life annoying you about inch measurements."
"That's the least romantic proposal I've ever heard."
"I'll work on it." He kissed her forehead. "Say yes anyway."
The house sold in record time—to Omer Hassan and his new fiancée, Samira.
The kitchen was, in fact, perfectly sized.
Everything else was too.