Category:

"The next event will have hand-carved Brazilian steak. And an oyster bar too. I know you can't say no to an oyster bar."

Azar considers this, then raises his palms in mock surrender. "You had me at steak."

I knew he'd never leave me hanging. I was seven years old when my mother died and I moved in with my aunt, drowning in a sea of change and grief. But when I met my neighbor Azar, six months older than me, scootering down the street, he became my constant companion. A steadying force in an unpredictable life.

Khala has needled me many times about why I only pretend to be with Azar. Azar of the dimpled cheek and curly hair. The crooked smile. I don't tell her how very much aware of his good looks I am. That we very nearly kissed. Once. A disastrous moment our senior year at Emory University when I found out he was heading to New York City for medical school. Azar made it clear: His feelings toward me were strictly platonic. After a few years of awkwardness, we managed to clear the air and agreed to pretend it never happened. Which is just as well. Azar's not one for commitment, and my life is too busy for complications.

My phone dings. It's an email from my tech guy: Y'all need to check out this creepy rant about the agency.

I'm about to click the link when a new song comes on; the pulsing bhangra beat fills the room. Azar's face lights up.

"Azar, no," I protest. "I'm officially wiped out."

He takes my hand. "It's illegal not to dance to this, Nur."

How do you say no to that face?

Walking to the parquet dance floor, my phone dings again. My assistant.

Did you listen to the recording? These are some vile accusations. Maybe even illegal. There's got to be a slander angle here.

My mood sours. I'm tempted to steal out to a quiet spot and see what headache awaits me. Except...

No. I slip my phone back into my clutch. Not tonight. I deserve a respite, however brief, from work drama. The truth is that people who don't get accepted through the vetting process for our matchmaking app or who aren't green-lighted to our pricier personalized services tend to get upset. Sometimes they lash out. It's the cost of doing business. I take in the newlyweds on the dance floor. The groom's arms encircle the bride's waist. They gaze into each other's eyes, lost in their own world in the middle of a raging bhangra beat. Some parts of this job leave a lot to be desired, but moments like this one, where I get to bear witness to the happily ever after that I helped make happen, make the headaches worth it. The music cranks up louder. I match Azar's dancing, beat for beat. Tonight is for dancing. For celebrating a beautiful union. I'll deal with whatever this is tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWO

Laughter and squeals drift over from a nearby playground as I pull my Audi into the reserved parking spot kitty-corner to our agency. Our office is a stand-alone one-story brick building in the chic walkable neighborhood of Inman Park, dotted with bookstores, cafés, and brunch destinations. My sunglasses fog up as soon as I get out of the car. It's not yet noon, not yet officially summer, but already the heat is rising. Checking my hair in my phone, it's confirmed: The faint frizzy halo is back. You can pay to have your slacks and blouses steamed and pressed, but desi hair—despite an army of professional products—is no match for Atlanta's sticky humidity. At least most of my clientele are also desi—they understand.

Swinging open the front door, the two-thousand-square-foot space welcomes me with its recessed lighting and creamy curtains fluttering in the air-conditioning. Darcy, my assistant, picked out nearly everything here not long after I leased the space, from the velvet-cushioned seating in the foyer to the handmade rug, custom cut, draping most of the marble floor, to the potted fern resting by the windowsill atop an old filing cabinet discreetly covered in satin damask. The team's been on me to get rid of that filing cabinet, but it's nostalgic—the only remnant of the old days when the business was just Khala and me working out of her basement. My office is in the back, next to the sleek, glass-walled conference room. Borzu, my tech guy, and Genevieve, my private investigator, have matching desks set up in the open space, as does Darcy. Hers is the biggest—double-wide and up front—to greet clients when they arrive and block those who have no business being here.

Darcy's not sitting at her desk right now. Instead, she's pacing back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back. Her slate-blue eyes flash with indignation. Based on the amused expressions Borzu and Genevieve just exchanged, she's been pacing for a minute.

"What do you mean, we can't shut it down?" Darcy exclaims to Borzu. He's sporting dyed red hair today, closely cropped. Darcy's in her usual buttoned-up professional attire—a cream blouse and gray skirt. Her white-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail. "If anyone can do it, you can."