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"No worries. I was just networking a little."

"Any potential VIP clients?" he asks.

"Not VIP, personalized," I correct him. "Tonight was a slow evening. People were more interested in chatting about Lena's Vanity Fair article. I'm officially clocking out for the night."

"It sounds like Lena gave the agency some great word of mouth."

"There can be too much of a good thing. We're drowning in both inquiries and hate mail lately. Lesson for me about taking on a cosmetics heiress slash influencer."

"Lena should have checked with you before talking to the press."

"She meant well," I acknowledge. "It's not her fault the piece called us an arranged marriage throwback. That's the line getting the trolls all worked up." I adjust the beaded embroidery on my sleeve. "Honestly, if I'd known I could wear scrubs to work, I'd have followed you to medical school instead."

"You sure about that?" He furrows his brows. "Because you'd also have to be equipped to grab a needle to suture a bloody—"

"Okay! Stop!" I squeeze his arm. "You win!"

He grins. "You know you love this work."

"I do." I return his smile. "And it's even better when you're here."

Azar's return to Atlanta from New York City three years ago was a game changer. I love matchmaking. Helping people find love is what I was put on this earth to do. But there's one catch in my line of work. A woman who matchmakes for a living and is thirty-one (going on thirty-two) years old and very much single? That raises eyebrows. Early on, I'd argued with Khala it wasn't necessary to pretend I was spoken for. Those who don't, teach—isn't that the saying? Besides, I got the desired results. As the years have gone by, though, I've had to face the fact that no matter how progressive the world gets, an unmatched matchmaker prompts whispers. To look the part, I need a partner by my side. Long live the patriarchy. Luckily, Azar doesn't mind filling in as my date, and with our busy schedules, weddings double as our chance to spend time together while eating delicious food.

"Are these wedding favors?" Azar lifts a Tiffany & Co. gold-plated clock next to his place setting.

"Engraved with their initials and today's date."

He eyes the tables stretched out in seemingly endless rows and lets out a low whistle. "How much did all of this cost?"

Azar's an old pro at lavish weddings, but he still can't quite process the wealth of some of my clients.

"Whatever these favors cost is nothing compared to the gift Saba got her blushing groom: a Bentley Batur."

"That car goes for two million dollars!"

"Two point five," I correct him. "It's completely electric, though. So good for the planet."

"Diamond heiress weds high school soccer coach. If Saba wasn't so private, the press would've nicknamed you a fairy godmother by now."

"Luckily, the press have their hands full documenting every second of Lena's wedding prep at the moment."

He leans back and folds his arms. "Speaking of weddings—"

"No, you can't get out of any you've committed to," I interrupt.

"Why do you assume that's what I was going to say?"

"Am I right?"

He laughs. "Good talk."

I push back a smile. He's so predictable. I guess that's what happens when you've known someone most of your life.

"I checked the calendar," he says. "You're booked nearly every weekend for the next few months."

"Wedding season is officially here, and I want to make it to as many as possible. It's how I get my best clients."

"But there are more weddings on the calendar this year than ever. You've got to pace yourself, Nur. How about you call in sick to the next one and play hooky with me? The botanical garden's got their light show going on—we could get a picnic dinner by good old flowery Medusa for old times' sake."

"Azar—"

"Or I can get us a table at Hayakawa? It's been ages since we've been there." He leans forward. His brown eyes lock into mine. "Downtime is important, Nur."