Page 100 of The Matchmaker

“I think I’m ready, Nura.”

“Ready?” I look at him.

He nods somberly. “For your matchmaking services.”

I watch as a smile starts to spread across his face. “Is that right?”

“When it’s time, it’s time.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Off the top of my head?” He frowns. “She should be five foot six. Dark hair. Loves good food, and her family. She should never have met an iron she knows how to handle. Says she likes to run, but curiously almost never runs.”

“Hey!” I swat him. “I resent that.”

“I wasn’t done.” He pulls down the railing. “She’s got to have a laugh that makes a bad day right. And a mouth I very much want to kiss right now.” He gazes down at me. “Any leads?”

“I might know someone.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you just might love my suggestion.”

“I think I most definitely do.”

I kiss him. The stubble from his jaw, unshaved these past few days, brushes against my skin. My breath hitches as he kisses me harder. It’s the kind of kiss that melts everything else away, the kind of kiss that sets the world aright. He slides onto the bed next to me. I rest my head against his chest.

“Why did we wait so long?” he asks.

“Better late than never.”

He wraps his arms around me. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t need to. Later today, I will have to speak to the police. Eventually, I will need to sort out my business and what it looks like on the other side of this ordeal. Right now, this is enough.

Epilogue

One Year Later

“I appreciate you doing this, Nura,” says Logan.

“After all your help, I’m glad you’re here to share how the whole saga unfolded with me,” I say.

“But a60 Minutesinterview”—Logan nods to the bright lights in the distance—“that’s going to get a lot of eyes.”

“The public interest feels bottomless at this point,” I tell him. “Hopefully once I’ve said my piece on the air, I can at leaststartputting it behind me.”

Though this will never be behind me. Never fully.

A woman in black hurries over to adjust my mic as we stand at the side of the set. Multiple lights are trained on the couch where we’ll sit for the interview.

“No one told me I’d need sunglasses,” I joke.

“You’re going to do great,” she says. “I heard we had to squeeze you into the schedule for this week because you’re going on your honeymoon next week?”

Cartagena, Colombia. Though I won’t tell her that. Can’t risk the public finding out now that the media follows me everywhere. Instead, I simply nod.

“The matchmaker getting matched. And after all the weddings you planned, yours will be the talk of the town!”

I raise an eyebrow, but I say nothing. The truth is, Azar and I tied the knot last weekend in a simple ceremony. There had been no white horses. No gondolas. No florists. No planners. It had been an exchange of vows at the mosque followed by dinner with our families and a handful of friends, including Genevieve and Borzu. Khala even danced. Her leg has healed, and her health is holding up.

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