Page 67 of The Matchmaker

The barn is less a rustic structure to house animals than a full-fledged wedding venue with the accoutrements of a barn. The roof is painted dark in the illusion of rustic shingles. A vintage weather vane with a rooster sits on top. An artistic metal structure of a tractor is perched by the white fabric tent for dinner. From my car, I hear a pianist playing in the distance. Other attendees pull in and make their way to the festivities. Which I should be doing too. I’m reapplying my lipstick when I hear a knock on my car window. I flinch. But it’s Azar. Of course. When will my nerves finally steady themselves?

“You look beautiful,” he says when I step out.

“As do you,” I reply. “Tuxedos suit you.”

“Cell service was spotty most of the drive. This place is in the middle of nowhere. Now I’m doubly glad I came.”

“So youdidcome to babysit me.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Azar.” I press my palms against his chest. “I. Do. Not. Need. Looking. After.”

He places his hands over mine. “You can’t blame me for caring.”

A jolt of electricity runs through me at his touch. I feel a strange sensation, as though the background is blurring, as though it’s only the two of us here. As though he feels it too.It’s the setting,I remind myself. The twinkle lights in the trees. The music floating through the air. But with his hands over mine, I feel unable to look away.

“Who knew rural Georgia held such charms?” he says when we make our way to the wedding tent. The sun is beginning its descent. The mountains are tinged with lavender and pink.

“It’s as rural as you can get without leaving the metro Atlanta area. Did you see the apple orchard next to the property?”

“Shall we go apple picking?”

“I don’t think we’re dressed for the occasion.” I tug his bow tie.

A waiter swings by, proffering smoked trout on toothpicks. I take one and nod approvingly.

“Not sure if it’s because I ran today or what, but I’m starving. This could probably taste like three-day-old mackerel and I’d love it.”

“Did I hear correctly? You went on a run?” he asks.

“I’m not sure I appreciate the insinuation! I ran a half-marathon last year.”

“I know. I was there. You finished top ten.”

“Hopefully now that everything is behind me, I can finally get back to my old routine.”

Another server brings by what he describes as grilled rosemary chicken on mini skewers.

“Not bad,” Azar says as he takes another one.

“Did you say ‘not bad’ to what was probably a twenty-dollar bite of poultry?”

“I call it like I see it,” he protests. “Money can buy expensive food, but it doesn’t mean it’s exquisite.”

I move to reply, when I see him glance down. His phone is buzzing. He picks it up and reads the number. His face pinches.

“Everything all right?”

“I have to take this call. One second.” He strides toward the parking lot.

I look at the growing number of guests mingling on the lawn and check the time. My heart skips a beat. The festivities are running a few minutes behind.

It’s normal,I remind myself. Timely weddings that go off without a hitch are the exception, not the norm.She’s getting ready. She’s not in danger. Farhan is dead.

And yet…

I walk the perimeter until I spot a door partly opened on the side of the farmhouse. Tentatively, I pull it wider. There’s Tabitha, the bride. A hairstylist is putting the last touches of baby’s breath in her hair. There are no creepy letters on her desk. No strangers lurking by the doorway.She’s fine. She’s safe.Of course she is.

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