Page 19 of The Matchmaker

“You like lime?” He motions with his shot toward my glass. “How about a mojito, then?”

I don’t bother to reply. Instead, I busy myself with my phone. I don’t drink. Never have. But I don’t owe him an explanation. That’s one thing so many of our clients fail to realize, especially the people pleasers: Folks can ask you for your time, but they are not entitled to it. Until Azar arrives, I can occupy myself.When I glance up a few moments later, the man is staring at me with an expression I can’t decipher.

My search results load just as he says, “Nura Khan?” A grin spreads across his face.

Logan Wilson. Of course it’s him.

“I was hoping I’d run into you.” His demeanor shifts. Like he went from black-and-white to full color. “I’m Logan Wilson. I emailed you earlier this week. Not sure if you saw it, but—”

“You didn’t mention you’d be following me here.”

“I’m in town wrapping up a piece but couldn’t resist a chance to sidebar with you. I saw Avani’s client testimonial on your website and figured I’d reach out and get a chat in with her as well. She had nothing but glowing things to say. What you’re doing—what you’ve accomplished—it’s incredible. Non–Silicon Valley startup. Zero venture capitalist funding. Grassroots app to the core. An in-depth profile could be huge for both of us. I did that Brad D’Angelo profile. If you like, I can share my process and how it works?”

I look at his eager expression and shift in my seat. I don’t love that he took it upon himself to show up uninvited, but I can grudgingly respect his resolve. I think of the inbox overflowing with hate mail after theVanity Fairpiece. If I said yes to an interview in a high-profile magazine like this, it wouldn’t be to advertise the agency, it would be to set the record straight. A piece with a journalist like him would certainly be definitive. Maybe…

“And I must say I’m impressed,” he continues. “You’ve made arranged marriages all the rage again.”

Aaaaaand there it is.

“Do you label other relationship services the same way?” I ask. “Or only when the founder is a Brown woman?”

His face reddens a touch. “I—I didn’t mean…Okay, yes.Thatwasinappropriate of me. I apologize. This is exactly why you should talk to me, though.” He rushes to add, “People have misconceptions. This would be your chance to correct them.”

Oh, to have the confidence of a mediocre man. I stand up. It’s time to face the bass-filled mehndi hall, migraine be damned. I put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and move toward the exit.

“That recording was something else, wasn’t it?”

My stomach turns. Logan’s eyeing me steadily. “Whoever it is, he has a real vendetta against you. So much pent-up aggression. Any comments on that? Off the record?”

“Men feeling angry they didn’t get whatever it is they wanted isn’t news, is it?” I say. “If you want clickbait, you can move along. You won’t get any from me.”

A hand grazes my shoulder. Azar. Handsome as ever in his fitted black sherwani.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “Quick word, love?”

“You are interrupting nothing,” I tell him.

“I was just heading out.” Logan sets his shot glass on the bar and drops a few bills. “Nura, it was nice to meet you. I’m sorry for putting my foot in it. I do hope you’ll consider getting in touch.”

He walks out of the lounge. I watch the automatic doors slide apart as he exits the main hotel in the distance. Only then do I exhale.

“What was that about?” Azar frowns.

“A reporter. He’s gone from calling and emailing to stalking, apparently.” I fill him in on our conversation.

“That’s obnoxious.” He looks at the space where the man had been moments earlier, then back at me. “Do you think you’ll sit with him for an interview?”

“Azar!”

“I know! But that’sLogan Wilson. He’s practically a celebrity. You know that profile about Brad D’Angelo, the reclusive tech guru, that came out last month? That was him! EvenIread it.” He laughs at the side-eye I shoot him. “Okay, okay, if not a profile with him, maybe a piece somewhere else? A quick Q and A? You have your pick, don’t you? Answer their questions about the mysterious Nura Khan, and people will finally move on.”

“I may have to, sooner or later. But not with him. He was completely full of himself.”

“I understand.” He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Only a suggestion, my dear fiancée.”

My skin tingles where his lips pressed against it. He plays the part of loving fiancé so well. Too well. Sometimes I can forget it’s all pretend. Sometimes, like now, with our shoulders brushing as we walk back to the mehndi hall, admiring the appetizers the caterers are hurriedly setting up, I want to take his hand in mine. Draw him closer…And just as quickly, my mind flashes back to that night at Emory. The way he’d pulled back when I leaned forward. The mortification spreading across his face. That split second of terror coursing through me that I’d lost my best friend and there would be no fixing it. Instantly, all such thoughts disintegrate. I did lose him. For nearly seven years. I’ll never risk losing him again.

“Looks like the appetizer line is opening,” Azar says.

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