Page 3 of The Matchmaker

“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 pointfive,” 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 botanicalgarden’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.”

“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 onlypretendto 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.

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