“I can’t leave. They’ll notice,” Sameera protested.
“Your boss doesn’t even know your name,” her mother countered.
“The partners don’t remember anyone’s name; it’s an intimidation tactic,” Sameera said.
“What do you think, Tom Cooke?” Tahsin asked.
Tom’s voice was an amused drawl. “In my experience, ma’am, lawyers never much care what the caterer thinks.”
Sameera smiled, and on the phone, her mother’s expression softened. They quickly exchangedsalams, and she turned to leave before turning back.
“I’m sorry about that. My mom gets suspicious every time a man looks twice at me. Brown girl problems.”
Tom shrugged. “Then she must be constantly on high alert. I know I couldn’t stop staring.” He winked, and Sameera shook her head, amused.
“You’re a terrible flirt,” she said.
“It must be working, because you’re still here,” he shot back, crossing his arms to show off those impressive forearms. He flexed, and her eyes lingered before making their way back to his face. He was smirking.
“You should add green chili to your fake samosas,” she said.
“That’s a quick way to get fired. Not everyone can handle the heat,” he replied.
“I can,” she said. Tom’s eyes darkened, and suddenly, she didn’t think they were talking about fried snacks anymore. She really shouldn’t be here, trading suggestive remarks with this cute, witty stranger.
The kitchen door flung open, and a trio of black-clad waitstaff entered, their cheerful chatter shattering the moment. Tom straightened, professional mask smoothly slotting into place.
“If there’s nothing else, miss?” he asked. Sameera shook her head and left the kitchen.
Despite her protestations to her mother, Sameera returned to the party but with little enthusiasm. She was tired, and exceptional food notwithstanding, Sameera longed to change into her flannel pajamas and crawl into bed. The thought of returning to her office to complete more work in—she checked the timer on her phone—twenty-three minutes made her feel tired. Maybe her mom was right, and she should just call it a night.
Except she needed to keep working. She had a plan—if she could put in twelve to fourteen hours every day until January 1, she might keep her job, inshallah. She tacked on the Muslim exhortation automatically. As the sole nonobservant member of a practicing Muslim family, she found that the term still felt natural. She had always appreciated the versatility of “inshallah,” which translated to “God willing” but could also be applied to any number of situations:Inshallah, we’ll meet for lunch one day, as inWe probably never will, all the way toInshallah, I’ll win the lottery, so I can finally finish paying off the thousands of dollars of debt my loser ex-boyfriend saddled me with before skipping town. To use a random example. See? Versatile.
Bee sidled up to her and reached for the appetizers in her hands. “What took you so long? Blake just invited me to a private after-party.” She shuddered.
“Tahsin thinks I’m hiding another secret boyfriend from the family,” she said.
“Ooh, who’s the lucky guy?” Bee asked.
“Tom Cooke. You might know him as the cute server, but he is actually the caterer.”
Bee’s eyes widened as she examined the appetizer in her hand. “Yes, Chef.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. I know that name. I thought he looked familiar.” She fumbled for her phone, pulling up Instagram and scrolling until she found his account. “Cooke with Tom! Look, he’s got nearly two million followers, and he’s even bigger on TikTok. His fusion cooking series went viral recently.”
Sameera watched a video as Bee talked, and her heart lurched when she recognized the familiar warm blue eyes, those forearms and capable hands rinsing lentils for soup, then dressing afattoush salad. She started another video. His guest host looked familiar, too.
“That’s why I was thinking of Andy Shaikh!” Bee said. “He’s Tom’s best friend or something. I just watched this video in the bathroom before the party. Lor thinks I have a crush,” she said, referring to Lorenzo, her fiancé. “Which I totally do.” Bee giggled.
“How nice for Tom to have rich friends,” Sameera muttered. A quick glance at her phone let her know that though she still had another fifteen minutes on her timer, it was definitely time to leave. She had several more files to look over tonight, and likely wouldn’t get to bed until well into the early-morning hours. But what other choice did she have? Sameera couldn’t afford to lose this job, not if she wanted to pay off the debt Hunter had left her with, and not if she wanted to continue to live on her own. Moving back home was not an option, no matter how much she loved her family. Too much had happened between them.
With a final lingering glance at Tom’s face on Bee’s phone, Sameera left.
Chapter Two
Sameera ended up working a few hours at the office before taking her work home. She got to bed close to 3:00 a.m. The next few nights were the same, which was not unusual. Long days in the office and a few hurried take-out meals, followed by long nights at home catching up on her pile of never-ending work, felt routine now. Her mother’s criticism about her workaholism was justified, but Sameera wouldn’t know what to do without the familiar grind. When Saturday rolled around, she barely had enough time to change into a navy-bluesalwar kameezwith silver embroidery around the neck and sleeves, fluffing her hair loose and applying a rose-pink lipstick before popping into the grocery store for a box of sad-looking macarons and rushing to her parents’ home in Brookhaven, nearly an hour late.
Unlike most desi families, her parents started their parties exactly on time—in this case, at noon—which was why Sameera had to park the next street over and pick her way through double-parked cars in front of her parents’ two-story home on a quiet cul-de-sac. The white clapboard Colonial was set back from the street, and her parents had decorated for Eid with twinkly green and red fairy lights around the windows. Their neighbors must have wondered why the Malik family had put up Christmas lights, not realizing the second Eid festival fell in December this year, too. A cheery wood cutout spray-painted gold greeted Sameera:EidMubarak!
She knocked and waited. After a few minutes, she knocked again, then decided to try the door. It was unlocked, and she made a note to talk to her little brother, Esa, who routinely forgot to flip the dead bolt.
