Sam Mehta

 Age: 32

 Education: BSc, MD, MBA

She stared at him, incredulous. “You’re a doctor?”

“I didn’t finish my surgical residency. I thought it would be more fun to fire people for a living instead, so I left medicine, completed a one-year intensive MBA, and formed a partnership with Royce.”

There was a lot to unpack in that statement, not the least of which was the pain in his eyes that he tried to hide by looking away.

“Brace yourself for the stampede.” He clicked the DONE button and leaned back in his chair. “I’m about to unleash my formidable self on the women of desilovematch.com.” Leaning closer, he read the words off the screen. “I’m looking forward to ‘finding the happiness with someone new.’”

“Don’t get distracted. You’re supposed to be finding the happiness with me.”

“That seems unlikely,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I like demure, respectful, obedient women who don’t throw stationery, call me names, and try to kick me out of my own office. And since I have yet to see you smile, I haven’t even been able to assess the health of your teeth.”

“Maybe you should say something funny; I might smile then.”

“We matched.” He pointed to the screen. “Given your violent antipathy to me, there is nothing funnier than that.”

Layla quickly skimmed through her online profile. There wasn’t much more to it than Hassan had printed out, save for the introductory paragraph that made her heart squeeze in her chest:

Beloved daughter

 My Layla

 Make her happy

 Treat her with kindness and respect

“He loves you very much,” Sam said.

“Yes, he does.” Her voice trembled. “He wanted to fix my whole life but I was only with him for ten minutes before he had a heart attack. And it was my fault. I should have told him before I arrived that I was coming home for good. The shock was too much.”

Sam squeezed her hand, his palm warm against her skin. “I’m sure that’s not the case. If you check his medical chart, I’ll bet they haven’t written down ‘Cause of heart attack: daughter shows up with blue hair and threatens to stay.’ Although, if you’re planning to meet more suitors you might want to rethink your next hair color choice.”

“What if there are more?”

“You’ll need to access your father’s e-mail account to find out.”

“I know his password.” She leaned over him and opened a new window to access her father’s e-mail. “He’s been using the same one for years.”

A few moments later she was in her father’s e-mail account and scrolling through the unread e-mails in his personal folder, many wishing him a speedy recovery and some reminding him about unpaid bills. She made a mental note to deal with them later and clicked on a folder titled “Desilovematch.” Her father had separated the file into subfolders: “Yes,” “No,” “Maybe.” She opened them all and gasped as hundreds of e-mails filled the screen.

Sam let out a long, low breath. “You’re a popular girl.”

“My mother said he’d been locked in his office since I called to tell him about my last breakup. She didn’t know what he was doing. I guess this was it.” She opened her father’s online calendar and checked it against the folders. “He made appointments to see the ten men in the ‘Yes’ file. Hassan was the first.”

“Ten blind dates. You are a lucky girl.”

Feeling nauseous, she sipped her water. Her father must have sifted through hundreds of marriage résumés to narrow the field down to these ten names. Ten men he thought would make her happy and treat her with kindness and respect, unlike Jonas and all the men she’d dated before him.

Layla had always considered herself a modern desi woman. She was as comfortable in a sari as she was in jeans and enjoyed hamburgers and potato chips as much as dal and curry. Her life revolved around Western friends and a large and extended family of immigrants from Northern India and Pakistan who had brought their culture and beliefs with them—one of which was the benefit of arranged marriage over the Western concept of love.

Despite Dev’s wonderful relationship with Rhea and the success of her parents’ union, Layla had never been interested in having an arranged marriage. Even after a string of failed relationships and heartbreak, she had always believed in true love. Her soul mate was out there waiting for her. All she had to do was open her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Sam’s gentle tone pulled her out of her thoughts.

“I was just thinking.”

“Don’t try too hard. I thought I saw steam coming out of your ears.” Sam stood, carefully adjusting his jacket as he made his way back to his desk. From the fit and the cut of the material, it was clearly high-end and likely very expensive. For the first time she noticed the fancy watch on his left wrist, the gold cuff links, and the crisply pressed shirt. His business wasn’t a fly-by-night operation if he could afford to dress like that.

“Funny. You’re a funny guy, Sam.”

“I can honestly say no one has ever described me that way.” He cleared off his desk, carefully putting his pencils and pens away. “I felt more comfortable when you were cursing like a sailor and calling me filthy names.”

“Are you conceding defeat?” She tried to keep the hopeful tone from her voice when he tucked his laptop into his leather briefcase.

“Of course not.” His dark eyes flashed with mirth. “I have a business meeting in half an hour which I had hoped to conduct here, but I’m too much of a gentleman to intrude on your privacy while you crush the hearts of ten sad and lonely men. I look forward to battling with you tomorrow, Miss Patel. May the best man win.”

After the door closed behind him, she sat back in her chair surrounded by his warmth and the intoxicating scent of his cologne. She knew his type. Hated it. Arrogant. Cocky. Egotistical. Ultracompetitive. Fully aware of how devastatingly handsome he was. A total player. She would have swiped left if his profile had popped up on desi Tinder.

So why couldn’t she stop smiling?

• 6 •

CRAMMED between a dollar store and a run-down pawn shop, Joe Puglisi’s Boxing Club was spit-and-sawdust at its finest. Sam had been training at Joe’s with his friends Evan and John three times a week since he left medical school, addicted to the brutality of the early-morning training sessions as much as the actual fights.

“You warmed up yet?” Evan Archer called out from the free weights. Shorter than Sam by a good two inches, stockier and more muscular, Evan had the kind of messy blond hair women always seemed to want to touch. His eyes were hazel, shifting to dark brown when he was riled or pounding on Sam in the ring. A marketing consultant and amateur MMA fighter with ambitions of going pro, Evan embraced the idea that exercise was both a form of punishment and physically redemptive. Despite the bruises and brutally draining sessions, Sam never felt redeemed, but the physical pain that lingered after each session overrode the pain he carried in his heart.