“Not Crazy Daisy. Pick someone else.”

Layla twisted her lips to the side and looked around the office, considering. “You can have the rosewood desk.”

“Let the marriage game begin!”

Her smile lit up her face. “And may the best woman win.”

• 7 •

“HIRED, fired, or desired?” Daisy’s voice carried through the office, drawing Layla’s attention to the man at the reception desk.

“I . . .” He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. “I’m not sure.”

Daisy sighed. “Are you looking for a job, planning to fire all your employees like a cold, ruthless capitalist bastard, or seeking a wife?”

“Daisy!” Layla hurried to the reception desk. She regretted telling Daisy about the game, especially since her cousin was less than supportive, but if Daisy was going to handle their visitors, she needed to know all the facts. “I told you before. No swearing.”

The courier held out his tablet. “I have a package for Sam Mehta. I need a signature.”

“How disappointing.” Daisy scrawled her name on the electronic pad. “Are you sure you aren’t looking for a wife? We have a single, slightly desperate twenty-six-year-old recruitment consultant available. She is smart, ambitious, pleasing to the eye, and she makes a mean rogan josh.”

“Daisy!”

“Do you not make a mean rogan josh?” She feigned an innocent look as the courier hustled away. “Because the last time I visited you in New York, my taste buds exploded with pleasure.”

“Where is Sam?” Layla checked her phone. “He’s supposed to be here at twelve o’clock.”

“He had client meetings this morning. Don’t worry. He’ll be here on time to meet Bachelor #2.” Daisy fluffed her white cherry-print ’50s-style skirt and settled in her chair.

Layla groaned. “You can’t refer to them like that.”

“Why not? They’re all bachelors. He’s number two on the list. You said you’re playing a game. It’s a perfect way to identify them. Contestant didn’t seem right because that would suggest you’re a prize, and although you are in a metaphorical sense, I wouldn’t want to objectify you in any way.”

Layla drummed her fingers on Daisy’s desk. “What time is it now? We’re meeting the guy for lunch and we have to leave enough time to get there.”

“Relax.” Daisy covered Layla’s hand, holding it still. “In the week we’ve worked together, Sam has never been late for anything. It’s unnatural. I think he might be an android. He certainly acts less than human.”

“He’s just a control freak.” Layla took a deep breath to calm herself down. “I think it’s kinda cute.” Sam had been in and out of the office all week, but they’d had a few civil—and a few not-so-civil—conversations. Layla had also entertained herself by getting in early to mess up his papers and misalign his pens. One morning, she’d even turned his desk an extra five degrees to see if he’d notice—he did.

“You’re siding with him?” Daisy’s raised voice frightened poor Max, and he barked just as Sam walked in the door.

“Pardon me.” Sam’s voice dripped ice. “I thought this was a business, not an animal shelter.”

“Max is an emotional support dog,” Layla explained. “Daisy needs him.”

“She didn’t need any emotional support all week. Why now?”

“Have you looked in a mirror, dude?” Daisy picked up Max and gave him a hug. “One week with you and I need all the support I can get.”

“She tried to work without him, but it was a struggle so I said she could bring him in. He’s been very well behaved,” Layla assured him. “He hasn’t peed on anything—”

“That’s a low bar.”

“You’re very cheery today,” Daisy said in a voice that suggested she thought nothing of the sort. “Did you fire lots of people this morning? Feeling good? Rocking that destroying lives feeling? I guess you’ll be going out to celebrate lining the shareholders’ pockets after work. You can order a bottle of Cristal and some caviar and toast all the poor souls who are lined up at the food bank tonight.”

Sam slid his gaze to Daisy. “I look forward to the day when your antipathy toward my business is so great that you feel you cannot in good conscience continue to work here.”

“I look forward to the day you actually have a conscience and realize that you should honor Nasir Uncle’s wishes and skedaddle,” Daisy shot back.

“Kudos on the creative vocabulary.” He sorted through his mail, strong hands deftly sorting the envelopes. Layla’s skin tingled at the thought of being touched by those hands—held, caressed, stroked until she was breathless.

“You wouldn’t believe how many languages I had to learn to get my software engineering degree.” Daisy’s voice pulled her out of the fantasy and her cheeks heated. What was wrong with her? This was Sam—Daisy’s least favorite person in the world.

Sam’s gaze drifted over Daisy’s Riot Grrrl T-shirt. “I see English wasn’t one of them.”

Daisy’s eyes hardened. “What degree did you get to crush human souls?”

“I’ll tell you when I crush yours,” Sam said, a half smile curving his lips.

“You’re sexy when you threaten me,” Daisy called out as he made his way to his desk. “Actually, you’re sexy when you’re not threatening me, but I like that little extra hint of menace.”

“Why do you keep teasing him?” Layla asked.

“I can’t help myself.” Daisy stroked Max, who had finished chewing the arm of the chair and was now looking for something tasty to eat. “There’s something about him . . . Who doesn’t take advantage of the fact that we’ve got food from The Spice Mill in the kitchen every day? Who drinks English tea when we have a pot of your mother’s homemade chai? Who doesn’t want to hear ‘Badtameez Dil’ to get pumped for the morning? Or ‘Mundian To Bach Ke’ at the end of the day? He told me that if I wanted to listen to that kind of music, I should just put on ‘Despacito.’”

“Not everyone likes curry and Bollywood.” She offered Max a pakora from the bag she’d grabbed from the restaurant, and he gave it a curious sniff.

“He’s brown. It’s in the blood.” Daisy pulled out her phone and took a picture of Max with the pakora between his paws.