Layla’s gaze flicked to Sam. He was definitely an enigma. Careful observation over the last week had revealed that he worked out most mornings, ate healthy-albeit-boring food, had a coffee addiction, and was very focused and intense when he was working. “Maybe he has allergies.”

“To Bollywood music?” Daisy held up her phone. “Let’s put on Mr. India and see if he breaks out in hives.”

“Do you like him? Is that what this is about?” Layla felt a curious pang of jealousy at the thought of Daisy and Sam together. It didn’t make sense. She was done with dating and was now committed to a marriage of companionship with no risk of love and the pain that went with it.

“Are you kidding me?” Daisy snorted. “Me and him? Five minutes alone together and one of us would be on the floor with a steak knife through his heart. I am a free bird, my friend, still trying to figure out what I’m going to do with my life, and a man that uptight is the ultimate cage.”

She wasn’t wrong there. Sam cleared off his entire desk every night and wiped it down with disinfectant. Each morning he pulled out his pencils and pens and arranged them in a neat row beside the perfectly stacked files that sat squarely behind his laptop. He was always impeccably dressed, his tie perfectly knotted, and his hair smoothly combed. His attention to detail was disconcerting for someone who had never stacked anything neatly in her life.

“Did you send us copies of . . . ?” Layla hated to use Daisy’s shorthand, but the numbers made sense. “. . . Bachelor #2’s marriage résumé?”

Daisy nodded. “And the one for Bachelor #3. To be honest, I think you should consider giving Bachelor #2 a hard pass because Bachelor #3 is a firefighter and the picture he sent . . .” She fanned herself with one hand and held up his picture on her phone with the other. “I love a man in uniform. And he’s got a big hose. I’m getting hot just looking at it.”

“I can hear you,” Sam called out. “This in an office. Please keep the discussion to a PG level.”

“How about you keep your dirty R-rated thoughts to yourself,” Daisy retorted. “We’re looking at a picture of a firefighter holding a hose on the street to cool people off on a hot summer day. In my innocence, I can’t even imagine what you were thinking.”

“I thought you were using a metaphor,” Sam said. “But clearly I shouldn’t assume . . .”

Layla glanced down at the picture. The firefighter was bare chested save for the suspenders holding up his fireman pants, which were unzipped in a way that suggested he wasn’t on his way to a fire. “That’s . . . some hose.”

“I can still hear you.”

“He’s jealous,” Daisy whispered. “He wishes he could have a big hose that makes women wet.”

Layla walked over to Sam’s desk where he was already busy on his laptop. “Are you ready to go? I asked Dilip Sandhu where he wanted to meet and he suggested a new pop-up restaurant down the block. He said since the woman’s family traditionally pays, he wanted to go somewhere he couldn’t normally afford.”

“How delightfully crass.”

“It’s called Space.” She tried not to look at his hands as he finished typing, but with the fantasy still fresh in her mind, it was a losing battle. “It’s very exclusive. The only reason I got a table was because the head chef knows my dad. They have twenty-four one-hour sittings every day with only one table per sitting.”

Sam groaned as he closed his laptop. “I’d better grab some sandwiches on the way. It sounds like the kind of place you only get two peas and a sliver of asparagus on a piece of butter lettuce that was grown on the highest mountain peak of Nepal and watered with the tears of angels.”

“Not a fan of haute cuisine?” She followed him down the stairs and out into the bright sunshine.

“I like food. Lots of it.” He stopped at the nearest café and ordered three Reuben sandwiches, two Cobb salads, and three bottles of water.

“Would you like anything?” he asked after he placed his order.

Layla looked longingly as the server handed over his feast. “I don’t want to ruin my appetite.” She pointed to the baked-goods counter. “You forgot dessert.”

“I don’t eat sugar.”

“Then the meal is wasted.” She held open her handbag to reveal her secret stash. “I keep emergency desserts with me at all times—gummy bears, salted caramel chocolate, jelly beans, chocolate-glazed donuts—at least I think that’s what they were, and this morning I managed to grab a small container of besan laddu and some gulab jamun.”

“Are you expecting a famine?” Sam pulled out one of his sandwiches and ate as they walked.

“You never know when you’ll need a little pick-me-up.” She held up her phone and flipped to the marriage résumé of the man they were about to meet. “I’ll brief you as we walk so you can stuff your face on our way to lunch.”

“I do not ‘stuff my face,’” he said with a haughty sniff. “But I do appreciate the offer.”

“Dilip Sandhu. Age thirty-five. Five feet four and three-sevenths inches tall. No visible scars. One hundred and thirty pounds. Born in San Diego. Parents emigrated from Mumbai. Father is an accountant. Mother is a seamstress. No siblings. He works at a technology consulting firm as a weights and measures manager responsible for the delivery and implementation of services relating to the testing, calibrating, and certifying weighing and measuring devices. Enjoys dancing, cave diving, and musical theater.”

Sam finished his sandwich and pulled out another. “This guy’s perfect for you, albeit you’ll need to wear flat shoes when you’re with him. And maybe hunch a bit. You don’t want to be too tall if you’re spending your honeymoon in a cave.”

“How would you know he’s perfect? You don’t know what I’m looking for in a partner.”

“What are you looking for in a man? I’m curious.” He bit into his sandwich, and Layla’s stomach rumbled.

She’d never really thought about her ideal man, but she knew what she didn’t want—anyone like Jonas or the string of men who preceded him. She pulled a donut from her purse and peeled off the paper napkins. “He needs to respect me and treat me as an equal. He has to support my desire to run my own business and not expect me to take on traditional roles.”

Sam twisted his lips to the side as if deep in thought. “So, no missionary.”

“Were you born like this or did you take courses on how to be a dick?”

A tiny grin hitched his mouth. “Missionary is the traditional position.”