“If you’re not going to take this seriously . . .”

His gaze fell to her mouth. “I’m taking it as seriously as you are licking that donut. I don’t think there is even a speck of icing left. We should let Dilip know you are wicked talented with your tongue.”

Such a waste of a breathtaking man.

“Don’t you dare say anything about my tongue.” She stopped in front of a bright blue door set into a concrete building on the street corner. “I have a sweet tooth and I am not ashamed. That’s all there is to it. No need to mention donuts at all.”

“How about buns?”

She looked back over her shoulder and caught him staring at her ass. She was wearing a tight black skirt for no other reason than she’d had a strange urge to feel sexy after Hassan shredded her the other day.

She gave a little wiggle before she walked into the restaurant and was rewarded with the sound of his sharp intake of breath.

“Layla?”

“Yes?” She turned in the doorway, caught a cheeky smile.

“I like sweet things, too.”

* * *

• • •

“THIS isn’t what I expected.” Dilip carefully sliced his half-inch piece of deconstructed pommes dauphines served with a penny-size drip of fava bean foam reduction. His gaze flicked from Sam to Layla and back to Sam from the other side of the rough-hewn log table.

Space consisted of a giant concrete room with a naked bulb hanging overhead. With no windows, paintings, or decor of any kind, and even less food than Sam had predicted, it was the perfect venue for an interrogation, but a blind date with a potential spouse, not so much.

“I thought I’d be meeting with Mr. Patel and Miss Layla.”

“It’s just Layla.” Sam interjected quickly to prevent the lunch from coming to a premature end. Five minutes into the interview, and he knew he was going to have to work hard to make this guy stick.

“Just Miss Layla.” Dilip smiled. One of his oversize front teeth was chipped and crooked, and with his round face, overabundance of straight dark hair, and portly frame, he reminded Sam of a demented beaver.

“He means you can just call me Layla.” With a sigh, Layla stared at her empty plate. She’d ordered the curated wild Alaskan sea cucumbers, sprinkled with artisanal milk thistle foraged at dusk from Springdale Farms and served in a sea of pureed stinging nettles. At least Sam thought that’s what it was. She’d eaten the entire cucumber slice in one bite.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something, sir?” The waiter, dressed in a grain sack with cutouts for his head and arms, hovered at Sam’s shoulder.

“No, thank you.” Sam rubbed his belly and let out a small burp. “I shouldn’t have had that second Rueben on my way over. Or maybe it was the Cobb salad. I’m so full I couldn’t even handle an amuse-bouche of fermented sardine foam or dihydrogen-monoxide consommé.”

Layla kicked him under the table. Hard. But the bruise he’d get from the pointed toe of her shoe was so worth it.

“Mr. Patel would have liked to be here, but because he’s ill, I’m taking his place,” Sam explained.

Unfortunately, Dilip, manager of weights and measures, didn’t think his answer measured up.

“You’re her cousin?”

“No.”

“Uncle?”

“No.”

“Nephew?”

“No.”

“Grandfather?”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam spluttered. “I don’t have a single gray hair.”

“Brother?”

“My brother passed away five years ago,” Layla interjected.

“Sister?” Dilip wouldn’t give it up.

Sam gave an affronted sniff. “Do I look like someone’s sister?”

“These are modern times,” Dilip said. “You could have gone through a change.”

“I’m all man.” Sam leaned back in his chair and spread his legs. “Every goddamned bit.”

“I think he feels threatened,” Layla gave Dilip an apologetic smile. “He usually only swears before ten A.M.”

“I’ll have you know, I am very secure in my masculinity.” Sam puffed out his chest. “I have a yellow shirt in my wardrobe, and once I even wore it outside. Although to be fair it was two A.M. and I’d forgotten to take out the trash.”

“Sam is a family friend,” Layla offered.

“A married friend?”

“No,” Sam said.

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“In a serious relationship?”

“How about we give Layla a chance to ask her twenty questions?” Sam suggested. The dude was like a dog with a bone.

“How do you fantasize your relationship with your partner?” Layla asked.

Dilip choked on his fava bean foam reduction and fixed Sam with a panicked stare.

“I think she’s wondering what you’re looking for in a wife.” Sam turned to Layla, making no effort to hide his smirk. “Or did I misunderstand?”

“No. You understood correctly.”

“Too bad,” he murmured under his breath. “I was hoping you had a secret kinky side. If you ever want to know what I fantasize about, I’ll be more than happy to share.”

Layla groaned. “I’m not interested in hearing about your aspirations to be a dancer in the Broadway production of A Chorus Line.”

“I want someone to cook and clean, look after my parents, and manage the house,” Dilip interjected. “She should also be willing to perform wifely duties and bear children.”

“Wifely duties?” Layla hissed in a breath. “There is so much wrong with those words, I don’t know where to start.”

Sam sighed. This wasn’t going well at all. If he was going to get her married and out of the office, he would have to move things along.

“He was kidding.” He nodded at Dilip to play along. “It’s a guy thing. We like euphemisms. He could just as easily have said doing the nasty, shagging, banging, screwing, humping, baking the potato, boning, boom-boom, four-legged foxtrot, glazing the donut, hitting a home run, launching the meat missile, makin’ bacon, opening the gates of Mordor, pelvic pinochle, planting the parsnip, releasing the kraken, rolling in the hay, stuffin’ the muffin, or two-ball in the middle pocket . . .” He trailed off when he noticed their shocked expressions. “Or sex,” he added. “He could have just said that.”