“She’s quite traditional,” Sam said. “She’s not used to seeing bare-chested dudes.”

“I’ve seen lots of shirtless men,” she muttered under her breath. “Shortless ones, too. Tons.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Do tell.”

Harman laughed—at least she thought it was a laugh—although it sounded more like a girlish giggle. “Well, she’d better get used to it. Finding clothes to fit these pythons”—he held up an arm at a ninety-degree angle and flexed his biceps, making it swell to the size of a puffed naan—“is pretty damn hard.”

“I hear you.” Sam nodded as if he, too, were so pumped up on steroids he couldn’t find a shirt to wear.

Layla snorted. “Oh, please.”

Harman led them over to a small lounge with red leather seats and a big-screen TV showing highlights of yesterday’s football game. Over chocolate protein shakes, they traded information about their work and interests. Harman’s entire world was his sport. He traveled only for competitions, knew nothing about politics or world affairs, and hadn’t eaten sugar in the last ten years.

“So what are you looking for in a wife?” Layla asked. “Companionship? Friendship? Homemaker? True love?”

“I need a brown girl,” Harman said.

Layla choked on her shake. “You need a brown girl?”

He nodded. “I want to be the first desi Mr. Olympia, so I’m all about the brand. Brown skin. Brown hair. Accent. Some days I’ll throw on a turban. Other days I’ll wear a thawb. And when there’s a ceremony happening, my PR guy, Steve, and I head down to the local cultural center for some photo ops. Diwali. Ramadan. Vaisakhi. I celebrate them all.”

“Those are ceremonies from three different religions, and clothing from two,” she pointed out. “Is there not one faith you follow?”

“I didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

Layla shook her head in disbelief. “So that’s all you want out of a marriage?”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Harman said. “Bodybuilding is my life. I don’t have time for relationships, but Steve says there’s tons of guys who do what I do. I need to stand out. I need a brand. We did some brainstorming and came up with brown.”

“Brown is your brand?”

“You got it, sista.” He made a hand gesture that was a cross between a fist pump, a finger wave, and a snap. “There aren’t many desi bodybuilders out there. I’m going to be number one.”

“I’m not your sister,” she muttered.

“But you could be my wife,” he said earnestly. “I need someone for photo ops and interviews and to keep the fans at bay. I am constantly being propositioned and, to be honest, I’m getting tired of being objectified. I want people to see me for who I really am—a perfect specimen of the ultimate masculine form.”

Layla frowned. “So you do want to be objectified.”

“Only for my art,” he admitted. “And for the fame and money that come with winning titles. But not in my soul.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“At least he’s honest about who he is,” she snapped.

“We’ll have to tone you up for the pictures,” Harman said. “You can go on my diet. Lean proteins, healthy fats, fibrous vegetables, and high-quality carbohydrates. That means no sugar, fried foods, or white flour. Four to six weeks and you’ll be slim and trim and filled with energy.”

Her face heated, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a protective hug. “I beg your pardon?”

“Steve!” He waved over a slim blond man wearing a leather vest over a Twenty One Pilots T-shirt and a skintight pair of khaki pants. The dude had a large camera around his neck and a tripod in his hand.

“Snap a few shots,” Harman told him. “See how we look together.” He pulled Layla to stand in front of him. “You okay if I put an arm around you for the pictures?”

“Um . . . sure.”

Harman positioned himself behind her, one arm across her body, the other flexed by her head, his hips pressed against her rear. “She’s gonna lose that extra weight, Steve, so angle us with her middle in the shadows.”

“Get your hands off her,” Sam growled.

“Relax, dude. We’re just doing a couple of test shots.”

Steve snapped a few pictures. Layla made note of three things: first, Sam was right about the effect of steroids on reproductive organs; second, she felt absolutely nothing being pressed up against a perfect specimen of the ultimate masculine form; and third, the moment he let her go, she was going to smash her fist into his perfect nose.

Her gaze flicked to Sam. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he was eyeing Harman with visible disdain. Not once since she’d known him had Sam ever criticized her appearance. She’d felt comfortable enough with him to dance in a public fountain, and when he’d held her in his arms for their almost-kiss, she hadn’t felt anything other than his equal.

“Smile,” Harman said. “How are her teeth, Steve? Will she need caps or just whitening?”

Layla spun around, pulling her fist back, ready to strike. Only, Sam anticipated her move. He grabbed her hand, pushing it down as he wrapped his strong arm around her body.

“Don’t do it,” he warned, keeping his voice low. “His face is part of his aesthetic. If he loses his career, you might face a lawsuit that will bankrupt you. And you’ll lose your chance to be Mrs. Harman Babu.”

Her body warmed from the press of his hard chest against her, the strong arm holding her tight, his breath hot against her neck. Fire raced through her veins, searing her nerve endings and making her skin tingle. Why couldn’t she feel this with Harman? Why did she have to feel it for the one man on earth who irritated her the most—the one man who made her feel alive?

Oh God. She didn’t want Harman. She wanted Sam.

* * *

• • •

“ARE you crazy?” Sam walked quickly through the parking lot after saying good-bye to Harman. He caught up with Layla just as she reached her Jeep, his heart pounding in frustration. “Why did you agree to go out on a date with him? He said you needed to lose weight and had bad teeth. You were going to punch him in the face.”

“He apologized. He said in his world anyone with more than five percent body fat is overweight, and everyone has veneers. And what’s wrong with getting in shape? He’s better than any of the others. Why not give him a second chance?”