Chapter One #2
Sameera’s phone started to buzz, interrupting Bee’s ramble.
Somehow, Sameera knew it was her mother before she glanced at the screen.
She considered her options: If she sent the call to voicemail, Tahsin would hit redial until her daughter picked up.
If she did answer, Sameera would have to sit through a lecture about still being at work—and yes, holiday parties counted as work, in her mother’s estimation.
Just last week, Tahsin had suggested Sameera give up the mortgage on her one-bedroom condo in Alpharetta and invest in a pull-out couch for her office instead.
It was true that she often didn’t return home until after midnight, but that was the life of an associate.
Besides, the criticism was ironic coming from her mother.
Tahsin had spent the bulk of her career in education—first as an elementary school teacher, then as a principal—and had worked all the time.
However, Tahsin had retired last year, and now spent her time alternately bemoaning her lack of grandchildren and dropping unsubtle hints about at least one of her children completing their desi duty by getting married.
“Nadiya should get married first. She’s the eldest,” Sameera had countered more than once.
Studious, serious Nadiya, two years older at thirty, was the golden child who never put a foot wrong.
She was currently finishing up her PhD at Oxford, which she had decided to pursue after working at a nonprofit in Pakistan after undergrad.
Every time they talked about Nadiya, her parents practically inflated with pride.
Sameera had a feeling their shoulders drooped a little when they spoke of her.
But she would not dwell on what she had taken to calling “the lost years” in her mind: the three years in her life when she hadn’t spoken to her family at all.
Things were better now. Her parents tried hard to mend the breach, and so did Sameera . . . when she could find the time.
By the time this had all gone through her mind, her phone had stopped ringing. After a moment, it started buzzing again, and with a roll of her eyes at Bee, Sameera answered.
“Hi, Mom. I’m at the office. I can’t talk now.”
“Assalamu alaikum, Sameera. I thought we agreed you would start to leave work early. It’s nearly seven. Have you eaten dinner?”
Sameera looked at the wonton samosa in her hand, which definitely counted. “Yup.”
“What is that music? Are you at a party? I can barely hear you.” Her mother sounded suspicious.
Ever since their uneasy reconciliation a few months ago, Tahsin couldn’t seem to stop probing Sameera for details about her life.
As happy as she was to be back in touch with her family, she had not missed these intrusive questions.
Bee didn’t really get it; she had a great relationship with her mother and told her everything, including details about her sex life. If Sameera admitted to even having a sex life to her Muslim mother, she was pretty sure they would both spontaneously combust from embarrassment.
Not that she would have much to report lately. She hadn’t felt any desire or interest in dating in over a year—not since Hunter had left. She hoped he was lying in a ditch somewhere.
“I’m at the office Christmas party,” Sameera said, but her mother again repeated that she couldn’t hear her, before telling her to call back once she found a quieter spot.
Sameera looked around the crowded foyer, and briefly contemplated taking the elevator to her office on the sixteenth floor before deciding to duck into the kitchen instead.
The abrupt silence as the kitchen door closed behind her felt like a jolt of cold water, and Sameera breathed deeply, staring at her phone. How mad would Tahsin be, on a scale of one to pissed-off-aunty, if she “forgot” to call her back?
“Did you need a refill?”
The question caused Sameera to glance up guiltily. Cute Server stood by a long table, hovering over half a dozen trays of appetizers. He held a piping bag expertly, squeezing a bright-green garnish on the tops of delectable morsels. Her stomach rumbled, betraying her hunger.
“I was going to bring you some more samosas as soon as I was done with this. You and your friend are the only ones who seem to appreciate the spicy stuff,” he said.
“Firstly, those aren’t real samosas. And if you consider this spicy, you need to try my mother’s recipe,” Sameera teased.
“I’m always on the hunt for new recipes,” Cute Server said. “If you don’t need a refill, why did you follow me into the kitchen?”
“I wasn’t following you,” Sameera said, flushing.
He flashed her another smile, and her stomach gave a traitorous lurch. She was not here to flirt with handsome “cater-waiters,” she reminded herself. Still, at his beckoning look, she approached the table and admired his quick, efficient movements.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“Wonton-wrapped faux-samosas,” he said with a wink, pointing at the individual trays.
“Pickled-shrimp ceviche, vegan-chili shots, and mini sushi burrito bites.” His big hands were steady as he plated and sprinkled garnish.
He had fine gold hairs on his muscled forearms, Sameera noticed.
“That tray is for the staff, if you want to try,” he said, pointing, and Sameera was too hungry to refuse.
Each appetizer was delicious, an instant burst of unique and familiar flavors.
“Are you helping the chef?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he said, concentrating on adorning the mini cakes on a dessert tray with tiny edible flowers. Yet when her phone rang, he clocked her grimace when she glanced down at the screen. “Boyfriend?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Moms always pick the worst time to call.”
Cute Server shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. My mom died when I was ten, before I got a cell phone.”
Sameera stilled. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded toward the phone. “I shouldn’t have said anything. My stepmom nags me plenty. Are you going to get that?”
Sameera answered. “Salams. I just found a quiet spot. You’ll be happy to hear I’m eating something.”
Tahsin’s voice sounded aggrieved. “I hope it’s not more fried food, beta. A growing girl like you needs her vegetables.”
She was twenty-eight, but sure. “What did you want to ask me?” she asked, hoping to hurry the conversation along.
Her mom always had a question, or a comment, or a passing thought to justify her frequent phone calls.
In some ways, it was nice—there had been a time when her mother had stopped calling, and though Sameera had sometimes missed the lack of regular phone harassment, she was also grateful to be back in touch with her family.
Whom she loved very much, she reminded herself.
“You’re always so busy, beta. I wanted to make sure you’re still coming to the Eid party this weekend,” Tahsin said.
Sameera sighed. She had already confirmed her attendance for the annual Eid al-Adha celebration.
Tahsin was calling to double-check, and part of her understood why: Their reconciliation sometimes felt shaky.
A flicker of guilt made its way into her voice as she responded.
“I said I would be there. You don’t need to remind me. ”
“Which Eid is this?” Cute Server asked. He grinned at Sameera. “You know you’re on speaker, right?” His smile was a little crooked at the edges, drawing her attention to his full lips, and the faint suggestion of a dimple. She flushed; her mother was a diligent user of FaceTime.
“Who is that?” Tahsin asked. “I thought you were at a work party.”
“The kitchen was the only quiet spot. I’m with my new friend . . .” She raised her eyebrows.
“Tom Cooke, ma’am,” he said with perfect Southern manners.
“Your name is Cooke, and you’re a server?” Sameera asked.
“My name is Cooke, and I’m the chef, beautiful,” he drawled.
Through the screen, Sameera watched her mother inhale sharply. With one careless endearment, Tom Cooke had activated Tahsin’s finely tuned and hyperactive relationship radar.
“When did you and Tom meet?” Tahsin asked.
Sameera made a valiant effort not to roll her eyes.
“About five minutes ago,” she said. Somehow, Tahsin did not seem convinced, and a small ball of tension tightened in her stomach at the sight of her mother’s pinched, suspicious face.
Would Tahsin ever give her the benefit of the doubt, or had she lost her trust forever?
Not that you deserve to be trusted, an insidious voice mocked. Not after you spent most of the last ten years lying to them.
Thankfully, Tom wasn’t tuned into her dark thoughts. “So, which Eid is it?” Tom asked again, friendly blue eyes fixed on Sameera. “The hungry one or the other one?”
She laughed; clearly, he had a Muslim friend in his life. “The other one.”
“And they’re both called ‘Eid’ because . . .”
“To confuse white people, of course,” Sameera said, grinning impishly.
Tom’s soft chuckle was silk over her skin, and Sameera felt again the flicker of something, an unexpected fizzle of attraction. She focused on her screen, where her mother had moved from suspicion to worry. Damn FaceTime.
“Beta, you said you would be honest with us. How long have you and Tom been dating?” Tahsin’s voice was tinny on the phone, and Sameera tried not to sigh. Of course her mother would think any flirtatious male within a mile of her daughter was her secret boyfriend. Not that she could blame her.
“I should get back to the party,” Sameera said, not even bothering to reply. She felt her face prickle with embarrassment and couldn’t look at Tom.
“Come early to the party, beta,” Tahsin said. “Very nice to meet you, Tom Cooke, caterer. And Sameera, you should go home. You work too much.”
“I can’t leave. They’ll notice,” Sameera protested.
“Your boss doesn’t even know your name,” her mother countered.
“The partners don’t remember anyone’s name; it’s an intimidation tactic,” Sameera said.
“What do you think, Tom Cooke?” Tahsin asked.
Tom’s voice was an amused drawl. “In my experience, ma’am, lawyers never much care what the caterer thinks.”
Sameera smiled, and on the phone, her mother’s expression softened. They quickly exchanged salams, and she turned to leave before turning back.
“I’m sorry about that. My mom gets suspicious every time a man looks twice at me. Brown girl problems.”
Tom shrugged. “Then she must be constantly on high alert. I know I couldn’t stop staring.” He winked, and Sameera shook her head, amused.
“You’re a terrible flirt,” she said.
“It must be working, because you’re still here,” he shot back, crossing his arms to show off those impressive forearms. He flexed, and her eyes lingered before making their way back to his face. He was smirking.
“You should add green chili to your fake samosas,” she said.
“That’s a quick way to get fired. Not everyone can handle the heat,” he replied.
“I can,” she said. Tom’s eyes darkened, and suddenly, she didn’t think they were talking about fried snacks anymore. She really shouldn’t be here, trading suggestive remarks with this cute, witty stranger.
The kitchen door flung open, and a trio of black-clad waitstaff entered, their cheerful chatter shattering the moment. Tom straightened, professional mask smoothly slotting into place.
“If there’s nothing else, miss?” he asked. Sameera shook her head and left the kitchen.
Despite her protestations to her mother, Sameera returned to the party but with little enthusiasm.
She was tired, and exceptional food notwithstanding, Sameera longed to change into her flannel pajamas and crawl into bed.
The thought of returning to her office to complete more work in—she checked the timer on her phone—twenty-three minutes made her feel tired.
Maybe her mom was right, and she should just call it a night.
Except she needed to keep working. She had a plan—if she could put in twelve to fourteen hours every day until January 1, she might keep her job, inshallah.
She tacked on the Muslim exhortation automatically.
As the sole nonobservant member of a practicing Muslim family, she found that the term still felt natural.
She had always appreciated the versatility of “inshallah,” which translated to “God willing” but could also be applied to any number of situations: Inshallah, we’ll meet for lunch one day, as in We probably never will, all the way to Inshallah, I’ll win the lottery, so I can finally finish paying off the thousands of dollars of debt my loser ex-boyfriend saddled me with before skipping town.
To use a random example. See? Versatile.
Bee sidled up to her and reached for the appetizers in her hands. “What took you so long? Blake just invited me to a private after-party.” She shuddered.
“Tahsin thinks I’m hiding another secret boyfriend from the family,” she said.
“Ooh, who’s the lucky guy?” Bee asked.
“Tom Cooke. You might know him as the cute server, but he is actually the caterer.”
Bee’s eyes widened as she examined the appetizer in her hand.
“Yes, Chef.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. I know that name. I thought he looked familiar.” She fumbled for her phone, pulling up Instagram and scrolling until she found his account.
“Cooke with Tom! Look, he’s got nearly two million followers, and he’s even bigger on TikTok.
His fusion cooking series went viral recently. ”
Sameera watched a video as Bee talked, and her heart lurched when she recognized the familiar warm blue eyes, those forearms and capable hands rinsing lentils for soup, then dressing a fattoush salad. She started another video. His guest host looked familiar, too.
“That’s why I was thinking of Andy Shaikh!” Bee said. “He’s Tom’s best friend or something. I just watched this video in the bathroom before the party. Lor thinks I have a crush,” she said, referring to Lorenzo, her fiancé. “Which I totally do.” Bee giggled.
“How nice for Tom to have rich friends,” Sameera muttered.
A quick glance at her phone let her know that though she still had another fifteen minutes on her timer, it was definitely time to leave.
She had several more files to look over tonight, and likely wouldn’t get to bed until well into the early-morning hours.
But what other choice did she have? Sameera couldn’t afford to lose this job, not if she wanted to pay off the debt Hunter had left her with, and not if she wanted to continue to live on her own.
Moving back home was not an option, no matter how much she loved her family. Too much had happened between them.
With a final lingering glance at Tom’s face on Bee’s phone, Sameera left.