by Sara Desai
“Stop it.” She glared at Sam. “You’re being irritating, which is why I told you to sit somewhere else.”
“Then I wouldn’t have a chance to really get to know Faroz.” Sam pulled out his phone, his gaze locked on the man across the table. “Daisy sent me a copy of your résumé. You didn’t provide many personal details, although it’s good to know you have . . .” He read off his screen. “‘. . . excellent analytical abilities, the ability to think creatively, foreign language skills, knowledge of foreign countries, culture, and affairs, the ability to write clear and concise text, strong interpersonal skills, and the ability to work under strict deadlines.’”
“It’s all a cover,” Faroz said.
Layla cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t have the ability to write clear and concise text, strong interpersonal skills, and the ability to work under strict deadlines?”
“I’m not who you think I am.” Faroz whipped off his sunglasses, and she stared into pupils so large his eyes were almost black.
Sam leaned forward, his face twisted in a scowl. “I’ll tell you exactly who I think you are.”
“Sam. No. Be nice.” Layla gave Faroz an apologetic smile. “He’s got protectiveness issues.”
“There’s no need to worry,” Faroz said. “You’re safe with me. I would never put you at risk. I am armed and trained in seventeen forms of combat.” He moved his jacket to the side to reveal a weapon holstered across his chest.
Layla’s pulse kicked up a notch and she reached for Sam’s hand under the table. “He has a concealed weapon,” she whispered to Sam, although Faroz could easily hear them.
“I see that.” Sam threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. His skin was warm, his touch firm but gentle. It was difficult to focus on Faroz when currents of electricity were tingling over her skin. For all Faroz’s assurances, it was Sam who made her feel safe.
Layla swallowed hard. “Are you expecting trouble in the coffee shop?”
Faroz looked from side to side. “I have many enemies. I can’t be too careful, especially when civilians are involved.”
“Jesus Christ.” Sam’s hand tightened around hers. “He’s a nutjob.”
“Sam!”
Sam cursed again in Urdu, this time making references to Faroz’s mother, his questionable parentage, his likeness to things requiring sanitary disposal, and various animals.
“That’s better,” she said, “but it’s still not nice to swear or call people names.”
Faroz leaned back and sipped his coffee. “When I was held captive and tortured by foreign enemy insurgents, the names they called me would make your ears bleed.”
“I would imagine being called names would be the least of your concerns if you were being tortured by enemy soldiers,” Sam said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Unless you have very thin skin.”
Layla leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I think you should know that I’m a huge coward. I won’t do well if people shoot at me or kidnap me to get to you. And if torture is involved, I’m a total baby. I’ll tell them other people’s secrets as well as my own. My friend Jenny, for example, has a tattoo of a llama on her left butt cheek, and Sam—”
“So about the whole secret agent thing . . .” Sam lifted Layla’s cup and took a sip of her cooling coffee, his nose wrinkling as he swallowed.
“Classified.”
Sam checked his phone again. “How classified can it be when you wrote on the marriage résumé that you posted online: ‘Occupation: CIA’?”
“Also classified.”
Layla shook her head. “I think the whole ‘classified’ thing might be a problem for me. Communication is the key to a successful marriage. What if I asked you how your day was, or whether you wanted samosas in your lunch, or if you wanted a quickie in the shower, and you answered Classified? It just wouldn’t work.”
Sam made a sound that was part choke, part cough.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good.” Sam cleared his throat. “I just wasn’t prepared for your last comment and the coffee went down the wrong way.” He gestured to a stony-faced Faroz across the table. “Not everyone will share your liberal views, so you might want to keep comments of a sexual nature to a minimum.”
Layla laughed. “If you think doing it in the shower is liberal, I’ll definitely never tell you what I got up to when I found a three-foot-high can of whipped cream at Costco and asked the New York Dolphins men’s water polo team to help me carry it home.”
“I didn’t want to know that.” Sam’s jaw tightened. “And I suspect Faroz didn’t, either.”
“I’m joking, Sam. Lighten up. My apartment wasn’t big enough to hold all of them at once.”
Faroz put his sunglasses back on, as if that brief unfiltered glimpse of her had been enough. “I’ve seen things that would make you puke up a lung.”
“Whipped cream and a water polo team do it for me,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Still amused by Sam’s reaction, Layla turned her attention back to Faroz. “What kind of things did you see that would make me puke up a lung? I’m asking for my mom. She loves gore.”
“He won’t tell you,” Sam said. “It’s classified. Although that raises an interesting issue. I thought CIA agents weren’t allowed to operate on American soil.”
Faroz nodded. “I’m undercover.”
“As what?”
“A secret agent, obviously,” Layla said.
Sam snorted a laugh. “If he’s a secret agent, how can he be undercover as a secret agent?”
“Haven’t you seen Quantico?” She sipped her coffee, now cold and sickly sweet. “Priyanka Chopra played a CIA agent who went undercover in the FBI and then she was undercover undercover and then undercover undercover in a secret organization. Or maybe I have one of the double-undercover parts wrong. Anyway, it’s a thing.”
Faroz’s lips moved a hair width from their perpetually straight line in what Layla assumed was a smile. “You are very perceptive.”
“She’s a movie and TV addict,” Sam said. “I’m amazed she has time to work.”
“I don’t watch horror. I’m easily scared.”
Sam stared at her, incredulous. “You haven’t seen The Shining?”
“No.”
“Psycho?”
“No.”
“The Exorcist? Nightmare on Elm Street? The Texas Chain Saw Massacre?—”
“What part of ‘I don’t watch horror’ did you not understand?”
“But those are classics,” Sam protested. “How can you call yourself a movie buff when you haven’t seen some of the best movies ever made?”
“Are you seriously comparing The Texas Chain Saw Massacre with Legally Blonde?”
“I saw horrors overseas that would make you scream like a girl,” Faroz said.
Sam tipped his head back and groaned. “Oh, for—”
“I am a girl.” Layla pointed out. “Actually, I’m a woman. And this woman doesn’t want to scream. She doesn’t want to puke up her lung or have to witness the worst humanity has to offer. I’m cheerful, optimistic, and upbeat, and I want to keep it that way.”
“The characters in horror films aren’t always human.” Sam mused as he stroked his bottom lip. “You’ve got your demons, evil spirits, zombies, malevolent ghosts . . . Raat was the best horror film ever made in Bollywood. If you want to feel fear, real fear, the kind that leaves you drenched in sweat—”
“I don’t sweat,” Layla snapped. “I glow. What I do want to find out is what Faroz is looking for in a wife.” She smiled at her date, trying to see through his dark-tinted glasses. “It sounds like you’re very busy leading your exciting and dangerous undercover life. Wouldn’t you be better off checking Spy Tinder to find someone who really understands your line of work and can support you in
the way a spy needs to be supported? It sounds like you need a Mr. & Mrs. Smith type of relationship, where you’re both spies pretending to live an average life.”
“I need a cover,” Faroz said. “A nice normal family. Average-looking wife. Two kids. House in the suburbs. Dog. Minivan.”
“Average-looking?” Layla huffed. “Except for a few inches and a couple of pounds, the only difference between me and Angelina Jolie, who starred in that film along with Brad Pitt, is the color of my skin. In fact, the other day someone came up to me and said, ‘Hey, Ange. Did you get a tan?’”
“You’re perfect,” Faroz said. “The CIA can stage a wedding wherever you want. If you need guests, we can hire some—”
“Can we have elephants?”
“Okay. That’s it. We’re out of here.” Sam stood abruptly, pulling Layla to her feet. “No elephants. No fake wedding. No fake CIA agent. He’s probably some IT geek from Silicon Valley who only leaves his cubicle once a year.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” Faroz held up a placatory hand. “It’s a lot to take in. I know. Few people understand the sacrifices that have to be made to protect this great country of ours.”
“Let’s go.” Sam pulled Layla behind him. “This isn’t the guy you’re looking for.”
Layla giggled. “If you’re doing the Jedi thing, you’re supposed to wave your hand in front of his face and drop your voice a little before you say that.”
Sam looked back over his shoulder. “Is there a non-horror movie you haven’t seen?”
“I can’t think of one right now, but you have to admit movies are very helpful for navigating unusual circumstances in life, like when you meet a CIA agent who is undercover as a CIA agent and wants to marry you as a cover for his spy activities. If I hadn’t seen all the James Bond movies, all the Mission: Impossibles, and all the Jason Bourne movies, I would have freaked out and caused a scene and drawn the kind of attention he is trying to avoid. Maybe they would have kidnapped me because of course a hot guy like him would have a sexy girlfriend like me and they would know he’d come to rescue me even if it meant he had to risk his life and give up state secrets to get me back.”
Sam froze. “What do you mean by ‘hot guy’?”
“I have an arsenic pellet in my tooth,” Faroz said. “I would die before I would betray my country.”
“And . . . we are out of here.”
“Wait.” Layla peered around Sam. “I’m interested to know how Faroz got into the business. I can’t imagine there are a lot of desi spies.”
“Affirmative action,” Faroz said. “I was recruited when I was nine.”
“He’s a Spy Kid,” Layla said with delight. “Those were my favorite movies growing up. Have you come across Mr. Lisp?”
“No.”
“Sebastian the Toymaker? The Timekeeper?”
“Are these fictitious characters?”
“They’re as real as you.” Sam’s tone dripped sarcasm.
Faroz stood and straightened his tie. “As real as a game to find Layla a husband so you can have her office?”
Layla froze, her breath catching in her throat. “How do you know about that?”
“Classified.”
Sam’s face hardened, his entire body going still. “I’m gonna classify your ass.”
“It was nice to finally meet you in person.” Faroz kissed Layla’s cheek. “If you change your mind, I’ll know.”
“Did you tell him about the game?” Body tense, jaw tight, Sam watched Faroz walk out the door. He was still holding her hand, and she was afraid to move in case he let go.
“No, of course not. The only person who knows is Daisy, and she wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not a stranger. What about you? Who did you tell?”
“Evan. But he’s probably forgotten by now. He’s not really interested in other people’s lives. And John, but he’s a lawyer. That vault is always locked.”
“No one else was in the office.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Do you think he bugged the phones? That would explain how he knew my drink order.”
“If I did, it would mean I believe he really is a CIA agent, and I don’t.”
“I think we should get out of here,” Layla said. “We’ve been standing here for so long, people are starting to stare, and maybe some of them are his spy friends, or worse, spy enemies. They’re thinking maybe he and I hit it off, and I’m going to marry him, and they’ll grab me at the wedding, and drive off, and my lehenga will be trailing out of the car, and I’ll be screaming Sam! Sam! Save me! It will all be very dramatic, and when it’s over, they’ll make a movie about it with Priyanka Chopra starring as me. She’ll have to gain twenty or thirty pounds, but she’ll do it because she’s a great actress and she’ll want to really get into the role.”
Sam stared at her for so long, she started to feel queasy. “Everything okay?”
“Why would you call for me to save you?” He led her out of the coffee shop. “Saving you would be Faroz’s job.”
“I don’t know.” She looked out over the bay, taking in the soft glow of the golden hour, that magical, romantic, fleeting moment between daylight and dusk when the sun began to dip below the horizon, enveloping everything in shimmering gold.
“I think it’s maybe because you made me feel safe when Faroz was flashing his gun and telling us stories about being tortured. My subconscious must have figured you were my best bet for a happy Bollywood ending.”
“You think I could protect you?”
He looked so bewildered that Layla had to laugh. “Of course I do. It’s who you are. You might be trying to kick me out of the office, but you’ve been protecting me since the day we met.”
• 11 •
“SO what do people do after they’ve escaped from the CIA?” Layla asked as they stepped out onto the street.
“I don’t think many people do escape.” Certainly, Sam didn’t want to escape now. Unsettled by Faroz’s knowledge of something that they had shared only with their closest friends, he was almost overwhelmed with the urge to protect her and keep her close.
“The pier looks beautiful at night.” Layla looked over the bay toward the city, the lights twinkling in the darkness. “Very romantic.”
“I thought you’d given up on love and romance.” He stood beside her, acutely aware of her body so close to his.
“I still believe in them. They just aren’t for me.”
Sam’s stomach tightened. It felt wrong that someone as funny and warm and vibrant as Layla would resign herself to a life without love. “Maybe love will come later. My parents had an arranged marriage and it happened for them, in a fashion.” His parents weren’t soul mates in any sense of the word, but there was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other.
“Mine, too. And for Dev and Rhea.” She sighed. “It’s almost like Dev took that away from me when he died. I can’t even contemplate being close to someone because I just can’t lose someone I love again. I almost didn’t make it the first time. If I hadn’t moved to New York, I might have sexed myself to death.”
Who were the losers who had taken advantage of a grieving woman? Sam’s protective instinct flared, and he had to bite back the demand for their names. Confused by his feelings, he stepped away. “Where did you park? I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I’m on the other side of Justin Herman Plaza. I was at a marketing and branding workshop at the Women’s Business Center this afternoon. They gave me some great ideas.” She talked about the seminar as they walked down the sidewalk, dodging tourists and dog walkers, joggers and couples out for an evening stroll.
“Which way?” He stopped at the intersection.
“Let’s walk past the Vaillancourt Fountain. Maybe they’ve turned it on and I can dance in it like Anita Ekberg did in La Dolce Vita, in one of the most romantic moments in film history.”
> Sam had no interest in old films, but the idea of Layla splashing in the fountain held considerable appeal. “There’s nothing romantic about dancing around a rusted pile of steel and concrete,” he said as they veered in the direction of the square.
“Is that all you see when you look at the sculpture?” she asked. “I used to imagine it was a waterslide and I could ride down the chutes. Even with the water turned off, I still feel the magic.”
“I look at that pile of rusty pipes and harsh angles and see it as a metaphor for life.” A crowd of tourists lumbered toward them, and he placed a hand on her lower back to guide her away. Her skin was warm beneath her shirt, her back a graceful curve beneath his palm.
They walked in easy silence across the square, stopping at the edge of the dry fountain.
“Time to open your eyes, Sam. There’s beauty in the most hidden places.”
Sam stared at the massive forty-foot concrete tangle of square pipes illuminated by a few perimeter lights. “It looks even worse than I remember.”
“Stay right there.” Layla dodged a late-night skateboarder and jumped down into the dry concrete basin.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to dance.”
He glanced quickly from side to side. There were a few people taking pictures, a couple seated along the edge, and the skateboarders were practicing their jumps in the square.
“There’s no water.”
“I’ll imagine it.” She twirled around in front of the gaping maw of a concrete tube. “Do you know the song ‘Dard-e-Disco’ from Om Shanti Om?”
“Am I brown?” Om Shanti Om was one of the classic Bollywood films. He’d been forced to watch it countless times. His mother never cooked without a Bollywood film playing on the TV in her kitchen, and the songs from each one were burned into his brain.
“Look it up and play it for me. I’m going to teach you the dance.” She posed for him as he joined her in the fountain, searching his phone for the music.