A Punjabi wedding meant three things: alcohol, bhangra, and lots of matchmaking. Ajay didn’t mind the first two, but the third was the reason the last thirty-six hours of his life had been the most miserable he’d had to endure since the last wedding he’d attended with his family. Four events meant four separate opportunities for his mother and her friends to try to force single women on him.

He’d danced with a surgeon who was as interested in him as he was in her, been encouraged to sit and eat with a grad student searching for internship opportunities, and talked to an engineer his brother Zail had dated the year before. Ajay’s patience had come to an end.

Since taking over as COO, his lack of time had limited his relationships to mutually satisfying sex and the occasional business dinner. His partners knew that he wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment, and they weren’t looking for them, either.

Raj would understand that kind of laser focus on work, he thought as he sipped his whiskey in a shadowed corner. She would know the odds and demand nothing more or less than what either of them had to give. The only problem was that after her little business meeting at the beginning of the week, she was now a potential investment. In his line of work, that meant hands off . . . for now. He couldn’t help flirting with her via text, but that was going to have to stop, too.

He surveyed Uncle Frankie’s ballroom, which took up the first floor of his Long Island family estate, hoping he’d get a glimpse of the woman who’d occupied his brain space during the week. The terrace doors were open to a cool, breezy night, while the front entrance, flanked by marble statues of Lord Ganesh, welcomed a steady stream of late arrivals. The round tables bracketing both sides of the makeshift dance floor were blanketed with ice-blue tablecloths, and crystal vases overflowed with indigo-colored flowers. A DJ pumped out the heavy bass beats of current Punjabi music and Bollywood songs while a few people took advantage of the open dance floor. Waitstaff in crisp-collared shirts and black vests lingered in the crowd with the last of the fusion food appetizers.

Ajay grabbed a samosa pinwheel from a passing tray and popped it into his mouth.

“Still eating?” Zail asked as he sidled next to him. “After the mehendi event on Thursday night, then the Indian American Idol party—”

“The sangeet.”

“They had a professional sound system and lights, Ajay. That wasn’t a normal sangeet with old ladies singing folk songs. Anyway, after the mehendi, the sangeet, and today’s lunch with silver thaali plates toppling with food, I can’t find any room to eat.”