Page 11 of To Tango, with Desire

“No!” Hasan shook his head again. “It is wrong for single woman to leave her parents’ house unmarried. Nasrin,” he implored, “tell your daughter.”

“Ah, now she’s my daughter? Only my daughter when you have headache, ah?”

“Saved by the baby,” I muttered as Sahar, my older sister, came in with her eighteen-month-old on her hip. My sister and her two boys were visiting from Sydney for a week, and I’d been grateful for the distraction.

Even though we were total opposites, we were close. Sahar had wanted kids, marriage, the big fat middle eastern wedding for as long as I could remember. And because of it, she had the benefit of being the golden child, the dutiful daughter. She was married, with two kids and a third on the way. And she had no plans of stopping either. Apparently, only a football-team-sized family would do. Not that her Italian husband minded one bit.

“Here, let me take him.” I bounced Leo on my lap, laughing when he gave me a cheeky smile.

“See? Amira’s good with babies.”

Sahar rubbed her small baby bump. “Give it a rest, Dad. You know she’s stubborn. We’ve all tried, but she won’t budge. I even set her up with a guy Marco knew from work, but that was a flop.”

I blew a raspberry, making my nephew giggle. “The man was self-absorbed and that’s putting it politely. He didn’t ask me one question about myself. He was too busy fixing his hair in the window to care much either.”

Just then, Sahar’s four-year-old, Robert, ran in with his toy truck. I hoped that the presence of grandkids would distract my parents. But it only seemed to heighten my husband-less plight even more. I was the only one of my siblings left living at home, which meant I had no buffer. It was driving me crazy.

“What happened to that plumber guy you met at speed dating?”

“The builder, Tom?”

Sahar snatched the toy car out of Robert’s hand before he smashed it against his baby brother’s head. “Gentle hands, Robbie. And yes, the builder.”

“I dunno.” I bounced Leo on my lap, recalling the blond-haired hottie and his startling blue eyes. He was gorgeous, no doubt about it, but we just hadn’t clicked.

“Well, if you don’t watch out,” Sahar murmured, “Mom and Dad are gonna find you a husband and you’re not going to like that lineup of all-stars.”

I clutched my sister’s arm. I knew that smug look; Sahar knew something.

“What?” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

“Sahar, I mean it.” I leaned closer, my voice tight. “Tell me or I’ll tell baba how your sweet son scratched his beloved collection of football DVDs.”

Her cheeks reddened as she glanced at Robbie, who sat happily ripping up bits of a tissue on baba’s lap. “I was going to tell him . . . eventually.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, fine. You might want to make yourself scarce this weekend.”

“What? Why? Sahar, don’t you forget, I helped smooth things over when you brought your Italian boyfriend home for approval.”

“That Italian boyfriend is my husband now, so it means nothing.”

“And if you want to live to see him when you fly home, you’ll spill.”

“Geez, you’re bossy. No wonder you can’t find a husband.”

“I. Don’t. Want. One,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

Sahar rolled her light blue eyes and spared my parents a quick glance before confessing, “They’ve invited some guy over this weekend to meet you.”

“Oh god.”

“A friend of dad’s soccer buddy apparently. I overheard them talking about it on the weekend when you were out partying. He’s a dentist, Lebanese of course, and looking for a good little woman to be his wife.”

“Ew.”