Page 34 of To Tango, with Desire

“We’re so proud of you.”

Huh. “You are?”

I had spent the past two weeks at the store, unpacking boxes and arranging fabrics. Dad had called in a few favors from friends to help fit in some shelves in the back room. I had my sewing machine and serger set up, material unpacked, and my tools stored in drawers.

I was working long hours, but it was work that I was eager to do. Work that I loved. The feeling of falling into bed every night, utterly exhausted was bliss.

I didn’t need a man or a relationship to fulfill me. Even my parents were in better moods. When I had come clean about the mixer being a flop, they’d been disappointed. I’d half-expected a barrage of suitors at our door, but the past week had been oddly calm. I was no longer getting snarky comments about how I needed to find a husband, or that my life was ruined because I was focusing on my job. I could only hope that they could see how happy my business made me and had decided to finally back off with all this marriage talk.

Even Zane had left me alone. I hadn’t been to any milongas and he’d not come back to visit. Perhaps what I’d said had gotten through to him. Maybe he’d even found his bride and was on his way to the altar at this very minute.

My stomach jolted. I shoved aside the image of Zane in a tux, refusing to let thoughts of that man dampen my good mood.

I had a consult this afternoon with Isabella Diaz, going through my vision for the top floor of my store. She was a brilliant interior designer, and because she was Tilda’s friend, she was happy to offer a discount. I’d save up my money and when I had enough for the renovation, I would finally move out. Just thinking about it left me giddy.

I had once longed for an Art Deco apartment in the city, but my own little bachelorette pad above my shop was going to be way cooler.

Dad hugged me, giving me two kisses on either cheek. “This the happiest day of my life, Amira.” He held my hands, his eyes suddenly misty.

What the hell? My dad rarely cried.

“You’re finally getting the surgery?”

“Wha— No, Amira. What you talking about?”

“I’m confused. You’re happy about my business?”

When I’d told them about securing the lease and my grand plans, my mother had cried. My father had simply shaken his head and said, “Make babies, not dresses.”

I was missing something.

“I know all about your business. Your business of marriage!”

I sighed, walking into the living room. “Dad, not—”

I froze. Sitting in our front room was the last man on earth I expected to find.

“Zane?”

He stood and a look of something akin to guilt flashed across his handsome face.

What the hell was he doing in my parents’ house? And why the hell was my dad talking about marriage?

“Amira.”

Oh no.

“What do you want?”

Oh, sweet Jesus, please.

No. No. No. No. No.

“Amira,” my mother admonished. “Is that any way to talk to your fiancé?”

“My what?” I gaped at them both, certain I’d had an aneurysm. They were brought on by stress, right? Well, my blood pressure just went through the damn roof.

Dad stood beside me, gesturing to the devil in the designer suit. “You should have told us you were dating a good Lebanese boy. Amira, our prayers have been answered! Zane has asked for your hand in marriage. And we have agreed.”