Mr. & Mrs.: An Arranged Marriage Romance

“Guess you like it, huh?”

“Like it? I love it!”

I can’t contain my excitement. The entire north facing wall is covered with tinted windows. A claw foot tub sits in one corner encased with shelves that have drawers on each end and a single step leading into the tub. A rain shower stall is off to the other side.

“It would be wonderful to soak in there with a storm raging outside,” I mumble, half hoping we get a storm soon.

Jordan’s arms wrap around me from behind as he pulls me from the room. “I had some stuff brought over for you from your old apartment.” He seems hesitant as I turn. “Just things I thought you might need when we got home. I figure we can go over there, and you can decide what you want to keep and what can be donated later.”

I can’t even begin to explain how much this man means to me at the moment.

I view a box full of all my keepsakes on a shelf in the closet. Walking over to it, I open the lid and tell him, “Everything else can be donated; I only wanted this.”

Moving over to me, Jordan looks inside, and what he sees is likely just a bunch of crap. Nothing worth anything at all. But to me, it’s my life.

“My first hockey ticket stub. I saved for three months to go to that game. I was eleven. We lost, but it was amazing.” Pulling out the trading card I had stashed with it, I smiled. “Alexander Ovechkin signed this for me after the Capitals’ game. I waited for hours to see someone. His accent was so thick I almost didn’t understand him.”

“Hockey fan, are you?”

“Oh, good gawd, no. I didn’t even know who he was until I went home and looked him up. My father got tickets to a game and took some other kid on the block because he was a boy. I wanted to see what the fuss was about and prove to my father that I could do things with him, too.”

“And did he after that?”

“I was grounded for two months for going.”

Jordan shakes his head before grabbing out a ticket stub for my first concert. “Backstreet Boys for their comeback tour in 2005. It was a blast.”

“Boy bands? Really?”

Shrugging, I pull out a photo of Taylor Swift and me in 2009. I took the train to Columbia when she was doing signings for her new release before a concert. “I was alone, and they weren’t allowing pictures, she snuck one in with me.”

“You were quite the rebel, weren’t you?” He laughs.

“I wasn’t real popular ‘cause my parents were always saying no to everything, so people stopped trying to make friends with me. It was my way of getting back at them, I guess.” When Jordan begins to speak, probably to express sympathy or anger for my upbringing, I interrupt him. “Are you going in to work tomorrow?”

“Yes, I took the whole week off even though I told everyone it would merely be the weekend. It’ll only be for a couple of hours, though. I need to get a few things organized so I can start delegating better. I don’t want to be a workaholic any longer than necessary.”

“I see.”

“Sit.” He brings me over to the bed. “I need to tell you something else.”

“Oh boy.” I can’t help the sarcasm.

“For about six years, I’ve had the same assistant. She’s been efficient in doing her job and making sure my schedule is tight.”

“Oookay.” I don’t understand why he’s telling me this.

“She has also made it clear that she’d be happy to warm my bed at night.”

Standing up, I’m not sure I want to hear any more. “And did she?”

“Not even once. I didn’t feel the same way. I’ve always been leery of women because of my money. I don’t trust easily, Megan.” He pauses to let me process. “That first morning after we got to Bora Bora, I sent an email to human resources asking to have her moved to another department by the time I got back. I told them I wouldn’t be needing her services, but she was still valuable to the company.” Relief floods me. “I also told them to find me a male assistant to avoid this conflict in the future.”

Crawling into his lap, I murmur against his lips. “Thank you.”

His hands roam my back under my shirt, massaging the tense muscles in my shoulders. “Don’t thank me yet. She emailed me the following day with threats of sexual harassment. And if I know anything about assholes like that, I have a feeling she’s going to try and harass you as well.”

“What, why?”