Marry Me Now: An Arranged Marriage Collection

By the time we’re supposed to be making dinner, we’ve already lost track of the time and wound up in the shower, getting not so very clean after all. I finger her against the glass door of the shower, her breasts pressed flat against the pane, both of us savoring the view in the mirror on the other side as she climaxes hard, coming all over my fingers, and then when she grabs them to lick them clean, I lose my train of thought all over again.

It’s like this every night. Every night we find something new to explore with one another. Every night we throw caution and all our well-laid plans to the wind—but I don’t even mind, I love this so much. Being with her, pleasuring her, getting to know every little gasp and sigh. And every little corner of her mind, too, as we chat in the time between, lolling around the bed or the couch or the floor or wherever we wind up.

But later that night, after another failed attempt at cooking, another pizza delivery, and one last roll through my sheets, as I lie there in the dark, propped up on one elbow watching her drift off to sleep, her eyelids fluttering with the beginning of some dream… In that moment, after the excitement of the evening fades, all the worries of the day come creeping back in.

What if this trip goes exactly as it was supposed to go? What if my family drives a wedge between us, and she sees through my façade to exactly who I am—the kind of guy who would hire a wife in order to piss off his father. The kind of person who’d put her in an uncomfortable, awkward situation just because I thought Dad would definitely assume she’s a gold-digger.

The kind of person who underestimated her. Just like everybody else is doing now.

I’ve learned my lesson, but what happens if she finds out how blind I was going into this?

10

Dee

Well. This is it.

Today I leave the good old U.S. of A. for the first time in my life. I have a passport, luckily, because Mom had always dreamed about taking me overseas to Europe. She passed before that ever happened, and the passport sat in the back of my drawer, unused, unremembered. Until this job. Until this opportunity popped up.

Until I signed up for this crazy arrangement.

Now I’m rolling up to the airport with a probably way over packed suitcase—I had no idea what I’d need to wear, so I think I wound up throwing half of my closet into this bag—with a rock the size of a gumball on my left ring finger, and striding right up to the hottest guy in line for check-in.

“Hey there handsome,” I greet Jasper with a smile.

He leans down to kiss me, long and slow, but there’s something tense about his posture. Constrained. Like he’s holding back.

“Everything okay?” I ask. I glance around surreptitiously, but I don’t spy Mr. Quint Sr. anywhere in sight. Or anyone who looks like they might be related to Jasper, for that matter. I’ve only seen Mr. Quint from afar, and only once in the lobby of the office when I stopped in on my first day. As for the rest of the family, they’re a complete mystery to me. Would I recognize his mother if I saw her? Does Jasper take after her or his father in the looks department?

But it appears to be just us on this flight, since Jasper just smiles and guides me forward in the line. “Fine. I’m just not looking forward to this jet lag, that’s all.”

“How rough is it going to be?” I bite my lower lip, suddenly concerned. I’ve never flown this far. The farthest I’ve flown in a plane is up to Seattle to visit some friends, and even that only a few times.

“You’ll be fine.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me once, reassuring. “I’m just being a whiner. We’re in business class, after all, with fully reclining seats.”

My eyes go wide. “That’s a thing?”

He bursts into laughter. “Oh God. Wait until we get to the champagne and the dinner with linen and cutlery, too.”

I narrow my eyes, pretending to be suspicious. “Are you rich or something, Mr. Quint?”

He snorts. “It’s still the same disappointing plane food everyone else eats, I assure you, Ms. Smith. But don’t worry. I’ve got a lounge pass, so we can stop there before we get on the plane.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh and roll my eyes. “So you were saying about not being rich?”

He grins, then turns to hand both of our passports to the airline agent. All the way through security, I trail after him, watching a series of doors open, one after the other. First they let us skip the security line, then they take us into a lounge, which is full of free alcohol, snacks that look better than half the restaurants I normally frequent, and bored-looking business types lounging around ignoring both of these things.

“You’d think all these people would want to take advantage of this delicious… Oh God is that a cheese plate?” I attack the buffet with gusto, which makes Jasper laugh and follow after to pour us both drinks.

“Is champagne really a good idea on a plane? I mean… don’t you get drunker at altitude, or something?” I squint at the glasses he brings over to our table, which I have positively heaped with food.

“That just adds to the fun,” he tells me with a smirk, and then he pauses to stare at the table between us. “You know we’re going on a plane ride, not a weeklong safari through a jungle, right?”

“I can’t help it, this is my reaction around free food. Call it an instinctual future college student behavior.” I shrug one shoulder, wink, then pop a tart into my mouth. Or at least, I think it’s a tart. It turns out instead to be some kind of fish paste flavored item, which makes me immediately grimace and spit it into my napkin.

Jasper watches me, torn between laughter and disgust. “The apple of my eye, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I’m sure your folks will positively love me. I’ll be sure to put on my best behavior at dinner—do you think there will be a buffet at the resort I can attack too?” I’m joking, but I see a flash of something in his eyes. Is that worry? I tilt my head, lean closer. “I’m joking, Jasper.”

“I’m aware. You do have a pretty obvious tell when you’re being sarcastic.” He tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow. “The way you always stare at me right after like you’re waiting for audience laughter at the punch line.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, there was no laughter forthcoming, so I figured I’d better check that you noticed the staring. Jasper, look, you’ve been quiet all day. Are you really not going to tell me what’s bugging you? I mean… If it’s about the reunion and everything… I get it. I’m a little worried too.” I laugh, trying to get him to join me.

He doesn’t.

“I mean, it’s definitely going to be weird. But is it strange that I sort of want them to like me, even though I’m just the fake wife?” I tilt my head, try to keep things lighthearted, playful. “That’s probably weird, right?”

“No,” he says, his voice low and serious. Not at all playful. Not even a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s not weird. I hope they like you too.” But the way he says it, like that, deadpan, it makes it sound like he hopes just the opposite. Like he’s being sarcastic.

My stomach flips, and I sit back in my chair, unsure of myself now. “What’s Greece like?” I ask to ease the tension—mostly for myself. I don’t want to think too long or hard about what it means

that he’s nervous right now. Or what we’re about to face together.

“Beautiful. The weather’s gorgeous this time of year. And the food blows all this away.” He gestures at my spread of snacks with a hint of a smile again. “You’ll love it.” He says it with confidence, and I believe him. I know it’s only been a month now—only a month since we agreed on this crazy plan, somehow it feels both so much longer and like so little time has passed—but he does know me. When we go out for dinner, I never have to kick him for trying to order for us both, because he’s already guessed what I want off the menu and checked with me first. And the couple times we’ve caught movies on TV, usually at his place after another late-night love-making session that’s left us both way too awake to sleep, but way too tired to do anything but watch a screen, he always picks the cheesy rom-coms that I would’ve chosen.

He gets me, somehow. And I think I get him, usually. Except like today, when he’s in these wistful moods, like he’s nostalgic for something that isn’t even over yet.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “So what was our wedding like?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Hmm?”

“We eloped, right, that’s our story?” Yesterday, before we parted ways to go and pack our bags for departure this morning, he handed me a slim wedding band. He slid a matching titanium one on his own ring finger, which I have to admit, I stole admiring peeks as he did. There’s something hot about seeing it on him; that thin little reminder that, for now at least, he’s mine and mine alone.

My husband, in name if not deed.

“It is.” He’s nodding.

“So, I think we need a story. Justice of the peace, or…?”

“Mm.” He scratches his chin. “Does that make a good enough story for the grandkids, though?”

I laugh. “Okay, how about this. We hired one of those online minister people—”