Marry Me Now: An Arranged Marriage Collection

He has to be, what, 6’4”, 6’5”? And all lean muscle, too. Not body-builder huge, but the sort of guy who could unexpectedly lift you single-handedly and drag you in a fireman’s carry to the nearest bed. With those sharp biceps of his, the cut jawline and razor cheekbones over his perfect bow lips, I could imagine a thing or two to do in bed with him.

Just then, as though sensing my gaze—or maybe the receptionist’s—he turns. I catch a glimpse of dark, sharp eyes. The kind of eyes that could pin you in place with one glance, while he went to work spreading your legs open, bending you over a desk…

My cheeks go hot, and I whip around. Somewhere behind me, I catch a distant shout, and then a door slams. Only then does the receptionist tear her eyes away, back to me. She smiles once, apologetically.

“Just spying on the family drama,” she says with a laugh and a little flutter of a sigh that doesn’t convince me. Sure. Drama. That’s why you were eying Mr. Hunky over there like a fresh cut of steak. “That’s Mr. Quint and his son, Jasper,” she clarifies, in response to my blank stare.

Oh. My eyes widen. That’s why the older man looked familiar. Antoine Quint—I’ve seen his photo in about a thousand magazines, usually in those Magnate of the Year type features, but occasionally in the Rich Older Men (And Their Hot Wives) type categories too.

With a father like that, and a mother like the bombshell I’ve seen pictured on Antoine’s arm at red carpet photo shoots, it’s no wonder his son—Jasper, was it?—is so distracting to the poor receptionists around here.

“What did you need, again?” the receptionist is staring at me.

I flush once more. “Oh. Ah. Internship. I’m here for. I mean, that’s me.” Damn. Now I’ve gone and caught fluster from ogling the owner’s son. I clear my throat. “Could you point me toward where the new interns should head?”

Now it’s the receptionist’s turn to give me a sarcastic, knowing smirk. “Sure thing. Let me just get you checked in.” She taps on her computer keyboard. “Name?”

“Dee Smith.”

She hums under her breath to herself, and then a little puzzled crease appears on her forehead. “I see a Deeandra Smith?”

My blush, if possible, worsens. “Ah, yes. That’s my legal name. Would it be possible to change it to Dee in the system? I sort of hate the full thing.”

“It is pretty bad,” she agrees with a laugh, which only makes my body feel hotter. More out of place.

“My father’s suggestion,” I say, because for some reason, suddenly, I feel the need to defend my mother. To who? To this random receptionist? I clear my throat. “Anyway. Thanks for that. Um, where do I go?”

“Straight down the hall on your right. Greg Park’s office.”

“Oh.” My forehead creases. “I thought orientation would be with the whole group of us?” I’ve been in Greg’s office—it’s where I interviewed, my first and only time in this building, almost a month ago now. And I’d heard there were three or four dozen other interns starting the program at the same time.

“It will be,” she says, “But Greg put a flag in the system and asked me to send you to his office first.”

“Oh.” My stomach flips over. Suddenly, my excitement is turning into something more painful. Bees stinging at my innards in panic. “Is everything all right?” I can’t lose this job. Not before I’ve even started it.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” She offers me a big smile, and then turns to greet someone behind me. “Hi, checking in?” When I don’t move, she flashes me another smile, more pointed this time. “You’re free to go ahead, Deeandra.”

Great. So I managed to piss off the receptionist already, and I’ve only been inside the building for about five minutes. “Thanks so much,” I call over my shoulder, striding away with one last pained look at the new girl who just entered, another intern, who’s not being directed to the interviewer’s private office before what was supposed to be our orientation.

My stomach sinks further.

Keep it together, Dee. This will be fine. I’m sure it’s just about some little thing, maybe paperwork I forgot to send in.

I reach Greg’s door and knock lightly. The door is open a crack, but I don’t want to just go barging straight in. After a moment, a voice inside the office clears his throat. “Come in.”

I suck in a deep breath, pray to anyone up there who might be listening, and shove the door open to step inside. Just like last time, I have to carefully squeeze in between the one visitor’s chair and the door. Unlike last time, there are heaps more paperwork spilling across the desk. Behind said desk, Greg looks a lot more haggard than the last time I saw him. He has huge bags under his eyes, and his hair is a mess—not the cute on-purpose messy, either.

“Hi,” I say with a bright smile. “Is everything all right? I’m Dee,” I add, when he stares at me in confusion. “Front desk said to stop here before orientation.”

“Dee, Dee… Oh, Deeandra!” His face brightens. He lifts one of the stacks of paper and slides something out from beneath. This very nearly causes an avalanche, and I leap forward to grab the topmost stack for him, and hold it in place while he slides the file out.

On the front of the file, I spot my own name in big block letters.

I force myself to keep breathing, taking deep, slow breaths, as I lower myself into the chair across from him. This will be fine, I reassure myself. It’s nothing.

“So. Dee, is it?” Greg smiles at me, a little less flustered now. Then he laughs. “That’s right, you told me this in the interview. I’m sorry, I’ve been such a space cadet. I remember you now.” His gaze drops to my dress, and his head tilts to one side. For a second, he looks almost calculating.

Damn. Does he recognize this dress, too?

I swallow around a lump in my throat. “So, you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes. I was looking over your résumé, and I just had a couple of questions I wanted to clarify, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Smile, Dee. Smile through the panic. “Fire away,” I say, and follow it up with an awkwardly loud laugh. Did I mention I’m great at lying?

“Where did you go to school again?”

“Gerold College. It’s um, it’s an online college—I only got an associate’s, it should say on there…”

“Yes, it does.” He tilts his head to peer up at me. “Aced all your courses, though. Why didn’t you go for a higher degree? Seems like you’re smart.”

My cheeks flush. I’m going to turn into a tomato at this rate. “Uh… I couldn’t really… afford it,” I finish the sentence in a mumble. “But I’m planning on going back. As soon as I get enough credits—which is where I figured this internship would come in handy. I want to get a BA in business, see, and with an associate’s and some experience under my wing, I might be able to—”

“Where did you grow up?” he speaks over me.

“Oh, right around here.” I perk up at this easier question. “Down on Mercy Street, near St. Martha’s.”

He frowns. I realize I’ve put my foot in it again. Because, of course, a guy like him, working for a company like this, hears St. Martha’s, and all he thinks is… “You mean by the squats?”

“It’s not… I mean, okay, it used to be a pretty bad area. But it’s gotten a lot better in recent years. And, I mean, the community itself is really great, really supportive—”

“Dee,” he says.

I snap my mouth shut. Here it comes. He’s going to fire me. Tell me thanks but no thanks, you aren’t who I thought you were. You of the used dress and the associate’s degree where everyone else has a BA. You, girl from the wrong side of the tracks, who thinks she can flounce over here into the real world unopposed.

I ball my fists, dig my nails into my palms to prepare myself for it.

But, “This isn’t an interrogation,” is all he says, and I blink in surprise.

“Sorry, I guess I’m just confused…” I press my lips together. “We already interviewed, so

I thought we’d covered all this, what is—”