Marry Me Now: An Arranged Marriage Collection

There must be at least 200 million dollars’ worth of vehicles in this one room alone.

We’re on the lower level now, beneath the manufacturing plant we just toured, and the artists’ design rooms above that. My arm is still looped through Jasper’s, in case anyone stumbles across us on this tour and sees us. But I have to admit, as we’ve paced through the building, I’ve gotten more and more used to having his arm against mine, his muscles brushing my arm with every step we take, and the warm, heady scent of him filling my senses. Flooding me, overwhelming me.

“We don’t use it much anymore,” he’s saying. “Most buyers come to one of our storefront locations to check out the merchandise. But occasionally we get wholesale buyers looking for a tour, or some of our more elite customers, the ones who don’t wish to be seen anywhere public.”

“Like who?” I ask, though truth be told, I’m more interested in the cars themselves. I spot an ’88 Phoenix, a brand new Vine, a couple Cougars that would give race car drivers a run for their money, given how the engines are built.

“Couldn’t say. It’d be breaking the sacred auto customer-seller code.”

I shoot him a side-eye. “What are you, a doctor now?”

“We provide a service. An important one. We’re giving people dreams, here.”

I snort with laughter. Though as we pass the latest Cougar, I run a hand along the bright cherry red finish of its hood. “Dreams of modded V-8 Dynamo engines?” I say, still smirking. “Or just dreams of being the boy in the yard—or on the racetrack in this case—with the newest and coolest toy?”

Jasper tilts his head to one side. Whenever he does that, a shock of his dark hair falls across one eyebrow, and makes him look way too damn distracting for his own good. “A little bit of both,” he says, studying me.

My cheeks flush, and I look away. “What?” I snap.

He shrugs. The movement makes his arm brush mine again, tantalizingly distracting. “You just surprise me, that’s all,” he says. “I didn’t think you really knew your stuff.”

I bristle. “I told you I’m here for the cars.”

“Right, right. Not the wedding bells. Message received. Still, I’ve never met a girl who could actually talk shop the way you do.”

“No other women work here?” I side-eye him, voice laced with sarcasm.

“Okay, point. But most of the other women working here who I’ve spoken to have been far more interested in… well, getting under my hood than under any vehicle’s.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe you should try talking to the girls who aren’t drooling over you, then. It could be healthy for you. Having females in your life who don’t fawn over everything you do.”

“People don’t fawn over me,” he protests. “They just show an adequate level of appreciation for what I bring to the table.”

“What, a hot body and not much else?” I mean it to be an insult. Instead, he grins.

“So you do think I’m hot.”

“I never…” I groan. “That’s not what I meant. Don’t you care about the non-superficial stuff?”

“Like my shiny race cars?” He laughs. “Of course I do. I also care about making money from those shiny race cars, and producing good products so that other people will also appreciate our shiny race cars. I’m not the shallow monster you seem to think I am.”

“You aren’t exactly convincing me otherwise.” I don’t know when it happened, but we’ve stopped walking now. We’re face-to-face, and I stare up at him, breath catching in my throat at his sudden proximity. He’s staring down at me, searching, those dark eyes boring into mine as he looks for… what, exactly? An apology? I won’t give him one. I square my shoulders.

The motion seems to distract him. Tear his mind back to the present moment. He shakes his head and steps away, gesturing to me. “Let’s go for a drive.”

In spite of myself, my heart skips. “Really?”

“I’ll even let you have the wheel. You claim to be such a car lover. Let’s see how well you drive on a test track.”

My jaw drops. This day just keeps getting stranger and stranger. Swinging back and forth from crazy propositions to annoying new bosses I’m supposed to pretend to be marrying, to my dream event suddenly crashing in my lap. I’ve always wanted to drive a race car on a closed test track. To really find out how fast I can go, and how hard I can push a car.

“You mean it?”

“God, you look like Christmas just came early.” He laughs. “I’ve never met anyone as hot for cars as I am.” He tilts his head, considering me. “All right, little Ms. Smith. Let’s put you through the paces, and see how well you can handle a real stick shift.” He smirks, inviting a comment, but I don’t take the bait.

I’ll show you how well, I think. And now it’s my turn to be the one smirking.

I floor the gas pedal. We fly toward the distant side of the track, and my heart pounds in my ears, my heart leaping into my throat.

I feel… alive.

“Whoa there,” Jasper says from the passenger side of the car, but there’s laughter in his tone. “You’re almost as reckless as me.”

“Almost?” I counter, a single eyebrow raised, as the first turn approaches. Then I cut the wheel hard and skid into the turn. For a second, the tires slide under us—holy shit. I’m actually drifting. I’ve never been able to drive fast enough to try this move before, and I’ve always wanted to. I let out a shout of sheer joy, and hear Jasper joining me.

Then we skid a little too far, and I grab for the gear shift, scrambling to get us back under control. For a second, Jasper’s hand closes around mine on the shift. He locks eyes with me, and gears it into a lower gear, at the exact same instant that I hit the clutch. We transition together, smooth as ice, and then I’m back on the straightaway, and he lets go of my hand, and leaves behind a rush of tingles all along my arm.

Half a minute later, I pull up to the finish line, beaming like an idiot, and spin to face him. “So? Am I as reckless as you or more?” I ask, grinning.

But Jasper’s expression has shifted from lighthearted to something serious, penetrating. “I’m tempted to say more,” he replies, voice low and husky, “But quite frankly, I didn’t think that was possible.”

He’s looking at me like he’s never seen anything like me before. Like I’m suddenly, unexpectedly, the most fascinating person in the room. And then he’s leaning closer, and I find myself mirroring him, unable to tear my eyes from his, those dark, deep pools that latch onto me, seem to peer straight through me into my soul.

“Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?” he asks, eyebrows lifted.

“Oh, you know.” I shrug one shoulder, try for a smile. “Grew up racing my dad out in the back country roads by our old farm.” Where did that come from? I haven’t thought about those days in years. I’m not sure I ever even put together the connection between my love of cars and those distant memories, me a little ten-year-old with legs too short to even reach the pedals, and Dad strapping some pedal extenders he jerry-rigged onto his old Jeep so I could reach enough to bump over the dirt paths to the fields he used to keep.

We moved away from the farm when he got sick, headed into the city, where we stayed after he died. My chest aches with the memory.

But Jasper is right here with me, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, his gaze intent on mine. “So you were close with your family?”

“Oh, yeah. Family means everything,” I reply without thinking about it.

Jasper’s hand lingers on my cheek, hot against my skin. My eyes are back on his again. He grins, and finally drops his hand, turning to face front. “Do you want to go again?”

My face, still flushed red from his touch, and the close encounter, lights up. “Oh hell yes.”

He laughs. “Have at it.”