by Nia Arthurs
His eyes soften.
“You?” I point.
He shrugs.
I nod.
There’s an instant camaraderie between us.
It’s not romantic, I don’t think.
He’s not exactly my type.
He’s lean. Rough-looking.
Not ugly.
Just… earthy. Like he doesn’t quite give a damn what people think about him.
His red hair, thicker on top and shaved on the sides, has golden highlights. I’m guessing that’s sun-streaked rather than applied in a salon. He doesn’t strike me as the salon type—not with his beard, simple thermal and khakis.
I could be wrong though.
Who says scraggly-bearded mountain men can’t enjoy a nice spa day?
I lean over and whisper, “I bet he’ll ghost her after their second date.”
“You think?” His words are crisp. Carefully enunciated. “I bet she’ll claim it was fate that they met and tie him down to marriage.”
“Harsh.”
“Your guess wasn’t exactly optimistic either.”
“Touché.”
His smirk is barely there. Deep lines form along his lips with the movement, but I still get the impression that he doesn’t smile much.
“Elizabeth.” I offer my hand.
He starts to reach out. Stops. Hesitates. “Brogan.”
I let my arm drop softly to the counter. It’s weird that he doesn’t want to shake my hand, but I’m sure he has his reasons. “Brogan.” I test the name on my tongue. “Is that Scottish?”
“Irish and, before you ask, it has nothing to do with my heritage. Brogan was the name of the street my mother happened to be on when she went into labor.”
“Your parents must have been cool.”
“They were hippies.”
“My point stands.”
He chuckles. It’s restrained. Rusty. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s not used to laughing anymore.
“I like your name.” I wink. “It suits you.”
“I appreciate that.”
I unhook my heels from the rung of the stool and try to set them on the ground, but I lose my balance halfway and start to teeter forward.
Brogan grabs my upper arm and steadies me. I catch a glimpse of his hand. They’re reddish-purple. Almost like someone spilled wine over the back of them and it left a permanent mark.
Pretending I didn’t see it, I jerk my eyes back to his and smile. “Thanks. I swear I didn’t ask them to spike my milkshake.”
This time, he doesn’t even try to smile.
There’s something in his eyes. A fresh guardedness.
It’s soul-deep.
It’s pained.
He knows I saw his hands.
My heart hurts for him.
Whoever he is.
And whatever he’s been through.
Even though it’s clear we both have rather… unflattering opinions about love and attraction, I hope he’ll be proven wrong.
“It was nice meeting you, Brogan.”
“You too, Elizabeth,” he says.
As I leave the café, my phone rings.
I groan when I see Novah’s beautifully plump face filling my screen.
My cousin inherited the Thompson ‘blow-up’ genes and the weight has been persistent despite all her dieting. I, on the other hand, got my dad’s genes. Which means I’m skinny as a stick. With twice the personality.
Novah constantly bemoans the fact that I can still fit into the clothes I owned at thirteen.
I constantly bemoan the fact that my body froze at the very earliest stages of boob development.
“What do you want, Novah?”
“Are you at the office?”
“No.”
“I need you.”
“I’m busy.”
“They said you were taking some personal time.”
Dang. I need to get Riley, the office secretary, to stop picking up her calls. Novah knows way too much about my schedule.
“I want my favorite cousin to help me pick out a wedding cake.”
Correction.
She wants to rub my singleness in my face while she and her devoted fiancé make kissy faces and feed each other chocolate frosting.
Sounds like the worst time.
“I’m sorry. I can’t make it today.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just reschedule when you’re free.” She pauses. “You know… you’re welcome to bring that mystery man.”
“What?”
“You can introduce him there rather than springing him on us at the wedding.”
I cringe.
So…
Backstory. I may have told a teeny lie that started this whole ‘find a date via Make It Marriage Agency’ thing.
“I told you. My boyfriend is… busy.”
“Busy, right.” Novah smacks her lips. “Well, the offer’s open.”
“Thanks. I’ll consider it, but I’m more than likely coming alone.”
She sighs like I’m a wayward child. “Aren’t you tired of being alone, Liz? Someday, you’re going to choke on a chicken bone in that tiny pig sty you call an apartment and no one’s going to be there to help you.”
I open my car door more violently than I need to. “Thanks, cuz.”
“I’m just worried about you. Nobody believes you actually have someone to bring to the wedding and it’ll only be more embarrassing when the truth comes out—”
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind.”
What are you doing, Liz? An inner voice warns.
“I do have a boyfriend,” I continue, ignoring that voice. “And I’ll bring him to your cake tasting. So… just wait.”
Novah falls silent. I can picture her now, full cheeks bunched up beneath her eyes, red lips hanging open.
“See you then.”
Click.
I toss the phone into the passenger side.
Drop my head against the steering wheel.
Moan.
Me and my big mouth.
This date has to go well tomorrow.
If it doesn’t…
Another moan tears out of my lips.
I’m totally screwed.
Three
Brogan
I push the doors of the restaurant open. Step in. Glance around. It’s an upscale place. Lots of varnished wood. Mirrors. Chandeliers. Somewhere I would have felt at home before…
I shake my head. Keep looking around.
Everyone is wearing tuxes. Fancy jewellery.
I’m woefully underdressed in my grey sweater and jeans.
At least I threw on a pair of Oxfords instead of my usual work boots.
That should be enough to indicate how serious I am about this meeting.
My conversation with Kayla Humes, the CEO of Make It Marriage and a personal friend of Lucas, runs through my mind.
“We don’t normally do this for clients, Brogan. It’s not good for our reputation. You’re lucky we have a client with a similar sense of urgency. She’s just asking for a date. The rest is up to you.”
I glance around, looking for a woman in a green dress as indicated by the text message I received from Kayla when she arranged the date early this morning.
The tagline of the dating agency is ‘character over appearance’. In other words, they don’t give out headshots to the potential matches.
In Kayla’s words, ‘we’re not a hook-up service. If looks is all you care about, download one of those apps where you swipe left’.
I assured her I wasn’t looking for a model. I’d had that already. Lana was extravagantly beautiful. Some of it was natural. Some of it makeup. The rest was… not important to me.
She enjoyed pampering herself and I footed the bill with a smile.
I just wanted her to be happy.
I thought I made her happy, blind dunce that I was.
But that’s all in the past now.
I’m looking forward to a different kind of future.
T
he air conditioning hits my skin.
I let my hands drop to my sides. Keep them out. In the open. If we’re married, she’ll see them often enough anyway. No sense hiding them like I did with that woman yesterday.
Her face comes to mind.
Tawny brown skin.
Small nose.
Expressive brown eyes.
Slim, elegant physique.
For some reason, I haven’t been able to get her cheerful smile out of my head. She got to me. In that tiny space of our introduction, she made a deep impression.
But I need to forget about it.
Can’t be thinking about some other woman when I’m trying to strike up a deal with this one. That’s a little too complicated for my taste.
I blow out a breath.
This is the most important pitch I’ll ever make.
There’s no room for mistakes.
I need a wife by tomorrow.
Which means I need to propose today.
It’s a crazy timeline, but it has to happen. If this falls through, I wouldn’t have a clue what to do next.
There.
Green.
Table to the right.
I stalk confidently forward, but my stride falters when I see who’s sitting there staring at a menu.
My eyes flutter closed.
Open.
Closed again.
The image doesn’t change.
And unless this woman has a twin…
“Elizabeth?”
She glances up. Brown eyes widen. They’re two deep mirrors into her head that hide none of her thoughts.
“Brogan?” She folds the menu. Sets it down. Starts to rise from her chair. Sinks back into it. “What are you doing here?”
I look her over. She’s got her thin, curly brown hair piled on the top of her head, leaving small tendrils near her ears. Pink lipstick draws my eyes to her lips. Sparkly earrings. A scooped, green dress.
It’s her.
She’s the only one wearing green in a sea of black.
Like a flower in a pile of fancy dirt.
I grab the back of my chair in a tight-knuckled grip.
“Did you—?” She laughs. It’s a bright, boisterous sound. Like she’s determined to make the world smile with every chuckle. “After our conversation yesterday, I never would have guessed you’d be a client of Make It Marriage.” Then she ducks her head. “Although I’m pretty sure the same goes for me.”
Her eyes drop to my fingers.
Pity crawls into her gaze, beaming like two stars bursting from the seams.
I get that.
I hate that, but I get it.
When she glances back up, I see questions in the depths of her dewy brown gaze.
I have questions of my own.
Lots of ‘em.
But the main one is…
Should I go through with this?
Elizabeth seems like a nice girl. One with a good head on her shoulders. One who’d balk at the thought of marrying some guy she’s known for a handful of hours.
At the most, I was hoping for someone who’d be interested in a financial arrangement. A payout at the end of seven days. An understanding that I won’t ever, under any circumstances, choose to stay married when the time is up.
She was a nameless woman.
A faceless woman.
Hopefully, a greedy one.
But now that I’m here.
It’s not some woman.
It’s her.
And it’s… different.
I start to back away from the table but freeze as an image of a little girl with dark eyes and the bravest smile in the world marches through my head.
Determinedly, I sit.
Elizabeth’s expression is one I can’t read. She seems nervous, if the way she’s gripping the napkin is any indication. Maybe she’s disappointed to see me.
“I’m starving,” she says in an obvious attempt to make conversation. Leaning forward, she whispers, “Doesn’t this place feel a little fancy to you?”
It’s fancy at my request.
I’m proposing here.
I didn’t want to do so in a common diner.
Not that it matters in the long run.
“You can choose anything you’d like.” I nod to the menu.
She clutches her waist. “I know it might not look it, but I love to eat. Don’t regret your words later.”
Regrets? I’ve had my share of them. One more wouldn’t faze me.
I gesture for her to eat.
We call the waiter.
Elizabeth orders steak and I get the same.
“So,” she folds her fingers together, “I hope you don’t think I intentionally orchestrated our date so I could trap you into marriage later.”
I lean forward. “Actually, I’m the one who’d like to do the trapping.”
“What?”
Just then, the waiter arrives with our drinks. We pause long enough for the prim and proper sommelier to fill our glasses. When he leaves, our table falls into awkward silence.
Elizabeth swirls the wine around and around in her glass.
I know she heard my last statement, but she’s not asking me about it or bringing it up.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “when I was getting ready for tonight I was really nervous.” She shrugs. “But I’m not sure if the fact that we’ve met before makes me feel better or worse.”
“Why would it make you feel worse?”
“To be honest, I lied to the matchmakers.”
My eyebrow arches.
“I don’t want a relationship.”
“Then…?”
“My cousin’s getting married.” Her brown eyes fall softly to the table. “For once, I wanted my family to shut up about me being single so I intended to ask my date,” her gaze lifts to mine, “well you, if you’d be okay… um… just going with me.”
“You went to all that trouble for one date?”
“And a cake tasting.” She winces.
“Hm.”
She tilts the wine to her lips. Sips nervously. “What about you? What did you go to all this trouble for?”
“A wife.”
She chokes on her wine.
I offer my napkin.
She rejects it and takes her own. Dabbing at her chin, she glances at me, thick eyelashes fluttering. “A wife?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, it’s nice to meet a man who knows what he wants.” She rolls her eyes. “Guys these days are only interested in ‘talking’ or hooking up. There’s no end goal. Not that I want one, mind you. It’s just… frustrating when you’re trying to make a real connection.”
“This connection wouldn’t be real,” I say slowly, gauging her reaction.
“No?”
I decide to be upfront. “My grandmother left me an inheritance that I’m to access on my thirty-fifth birthday.”
“Okay…”
“But she added a stipulation.” I pause. “Marriage.”
Elizabeth still looks confused.
“I need a marriage of convenience.” Staring her dead in the eyes, I say, “I need a wife by tomorrow.”
Four
Elizabeth
I need a wife by tomorrow.
I, naturally, assume that Brogan’s making a joke.
When I start to laugh, he doesn’t join me.
Which is strange, but it fits his dead-pan comedic timing so I guess I can’t fault him.
Picking up my wine glass, I take another sip. “That’s hilarious.”
He doesn’t agree.
He just stares at me, those wounded blue eyes dragging me in like a stormy tide pushing a life raft toward a dangerous waterfall.
There’s just… something about Brogan’s eyes. Makes me want to grab a crow bar and pry out all his secrets. Makes me want to open him up and study the way he ticks.
“It will only be for seven days,” Brogan says, in that crisp, deep voice.
Annoyance flashes in my gut
.
Why is he continuing with the joke?
It’s over.
Ha ha. Wife by tomorrow. Great. He’s freaking white Dave Chappelle.
“You can’t seriously be…” I shake my head. “Of course not.”
The food arrives, blessedly rescuing me from what is turning into a train wreck of a date. It smells great, but my usual appetite is gone.
This is just… too weird.
I’ve been with men who push for sex in the first hour of meeting them. In fact, I seem to attract those men almost exclusively.
But a proposal within the first hour?
That’s a new one.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the waiter.
He dips his head and leaves.
I pick up my fork, wondering why I’m still here, entertaining this man, when it’s very clear that he’s either a little off his rocker or completely out of touch with modern romance.
“Elizabeth…”
“Did you lie when you said you weren’t a hippie?”
His eyebrows arch.
“Are you going to get kicked out of your commune if you don’t come back with a wife?” A terrifying thought strikes. “Wait, is this supposed to be a sister-wives thing?”
His lips twitch.
Is he… laughing at me?
I fold my arms over my chest. “Just so you know, I don’t like sharing. I respect people with different worldviews and lifestyles than mine, but as for me, I like my guy to be with me only.” I scrunch my nose. “Not that I’ve seen much evidence of such a thing being possible, but it’s still a nice thought to have.”
“Okay,” Brogan says.
“Okay?”
He nods.
“So you were looking for a sister-wife?”
“No.”
“The hippie commune?”
“I live in an apartment.”
Confusion strikes. “Then where is this marriage thing coming from?”
“I told you, I have an inheritance I need access to.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawns. “Money.”
“There’s someone who needs it. Desperately.” He shrugs. “A lot of it, but liquidating the assets will take time.”
“How much time?”
“About seven days.” He blows out a breath. “Seven days of marriage and she lives.”
I suddenly feel guilty for not jumping on the marriage bandwagon. If this is about saving someone else’s life…
Come on, Liz. You don’t even know him.