Marry Screw Kill

by Liv Morris

  Her innocent beauty stuns me. She’s the kind of woman you want to protectively tuck under your arm and later toss over your shoulder as you carry her to bed. How I’d love to be the one she’s picking up.

  Finally, I focus on the paper when she moves it higher, reading the words written on it.

  SINCLAIR ELLIOTT

  Holy fuck! Could this sweet, blue-eyed angel be Harlow? I have trouble believing it. This woman’s innocent face and age give her an inexperienced, almost chaste appearance. Definitely not the woman I’d picture with my uncle.

  I walk up to her. “Excuse me, Miss. I’m Sinclair Elliott.”

  “Um … um, I’m Harlow Masters.” Sadly, her gaze falls toward the floor, and realization of who this woman is hits me. The demure beauty isn’t just some random person retrieving a weary traveler; she is the Harlow, the accused gold digger. But something doesn’t compute. She seems too shy, not an ounce of malice, which, in my experience, is a required trait for fortune-seekers.

  Slowly, she looks up and I inhale a sharp breath, becoming a victim to those mesmerizing eyes once again. Composing myself, I reach out for a welcoming handshake.

  I raise her hand and gently graze my lips across her knuckles. She’s simply too tempting. Plus, I promised Nina I’d find out Harlow’s alliances.

  I release her hand, but I am not sure what to think. The blush on Harlow’s cheeks and the way she turns away when our eyes meet leads me to one conclusion: she’s definitely bashful.

  “So, you’re Harlow.” My words hang in the air around us. She remains a bright shade of red, her eyes appearing unfocused.

  Is she sick?

  “Harlow, are you okay?” I express my concern, fighting the desire to press my hand against her forehead to check for a fever.

  “Actually, I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. Excuse me,” she says quickly, gesturing to the side.

  “No problem.” I throw her a little wink and watch her turn on a dime, walking away. Her retreat leaves me with a hot view of red shoes, long legs, and a fine ass with the perfect wiggle.

  Reality hits me as I adjust myself below the belt. I’m thinking about my uncle’s soon-to-be bride. I should feel ashamed, but the feeling doesn’t come. Instead, I can’t wait until she’s back by my side. I want to see the blue of her eyes and her angel-like hair again. I want to stare at her red heels and imagine dirty things.

  Yeah, this whole scenario is fucked up beyond belief. If I’m going to be living in the same house as Harlow for the next four weeks, I better get my shit together—fast.

  Chapter Six

  Harlow

  I arrive at the Rochester Airport and realize I’m cutting it close. Sinclair’s plane lands in five minutes. Crap. I begin walking briskly toward the terminal in my new red heels. I’m sure I look ridiculous run-walking dressed like I am, but I want to be on time.

  We’ll never find each other if—wait, how the hell am I supposed to know who he is?

  James’ annoyance threw him into a fit and he forgot to give me even a vague description. I don’t know the color of his hair. How tall he is. Maybe he’s blond like James? I have no idea.

  Once inside the airport terminal, I spot an empty, white Dunkin’ Donuts sack discarded on a seat. I grab the sack, pull a black pen out of my bag, and write in big letters:

  SINCLAIR ELLIOTT

  Next, I check the terminal arrival screens, see his plane has landed, and fan myself with the sack. My rush to meet Sinclair at the security gate has left me flushed.

  Standing at the end of the long ramp, I watch several groups of people walk by. Families arriving to visit loved ones and business people returning from their long week away from home. I haven’t seen anyone Sinclair’s age, around twenty-three, so I keep the sack down for now.

  In the distance, I notice a lone man, tall with dark brown hair. He progresses down the ramp in long, graceful strides while adjusting his computer bag. Walking with a purpose, he holds his head high, looking straight ahead, owning the space around him.

  I observe the defined muscles of his legs as they flex and ripple beneath his tight, dark jeans. His fitted black T-shirt stretches painfully across his wide shoulders, appearing like a second skin. The label “drop dead gorgeous” wraps around him from head to toe.

  As he moves closer to me, my heart beats faster and an unfamiliar sensation courses through my body. I have a desire to meet him, find out more about this man. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do. No matter how hard I try, my eyes won’t leave his god-like form.

  He is magnetic and masculine. I’ve never seen a man like him in Rochester.

  I stand there like a zombie, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When he lasers in on me, our eyes lock. He is this intense, dark type of beautiful. He is like hot and tempting sin.

  Wait! He is Sin.

  I’m not sure how I know it, but I am certain I’ve found Sinclair Elliott. Though … he resembles a Minnesota Viking football player more than a soon-to-be med student.

  I hold up the sack with his name on it. With our eyes still fixed on each other, I place it beside my face. He breaks our stare and looks at my hands.

  An amused smile forms on his lips as he saunters my way. I forget to breathe, or think, when he stops in front of me. He holds out his hand and tries to introduce himself, but the man towering over me has my heart racing.

  He introduces himself as Sinclair and I mumble back a weak greeting. His eyes are a mesmerizing color, brown mixed with flecks of gold.

  Lowering my head, I try to hide the embarrassing shades of red I’ve turned. I take a deep breath to regain my composure, raise my chin, and reach my hand out for the welcoming handshake. I want to touch this beautiful man.

  After placing my hand in his, he brings mine to his full lips and gently kisses my knuckles. Each small kiss ignites a fire in places I felt would forever be dormant. My knees buckle, but I fight the urge to sway under his heady gaze. Reluctantly, I pull away, my hand still tingling from his touch.

  My name rolls off his tongue and I imagine him saying it slower, moaning it with pleasure in my ear. My face burns hot with shame. I shouldn’t be thinking of him like this, shouldn’t be reacting this way.

  What’s wrong with me? I have never had an immediate fascination with any man, and he’s the nephew of the man I’m marrying.

  Sinclair expresses his concern over my skin’s new shade of crimson, I’m sure. He must think I’m crazy. Time to regroup and get myself together.

  I search for the closest restroom. Thankfully, there’s one a few steps away. I ask him to excuse me for a few minutes and he smiles down at me. I almost collapse under the weight of his hypnotizing eyes.

  I bolt toward the restroom as fast as my way-too-high heels will let me. I need distance from this polished, New York City charmer. Stat! I may be imagining it, but it feels like his eyes are burning holes through my dress as I walk away.

  Fortunately, I’m the only one in the restroom. I lean against the porcelain sink to support my shaky legs and gather some cold water in my hands. I splash a small amount on my face and neck, then blot it off with a paper towel.

  The mirror displays a woman unlike the teary-eyed one from earlier today. My cheeks glow, my eyes are excessively bright, stunned, my red lips parted in shock …

  Damn. What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Seven

  Sin

  Fifteen minutes.

  That’s how long Harlow’s been in the bathroom, and how long I’ve paced across the greenish-gray carpet squares after our awkward introduction. We shook hands, said the customary hellos¸ then she appeared ill and dashed into a bathroom as if her life depended on it. But she’s been gone too long and I’m starting to get concerned.

  I consider asking another woman to go into the bathroom to check on her. At six-two and being male, there isn’t a chance in hell I can sneak in without being noticed. Who knows what someone might think if they saw me in there?

&nbs
p; Finally, I see her leaving the bathroom. She smiles at me in her shy way while deliberately avoiding eye contact. I find myself walking toward her, meeting her halfway, hoping she looks up at me. I want to see those eyes again.

  I’m trying to understand how she ended up with my uncle. I can’t imagine her seeking out an older man and trying to pursue him. She has no game at all.

  “Hey, are you all right? I was starting to get concerned, especially after you looked a little ill.” Finally, she looks up at me. Damn, those eyes—big, blue, and beautiful.

  “I looked sick? Well, I was just, uh …”

  Much to my disappointment, she lowers her gaze while faltering with her words. A small smile tilts her lips as she stares down at my Doc Martens. Finally, she glances back up at me, and I return her contagious grin.

  “Don’t worry. I have that effect on people. They see me and run.” My stupid joke brings a soft laugh from her. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and I want to hear it again.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine, really. We need to hurry over to baggage claim before they think you abandoned your luggage.” Harlow turns and walks down the short concourse. I throw my computer bag over my shoulder and scuttle after her.

  We walk side-by-side, my pace slower than usual. She doesn’t appear to be much over five-five and can’t meet me stride for stride. Even though she has on devilish heels, I have a good six inches on her, maybe more. I peer down, seeing the top of her breasts and the lace of a white bra. I choose to concentrate on her profile, though the soft swell of her cleavage makes it nearly impossible.

  My eyes land on her red, pouty, kissable lips. Lush and inviting, I’m having trouble looking away from them. But her gold hair bounces as we walk, calling to me. I have the strangest desire to touch it, run my fingers through her locks to see if it’s as soft as it appears.

  Harlow might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and I’ve seen a shit ton of beauties in the city. She’s the exact opposite of the street-smart women of Manhattan, though. Young and untainted.

  Beneath the face and body of a grown woman, there’s a childlike goodness. I feel like she needs something from me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I have a strong desire to watch over her. It’s an unfamiliar and strange feeling—one I’ve never had for another human being. Well, maybe a little for my grandmother, but she could take on a small army.

  We make it to the mostly empty baggage turnstile and wait for my bags with the small crowd of other passengers.

  “How was your flight?” Her eyes lock with mine. A tangible connection hums between us, making her seem familiar to me.

  “It was fine. No complaints.” I smile back at her, enjoying the unexplained ease. “I even took a nap. Fully rested now. So, are there any plans for tonight? I take it James is still held up at the hospital.”

  “Yes, story of his life. He’s hardly been home this week, so I’m the one to welcome you here. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I’m a big favorite in his family, so I just expected …” she trails off, but I know what’s left unsaid. Harlow thinks I believe the labels she’s been arbitrarily given. So far, nothing about her leads me to believe they’re true, unless this sweet and innocent way of hers is an act. But even as I think that, I know deep down she’s not playing me.

  “I have an open mind. Besides, you seem totally harmless.” Right now, I might be the dangerous one … to her.

  Harlow chuckles softly. “Well, you’re the only one in his family who thinks that about me I bet. We still haven’t heard whether James’ mother or brother will be attending our wedding.” She tilts her head toward me and her blue eyes connect with mine. “Thanks, by the way, for giving me a chance and not writing me off.”

  “If you make my uncle happy, then you’re all right by me.”

  Her cheeks flush again, but she doesn’t look away this time. There’s this odd attraction between us, or maybe it’s completely on my end. I’ve had scores of reactions to beautiful women. The kind that center on my dick, but I don’t remember reacting to a woman like this before.

  I want to reach out and give her a feeling of acceptance, reassurance. But she’s not mine to touch, so I restrain my hands and break our gaze by scanning the black rubber belts circling in front of us. My bag appears on the belt and I pull it off, stand it up, and we start walking toward the exit.

  When did I start worrying so much about other people’s feelings? First Rachel, and now Harlow. I’m not heartless, just selfish at times and singularly focused on my own goals—med school, residency, and then my own practice. The patterns for my life are carved in deep.

  She reaches into her designer bag and pulls out her car keys. “I’m not parked too far,” she mutters. I trail dutifully behind her, enjoying the view as I follow her out a set of glass doors leading to the parking garage.

  “James suggested I take you to a restaurant downtown called Rogue.” She shrugs, clearly wanting my approval.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “It’s new in town and I’ve been wanting to try the place out, but I’m not allowed to go by myself.” Her voice fades into almost a whisper.

  “What do you mean, ‘not allowed’? Is there something wrong with the place? Bad part of town?”

  “It’s in a safe area by The Clinic.” Well, that didn’t answer my question. She stops in front of a sweet little BMW and clicks the fob to unlock the doors.

  “I’m assuming this is yours?”

  “Yep,” she quips, standing next to me at the back of her car. She releases the trunk and I place my luggage inside. I walk to her door and open it for her.

  “Thanks,” she responds in almost a question, looking up at me with a curious brow. Her confused face forces a smile from me. For some reason, I really do like this girl. I close the door after she’s in and hurry to the other side.

  “Nice set of wheels,” I compliment once inside the car with her. “Safe and still a little edgy.”

  “Thanks. The car was James’ idea,” she says with no emotion as we both buckle up.

  “Yeah, he chose well.”

  She flips on the air and her perfume punches me out of nowhere. Damn confined spaces. I take a moment and close my eyes. The scent borders between sophisticated and flowery, and very expensive.

  I hope to hell this clerkship keeps me busy. Otherwise, it’s going to be four long weeks for me. Now, where the fuck were we?

  “So, you can’t go to the place we are heading to alone?” I wait for her to fill in the blanks.

  “James doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to go there.” She maneuvers the car out of the parking area. “And I hate to disobey him.”

  Obey? What, is he her father?

  “Why isn’t it a good idea?” I leave the obey part for later.

  “There are people my age there. Single men. James worries about me in that kind of environment.”

  “Really?” I would worry about you, too.

  “He’s protective of me. It’s endearing at times.” She glances at me. “He doesn’t trust other men around me if he’s not there.”

  “Seriously?” I ask in disbelief. She nods her head. “I’m pretty sure you could handle yourself in a restaurant in downtown Rochester.”

  Something about Harlow and this entire conversation seems off. She hesitates as she gives me details, and blushes once she does. I feel like I’m only seeing the tip of the iceberg and the truth is lying under the water out of sight. James has never married, never even been close from what Nina says. Then he picks a young, beautiful innocent for his wife. Something doesn’t add up here and I hope to find out what’s behind his fears and demands. For Harlow’s sake.

  Chapter Eight

  Harlow

  I try to keep my eyes on the road as I drive toward town, but all I want to do is look at him. Search his eyes again and confirm their unique whiskey color. Who has eyes li
ke that? They’re almost unnatural.

  Sinclair doesn’t fit the profile of the typical med students I’ve seen waltz through this town since I was a child. When he was walking down the ramp toward me at the airport, I had a totally different impression of him. He resembled an athlete with his tall frame, sculpted muscles, and mile-wide shoulders. I try to imagine him wearing a white doctor’s coat, and it doesn’t seem right.

  By the way he speaks to me, kind and concerned, I see a soft side of him. A man proving he could dedicate himself to the sick and listen to their worries. A gentle giant might be the best description. Under the black clothes and boots, the rebel-looking exterior he owns, I think he’s a really sweet guy.

  “Where’s the town?” Sinclair glances from side to side. I meet his eyes briefly, his brows gathered in question. “Nothing but fields and fences for as far as I can see.” He runs his fingers through his brown hair, mussing it nicely.

  Stop ogling him, Harlow. But it’s no use. I keep turning to glance at him like a magnet to metal.

  “The airport is built in the middle of nowhere, or more like dairy farmland.” I point out the cows on the right side of the road. “I promise there is a town up ahead.”

  “Manhattan to farmland in under five hours. Amazing.” He shakes his head, and laughs.

  “Don’cha know. I’d love to visit New York City someday. I’ve never been outside Minnesota. I was born and raised here.”

  “Wow,” he says. I have to be the most boring person he’s ever met. A poor Minnesota girl with one main goal in life: surviving. That is, until I met James. “That accent. You sound so Fargo. It’s adorable.”

  “I betcha think I’m from the backwoods,” I say “betcha” on purpose, but more as a tease. I have been working so hard on taming my Minnesota twang. James hates it and says it makes me appear low-class, but Sinclair appears amused and it makes me smile.