by Nia Arthurs
Be My Bride
Make It Marriage Book 8
Nia Arthurs
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.
BE MY BRIDE
Copyright © 2020 Nia Arthurs
Written by Nia Arthurs
Edited by Jalulu Editing
Cover by Oliviaprodesign
(V1)
About This Book
I'm married to a billionaire.
And I don't even know his last name.
I’m freshly dumped. Honeymooning solo. Bawling into a martini glass in Vegas… when I lock eyes with him.
Hansley is funny. Charming. Hot. The perfect distraction. He’s looking for a little fun and I’m drunk enough to indulge in it.
It’s the perfect one night stand.
Until I wake up with his ring on my finger and a video of our Elvis-sanctioned nuptials online.
Backed into a public relations nightmare, Hansley and I strike a deal. Stay married for one month and then divorce.
Simple. Until he touches me. Until he pampers me. Until I find out what’s lying behind all that effortless charm and those gorgeous brown eyes.
This isn’t real. It’s all going to end but… I can’t control my heart.
I think I’m falling in love with my husband.
Contents
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1. Asia
2. Asia
3. Hansley
4. Asia
5. Hansley
6. Hansley
7. Asia
8. Hansley
9. Asia
10. Hansley
11. Asia
12. Hansley
13. Asia
14. Hansley
15. Asia
16. Hansley
17. Asia
18. Hansley
19. Asia
20. Hansley
21. Asia
22. Hansley
23. Asia
24. Hansley
25. Asia
26. Hansley
27. Asia
28. Hansley
29. Asia
30. Hansley
31. Asia
32. Hansley
33. Asia
34. Hansley
35. Asia
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Be My Compass
Sneak Peek! Be My Compass Chapter One
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One
Asia
Sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows in a hotel room that is totally trashed—a lamp in pieces on the floor, an empty bottle of champagne and half-eaten chocolate strawberries.
We were either robbed or…
I don’t even want to know.
I moan, reaching up to wrap my slender fingers around my head.
Feels like someone is taking a pickaxe to my skull.
My stomach roils.
The heady scent of rose petals fills my nostrils.
What the heck happened last night?
I can’t remember anything.
My chest rises and falls as I suck in a panicked breath.
A sound comes from my left.
A manly rumble.
But that’s not right.
There’s no way…
Easing my head to the side, I spot a guy lying next to me. Wavy brown hair falls over his forehead. Sunlight points to his crazy long lashes and full, kissable lips.
A sharp pang echoes through my chest.
My hand slaps against my mouth to muffle the scream pulsing in my throat.
Scrambling back, I clutch the sheets and give Hansley a frantic scan.
He’s naked as the day he was born.
His broad shoulders boast slight nail indentations.
Lipstick stains his chest.
My lipstick.
From my lips.
Did I—?
No way.
No freaking way.
I wrap myself in the sheets to cover my own body.
We’re in Vegas.
And Hansley’s in my bed.
There’s got to be an explanation.
Just then, Hansley rolls over and drapes his arm over my waist. In his sleep, he pulls me a little closer.
Panicked, I lift my hand to push him away.
Press my palm against his chest.
Feel his hard muscle beneath me.
Look up when a bright light beams in my face.
Is that the sun?
No.
No it’s not.
My eyes bug when I see where the glint is coming from.
A diamond.
It’s huge.
It’s real.
And it’s on my finger.
Two
Asia
Three Days Ago
Thad: I can’t marry you.
Four words. That’s it.
I stare at the screen, waiting for another text from my fiancé to roll in.
Some kind of explanation.
Maybe an apology for his crappy humor.
I curl my lips into an amused half-smile as I anticipate his:
Just kidding.
Got yah!
Sorry, my phone got stolen by a Grinch-level sociopath.
I wait for the follow-up.
It doesn’t come.
The cold words remain on my cell.
I can’t marry you.
There’s a period at the end.
And a big white space.
No clarification. No reassurances. No way to tell if he’s serious or not.
Unease turns my stomach into a knitting class.
I dial Thad’s number.
Wait.
Tap my fingers against the fluffy white skirt.
It rings.
Rings.
Rings.
Click.
Voicemail.
That professional pre-recorded tone tears through my eardrums and sinks metal claws straight into my heart.
No, no, no.
That can’t be right.
Thad and I have known each other for two years. We’ve been engaged for six months. In all that time, the man has never—and I mean never—been without his phone.
He keeps it charged and carries two battery-powered chargers in his bag. In case of emergency, he also has a pre-charged bracket.
His cell phone is a limb.
An extension of himself.
If he’s not answering there are only two explanations.
Reason one: he’s lying dead on the street somewhere.
Which doesn’t make sense. I doubt Thad’s last, dying thought would be: I need to screw with my fiancée before I leave this earth.
Reason two: he doesn’t want to be reached.
By me.
He doesn't want to talk to me.
Because he just broke up with me.
But that’s insane. My fiancé isn’t calling off our wedding via text. Thad is not that much of a coward.
I gather my fingers into the layers of tulle and lift the heavy skirt so I can run out of the dressing room. My heart thunders like crazy and my stomach is going for the gold in the intestinal jousting version of the Olympics.
“Asia? You okay?” My mom steps into my path. Her dark eyes fix on me. Fill with that mom-like I’ve got super
powers called intuition glaze. “What’s wrong? Is it Thad?”
I know she’s coming from a good place. I do. But the fact that she immediately jumped to something happening with me and Thad makes me feel like crap. Like maybe everyone was seeing signs that I wasn’t.
“No.” I play it cool.
Because that’s what I always do.
I have everything under control.
Planned to a T.
My contingency plan has a contingency plan.
That’s why Thad and I worked so well. Our personalities were nearly identical. We both had our ducks in a row. And then we got back-up ducks just in case the first ducks quacked.
“What’s with that expression?” Mom asks.
I blink as my mind chugs through rapid-fire explanations.
My fiancé got abducted by aliens.
My fiancé was kidnapped by drug dealers.
My fiancé is a tool.
Scratch that last one.
Thad might have his quirks, but he’s not that bad. He’s quiet. Smart. An unapologetic Mama’s Boy.
Not that I mind. Research shows that the way a man treats his mother, his sisters and all the women in his life is an indicator of how he’ll treat his wife. If Thad’s extreme catering to his mom is any indication, I have nothing to worry about.
I can’t marry you.
The words dance in front of my mind.
Screw it.
I have a lot to worry about.
“Hello?” Mom waves a hand in front of my face. “Asia?”
“I need to go.”
“Wait!” Mom hauls on my arm.
I almost trip and land on my face.
She tightens her hold and steadies me. “You can’t leave in that dress.”
Right. We’re at a bridal boutique. The most expensive one in the city. Dad’s footing the bill so Mom basically dragged me here.
I’m on to her. She’s trying to get back at him by shooting arrows at his wallet.
Not that I care anymore.
Being the weapon they use to stab each other has been my role since I was eight. I have bigger things to worry about right now.
I glance around and notice the beautiful, curvy assistant staring at me suspiciously.
My fingers dig into the princess skirt.
I need to stay calm. Keep my head up. Sort out the truth from the lies.
This is a very simple problem with an easy solution.
Thad and I just need to talk. Face to face. He can explain what the hell is going on and I’ll listen in an open, calm manner—just like our pre-marriage counselor suggested in all those sessions his mother insisted we take.
Not that I have anything against counseling.
Or Thad’s mother.
But Lucy was never a fan of the way Thad and I met.
She was never a fan of mine.
Wait. He’s not…
This isn’t because of his mother, is it?
I straighten my shoulders. Don my poker face. I am not unravelling my complicated relationship in front of my mother and all these snobby bridal assistants. “I just got a text from Thad.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No.” But he’s about to be.
“Honey, whatever it is, tell him to wait until we’re done here. We need to pick out a dress. Your wedding’s in less than two months and you still haven't decided.”
“I’m taking my time.”
“You’re dragging your foot, Asia. We’ve been to a hundred boutiques. I knew you were picky, but this is—”
“Mom, I can’t just jump into a store and pick a dress.” My voice seeps with unnecessary frustration. I’m lashing out at her. I know that, but I can’t stop. “I have a list, okay? And unless that dress hits everything on my list, I’m not even looking at it.”
Mom grabs my shoulders. “Asia, some things can’t be measured by lists. Some things you just know.”
Like you just ‘knew’ that you belonged with Dad? Is what I want to say.
But I don’t.
Because I’m not that cruel.
“You’re going to realize someday,” Mom touches a strand of my straight black hair, “that you can’t control everything. Sometimes, you have to go with your gut and take a chance. Sometimes, that’s the only way you find the one that fits you perfectly.”
“I doubt it.”
She sighs where did I go wrong?
Mom’s a total free-spirit. Which drove me absolutely nuts growing up. But her intentions are good. She’s always preaching to me about ‘balance’—which is something I can admit I lack sorely—but in this case, she’s way off.
Nothing good can come of going with the flow.
“Go change and come back in the next dress,” Mom says, turning me around and pushing me toward the dressing room. “And give it a chance.” Mom winks. “You might not even know what you want until you have it.”
My back stiffens, but I’m not going to argue with her. Not unless I want to spend all day in this boutique. The faster I can get this dress off, the faster I can run out and confront Thad.
In the dressing room, the assistant helps me to slip out of the princess dress. She shoves another gown at me, but I shake my head.
Her eyebrow arches.
“Sh.” I press a finger to my lips and point to my street clothes—a bright yellow silk tank over fitted blue skinny jeans. My yellow pumps sit neatly, waiting for me to slip my feet in. My striped coat flaps over the back of the sofa.
The attendant nods eagerly, as if she was waiting for me and my indecisive self to leave.
It’s not indecisiveness, it’s having high standards, I want to tell her.
But don’t.
I stare at my phone, too nervous to pull my clothes back on.
There’s still no new messages from Thad.
My eyes lift to the mirror.
I’m a half-naked black girl in wedding lace.
No clothes.
No fiancé.
You don’t know that yet.
True.
I dial Thad again.
The line connects.
My heart slams into my chest. “Thad, oh my g—what the hell was that text about?”
“Hello, Asia,” a cold, feminine voice blows into my ear.
I shiver. “Lucy.”
Why is Thad’s mother answering his phone?
Crap.
Maybe he is hurt.
“Is Thad okay? Is he in the hospital?” I screech.
“No. He’s right here. He’s fine.”
“What?”
“He wants you to know that he stands by his text.”
Shock careens into me. “Put him on.”
“He’d much rather—”
“Put. Him. On.” I don’t usually snap at people. Especially my future mother-in-law, but I can’t hold the irritation in.
“Suit yourself.”
I don’t expect to hear Thad’s voice. In the back of my mind, Lucy is an evil hag acting completely alone. She’s taking out her disapproval on me because she knows that Thad and I have a great thing going.
And she’s jealous.
And she’s slightly racist.
And there’s no way Thad will…
“I’m sorry, Asia.”
“Thad…”
His voice is quiet but firm. Like a coward who really believes he’s doing the right thing. “I couldn’t tell you in person. I didn’t think I’d have the courage.”
My horrified expression stares back at me. Like she's trapped in the mirror. Trapped in this horrible moment.
“I can’t do it,” he whispers.
The weight of the world crashes into my chest.
My wedding’s in two months and I just got dumped.
Three
Hansley
The coffee dripping into my cup and the low chatter of my assistant—she’s in the office working late because I am—are the only sounds that drift through the shadows.
My cell vibrate
s against the desk. The screen brightens with a picture of Brett and Sharon at the beach.
They’ve got those stupid floppy hats on. Big grins on their faces.
My gaze focuses on Sharon. She looks happy. She looks alive.
I can almost pretend that she’ll come charging through the door with two giant bags of cotton candy and pop rocks. She’ll drag me away from my desk yelling, ‘you’ve got more money than you can possibly spend, Hansley, so come and play with me.’
I shake my head.
Brett's always ragging on me about using this picture.
I play it off.
Act like it’s some big joke.
I don’t tell him the truth.
That Shar assigned this photo to his number.
That she insisted I keep it because it was ‘cute’.
That I didn’t realize I was in love with her until it was too late.
For most of my life, Shar and I were friends. Just friends.
Most people didn’t believe that. Hell, Brett didn’t buy that—he was always pulling me aside and giving me stern lectures. Warning me not to mess with his baby sister. To keep it in my pants. But that wasn’t the reason I stayed platonic with Shar.
I’ve known her since pre-school. She was just… a part of my life. Not as a sister, exactly. But not as a girl either. I enjoyed spending time with her, but I didn’t want to screw her.
If—at any point in our friendship—I’d had that desire, I would have pushed her against a wall, kissed her till her knees buckled and whispered take off your skirt and spread your legs for me. Let me rock your world tonight.