Arrange Me: a married-at-first-sight romance (The Arranged Duo Book 1) Read online

  ARRANGE ME

  a married-at-first-sight romance

  Katy Regnery

  ARRANGE ME

  Copyright © 2019 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery

  Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any references to real people or places are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com

  Editors: Tessa Shapcott + Scribe, Inc.

  Formatter: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  Cover Designer: Katy Regnery

  First Edition: March 2019

  Arrange Me: a novel / by Katy Regnery—1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-944810-39-9

  My name is Courtney Jane Salinger—

  and I’m sick of games.

  Sick of the Friday night bar-scene-cum meat market.

  Sick of the boy-girl, man-woman, Mars-Venus, flirtation-without-expectation, game-playing nonsense.

  Sick of awful dates and one-night stands, booty calls and guys who don’t call back, mixed messages or NO messages and—and—and—I’m sick of all of it.

  I’m done.

  I just can’t do it anymore.

  It’s too hard, and even worse: little by little, it’s making me hard.

  It’s breaking my heart.

  What do I want?

  That’s easy.

  I want a house in suburbia with a white picket fence.

  I want babies to buckle into a minivan.

  But most of all, I want to be married.

  I want a husband.

  So I’ve made an important decision: I’m making my escape from the dating world and the single life.

  I’ve filled out my application on ArrangeMe.com and I’m putting my fate into the hands of experts.

  Is it a little scary?

  Sure.

  I mean, I have no idea who I’ll end up with.

  After all, I’m planning to marry a complete stranger.

  But between you and me?

  I can’t wait.

  Being arranged can’t possibly be worse than being single.

  Can it?

  Table of Contents

  ARRANGE ME

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  ALSO AVAILABLE by Katy Regnery

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Mia.

  Your constant and faithful friendship makes this

  author journey the best adventure ever.

  I adore you.

  #NoSpace

  ***

  Kind thanks to Nidhi Agarwal, Ritu Pandulla, Suvitha Ramaswamy, and Sonal Dutt for their help in calibrating Dina’s character.

  PROLOGUE

  I saw a movie once.

  I think it took place in the Middle Ages…or maybe Viking times? I’m not sure, but I do know one thing for certain: in the movie, there was an arranged marriage. A man loyal to the king of England, but without land or wealth, was betrothed to a woman who had both.

  The man started his day bathing in a lake, long hair braided behind his ears to keep it out of his face but shaggy and loose down his back. When he turned toward the camera, his eyes were bright blue. Clear blue. Like the summer sky or raspberry shaved ice. Maybe twenty-two years old, he was beautiful standing in that lake with beads of water shining on his bare chest.

  In the next scene, a woman arrived on horseback at a stone church in the middle of a walled village. She wore a simple blue dress with a white collar. She wasn’t too tall or too short; she wasn’t fat or thin. She was about as average as could be except for one thing: over her face, she wore a black veil that reminded me of the veil on a beekeeper’s hat. Very dark, and thick enough that a bee’s stinger couldn’t get through the mesh, the veil hid her face completely.

  The man from the lake reappears, now dressed in his shabby best. He helps her dismount, offers her his arm, and together they walk into the church.

  They’re literally about to get married.

  But he’s never seen her, and she’s never seen him.

  For all he knows, she could be one hundred years old. Or she could be young and homely. Her teeth could be rotten brown stubs. She could be disfigured or—or hell, behind those plain yet generous skirts and thick veil, she could even be a boy. Not to mention whatever might be under the clothes and inside the skin. My God, what a crapshoot. She could be insane or extremely unreasonable, mealy mouthed or childlike. She could have a razor-sharp tongue or collect—I don’t know—creepy dolls or have terrible gas or, worst of the worst, she could be a genuinely black-hearted person.

  There is no way for him to know what’s behind the veil.

  There is no way for him to know to whom he is about to bind his life.

  A priest tells them to hold hands, and they do.

  But just before she gives her vows, she reaches for her veil, and—

  Ooof.

  An elbow in my side brings me swiftly back to reality.

  “You don’t have to do this,” my aunt hisses, her breath hot on the shell of my ear. “This is craziness, Courtney. Utter insanity.”

  I clench my teeth together. Hard.

  “I love you, Aunt Lucy, but you don’t have to stay.”

  “I’m not leaving.” She takes my hand in a death grip. “But there is absolutely no reason for you to do this! Darling, reconsider—”

  “Please, Aunt Lucy,” I bite out.

  “We can turn around right now,” she continues, her tone passing panic and veering into hysteria. “Run out of here. The car’s waiting in the parking lot. We’ll drive straight to the airport. We could just—”

  “No.”

  I try to take a deep breath, which reminds me that I’m in a corseted white dress. I must have been stress eating over the past two weeks, because it’s tight around my lungs and I can’t fill them completely.

  “You can still change your mind,” she insists with tears in her voice.

  “No.”

  “Please don’t do this,” she begs me in a thin whisper.

  My toes are pinched in my brand-new, too-small, white satin kitten heels. I feel a bead of sweat start at the nape of my neck, just below a careful updo, and make its way down my spine, which is covered in white lace.

  My left hand matches her grip as I clench a small bouquet of white calla lilies in my right.

  Suddenly, at the very moment when I might have reconsidered what I am about to do, I hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D start playing just inside the small church. Not a second later, the ancient, dark-wood doors before us whoosh open.

  I gasp softly, instantly turning my gaze downward to the threadbare red carpeting that runs from the narthex to the altar.

  To calm myself, I think of the man in the movi
e.

  Taking my first step down the aisle, I wonder: How many others have done the same in this very place—married someone they’d never met before?

  One step. Another.

  It probably worked out fine for them, I tell myself.

  Step together. Step.

  It’s time, Courtney. Look up.

  Step together. Step.

  For God’s sake, Courtney Jane! You wanted this. You chose this. Now, have courage and look up, goddamnit!

  Nearly halfway down the aisle, I raise my chin, but only enough to see the Presbyterian minister’s cream-colored robe, embroidered with gold crosses. Peripherally, to his left, I can see the form of a man.

  “I’ll be the one in the penguin suit.”

  “It’s not too late!” my aunt sobs softly, squeezing the blood from my hand.

  In defiance of her words, I lift my head all the way.

  My breath catches.

  My lips pop open.

  My heart stops beating.

  As—

  finally, finally, finally

  —I look into the eyes of my future husband.

  CHAPTER 1

  Six Weeks Ago

  Courtney

  “If I have one more crappy date, I’ll kill myself.”

  Dina, my friend from work, laughs at me. “If every girl killed herself after every crappy date, the world would be empty.”

  “Half empty,” I say, gesturing to the bartender for another gimlet. I glance at Dina. “You sticking with beer?”

  “Yep.”

  Josh-the-charming-bartender stops in front of me and grins. “Another round?”

  “Keep ’em coming.”

  “Bad week?” he asks, making a sad-puppy face.

  “Bad life.”

  “How about you?” he asks Dina, leaning forward a touch.

  I swear to Christ. These two. They’ve been playing this flirty cat-and-mouse game for over a year.

  “Nope. I’m all good,” she says in a lower voice than normal.

  “Hell yes you are, Hot Stuff.”

  I don’t have enough energy for the number of eyerolls this exchange deserves. I rap my empty glass on the chrome bar. “Hey! I’m empty.”

  “Hold your horses,” says Josh, swatting me away like a gnat. He turns back to Dina. “What happened with that guy from last weekend?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asks, licking her lips.

  He bites his lower lip. “I love a good bedtime story.”

  She chuckles, and it’s this sexy, throaty sound that some girls can pull off and some can’t. Dina can pull it off. Me? No way. I’d sound like I had laryngitis, and some well-intentioned grandmother-type would likely tap me on the shoulder to offer me a lozenge.

  I hold out my glass. “Dying…of…thirst. So…very…parched.”

  “My bestie needs a drink,” says Dina, giving her beer bottle a quick blow job to finish the swill before offering the now-empty phallus to Josh. “Do your job for a change.”

  “Tease,” he growls, winking at me before turning his back to refill our drinks.

  “Why don’t you two just do it already?” I ask her.

  Dina laughs, but the sound is lighter and higher now. She’s back to her normal, non-bitch-in-heat self. “With Josh? Ha. No. No way! Josh is just…you know, fun. It’s just a game, our back-and-forth.”

  “Couldn’t it be more?” I ask.

  “Nuh-uh. He’s not my type.” She shrugs, turning around on her stool to look at the crowd of Wall Street–types that populates this particular Battery Park bar. I join her to find a vast sea of dark-blue blazers and dark-gray suits. White and light-blue dress shirts abound. Here and there you get someone with a little personality—a jaunty red tie or a daring purple pocket square. But mostly the uniform is the same. Some of the men are blond, some brunette; some are Asian, some black. Virtually every ethnicity is represented, and they all reek of Justice Kavanaugh–style prep school shenanigans.

  Once upon a time, I looked forward to after-work drinks with Dina at Tidewaters Bar & Grille. But after five years? I’m over it. I’m so over it, if “it” were sex, I would find the nearest nunnery and check in ASAP.

  Except I like sex. A lot. I just wish I could find a steady partner.

  “That’ll be nineteen-fifty.”

  I twist back around. “Put it on my tab.”

  Josh gestures toward Dina, who’s flirting with the nearest bond trader, with a flick of his chin. “Flavor of the night?”

  “Definitely.” I tilt my head to the side and look at Josh objectively as he helps another customer.

  Aside from being my favorite bartender, he’s good-looking. Like, movie-star-hot good-looking. Like, take a second-, third-, and fourth-look good-looking. Like, way-out-of-my-league good-looking.

  With dark-brown hair and light-blue eyes, he has this Ian Somerhalder thing going on, only he’s not smirky and doesn’t look like he wants to suck my blood. He’s super sexy but in a less dangerous and more charming way, if that makes any sense.

  That said, I don’t fawn all over Josh like most of the girls who walk in here, and he doesn’t flirt with me like I’m a moron with half a brain. I look forward to chatting with him, and he always has a cold gimlet waiting for me.

  “Why haven’t you ever asked her out?” I ask him.

  “Dina? She wouldn’t say yes,” he says, grinning at me. “Besides, she’s not my type.”

  She’s not my type.

  It’s enough to make my head explode. “So, you two flirt…every single Friday night…for no reason at all?”

  “Not for no reason. It’s fun.”

  “Fun.” I release an exasperated breath, thinking about my last in a series of terrible dates. Dan.

  Dan, Dan, the Stockbroker Man, who had his hands down my shirt before the cab even left the curb in front of the restaurant where we’d had dinner. When I pushed him away and told him I didn’t make out on the first date, he called me a “frosty bitch” and a “waste of time.”

  So maybe it’s thoughts of slimeball Dan, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m on my fourth drink, but suddenly I hear myself saying with absolute and total honesty, “I just don’t understand.”

  Josh nods at a guy standing behind me and shifts slightly to his right to pull a pint of beer from the tap.

  “What don’t you understand?” he asks.

  “All of this,” I mutter with disgust. I pluck the straw from my drink because…more alcohol. Stat.

  “All of what?” He puts the beer next to my elbow, and a twenty-dollar bill quickly replaces it.

  “This!” I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “This meat market. This boy-girl, man-woman, flirtation-without-expectation, I-buy-you-dinner-you-put-out, game-playing bullshit.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Whoa. I’m—”

  “It’s all a game, but it’s not fun,” I insist, on a genuine rant now. “It sucks.” I prop my elbows on the bar as Josh mixes a martini for the woman sitting on a barstool next to me. “You play hard to get, they want you. You act like you want them, they don’t want you back. Everyone around me’s speaking a language I don’t understand!”

  He grins. “I think that’s just the ongoing battle of the sexes. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane.”

  “Gah! I don’t want a caveman,” I moan. “I just…I want the real thing. I’m done with shitty dates and one-night stands and booty calls and guys who don’t call back and mixed messages, or no messages, and—and—and all of it. I’m done. I just want…”

  “What?”

  “Marriage,” I blurt out.

  He recoils. “Marriage?”

  Wait. What? Is that what I really want? Marriage?

  I picture a little house in Connecticut like the one I grew up in, with a big oak tree in the back and a white picket fence around the front. Some sweet guy wearing jeans and a T-shirt is mowing the lawn with his back to me. A couple of kids come running out of the house and climb into the minivan and—
r />   “You know what?” I say, the crazy idea gaining steam in my head. “Yeah. Marriage. I’d like to skip all of this crap and cut to the chase.”

  “Marriage,” he says softly, staring at me intently like I’m teaching him a new word. In Swahili.

  “Yeah. I think that would be nice,” I say, finishing the rest of my gimlet. “Cash me out, huh?”

  His gaze drifts over to Dina, who’s draped over her Judge Brett doppelgänger like an expensive pashmina. Then he looks back at me. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m going home. I’m going to go home and figure this out.”

  “How to get married.”

  “Exactly.”

  “After four gimlets.”

  “No time like the present.”

  “And what about her? You’re her wingman.”

  “She won’t even notice I’m gone. But! If she’s solo at last call,” I pluck a twenty from my wallet and place it on the bar, “make sure she gets into a cab, huh?”

  He slides my card to me. I sign the receipt with a flourish before looking up to find Josh-the-bartender staring at me. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face, and it warms me in the weirdest way, because it makes him feel new to me. And for a split second, I think he’s a little surprised he never noticed before now how very new I am.

  “Good luck, Courtney,” he says, his voice soft and earnest.

  “Thank you, Josh.”

  I grab my coat and purse, waggle my fingers good-bye, and walk straight through that sea of suits to the nearest exit.

  ***

  On the short walk home, I stare out at the Hudson River, pulling my coat tighter over my chest as the wind whips up a little across the water. It’s April in New York City, which can offer sunny skies one day and snow flurries the next. Not that it’s actually going to snow tonight, but it’s a chilly fifty degrees by the water, so I speed up my steps, thinking about my conversation with Josh.

  Marriage.

  Hmm.

  I have no idea what made me tell Josh-the-bartender my deepest desire—I’m ignoring you, four gimlets—but there it is: marriage. To meet someone nice, get married, and live happily ever after. Why can’t it be that easy? Why the hell does it have to be so hard?