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

  Sighing as I arrive at my building, I walk in and give the concierge a small wave as I beeline to the elevator and press sixteen.

  My one-bedroom apartment is snug, but the building has a gym overlooking the Hudson, a pool on the roof, and a small lawn where you can sit in the sun on summer Sundays and read a book.

  Not that I work out much, swim often, or have a lot of time for reading.

  I’ve been with the same financial firm—DeWitt, Morris & Jones—for five years, ever since I graduated from the University of Rochester with my MFE. And frankly, they keep me pretty busy.

  I unlock my apartment door and step inside, feeling, as I always do, a deep sense of satisfaction at being home. Here in my sanctuary, which I paid for on my own, all the hustle and noise of the city melts away, and on a night like tonight—a Friday, thanks be to God—all I want to do is kick off my heels, change into pajamas, pour myself a glass of wine, and watch bad TV.

  As I walk by the remote, I pick it up, press “ON,” and then throw it on the couch as I head down the short hallway that leads to my bedroom and bathroom.

  I can hear the chatter of a talk show or reality program as I toe off my shoes and unzip my knee-length camel skirt. I throw it in the bag to be dry-cleaned, my silk blouse and black cashmere cardigan quickly following it. I unclasp my bra, mewling with pleasure as my size-C breasts are released after long hours of confinement.

  Opening my dresser drawer, I pull out a Haverford College T-shirt and pull it over my head, and then I open a second drawer to grab some black Yoga pants, which I tug on while I walk barefooted back to the living room.

  “Why did I want to be married at first sight?”

  I stop in my tracks, looking up at the twentysomething guy being interviewed on the plasma screen.

  “I guess I’m ready to meet ‘the one.’ I’m ready to get serious. Have kids. The whole thing.” He pauses, a sweet smile spreading across his lips before he continues: “You know what? I can’t wait to meet my future wife.”

  My mouth is hanging open as the show cuts to a commercial—an announcer promising us that we’ll meet the man’s arranged match, Simone, as soon as the program returns.

  I can’t wait to meet my future wife.

  Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yes! This is what I’m talking about!

  Hurrying to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of wine before the show resumes, I grab my laptop from its charger on the kitchen counter and hustle back into the living room just as another commercial begins. A preppy-looking blond man is standing in a backyard, a bright-green lawn and children’s swing set behind him.

  “Are you a fan of Lifetime’s hit reality show Arrange Me? Well, now you can meet your future spouse at the altar too!”

  Slowly, transfixed by the man speaking, I lower my body to the couch, letting my laptop slide back through my arm and onto a cushion as I raise my wineglass to my mouth and take a huge gulp.

  “After my experience on the show, I decided that it wasn’t fair for the viewers at home not to experience the level of matchmaking expertise from which I—and my wife, Jen—were able to benefit.”

  He walks over to a gorgeous redheaded woman helping a strawberry-blonde baby take steps across the pristine green lawn.

  “You probably recognize us from season four, right?” she asks, swooping up the baby into her arms. She stands beside her handsome husband and beams at the camera. “But did you know that this little bundle of joy arrived exactly nine months after filming wrapped?” She kisses the baby before smiling at her husband. “Baby Casey made us a family. Brad and I couldn’t be happier.”

  “That’s right, Jen. And it couldn’t have happened without the help of our new best friends: relationship guru Dr. Jake, spiritual advisor Pastor Ken, and sex expert Dr. Sydney Morningstar.”

  Pictures of said experts flash across the screen, and with intense concentration, I stare at their faces while wondering about the magic they are somehow able to procure.

  Happy Jen giggles demurely when Brad says “sex expert,” and I find myself chuckling along with her like she’s my long-lost BFF and I totes get where she’s coming from.

  Back to Brad, who says, “For only $399, payable by credit card, we will send you the same thirty-page application that we had to fill out before we were successfully matched.”

  “That’s right! Then your information will be sent to the same experts who matched us! Once they find your perfect mate in the Arrange Me Too database, they will put you two in touch. The rest is up to you!”

  “Isn’t it time to leave the rat race to the rats?” Brad chuckles as he puts an arm around Jen’s shoulder and pulls her closer. “What have you got to lose? Log in to www.arrange-me-too.com, and start the process today!”

  “And maybe,” says Jen, propping up the baby so their three adorable, happy-family faces take up the whole screen, “you’ll find your very own happy ending—”

  “Just like us,” finishes Brad, turning her and Casey away from the camera to walk across their perfect yard and leaving the website address in bright white lettering for viewers.

  I blink only when the theme song to Arrange Me returns, and suddenly we’re at the bridal salon with Simone, who’s choosing her perfect wedding dress under the disapproving gaze of her mother and sister.

  Placing my wineglass on the coffee table in front of me, I grab my laptop, flip it open, and type in the website address for Arrange Me Too, my knee bouncing with excitement as the site comes up.

  Suddenly, Brad and Jen’s happy faces are smiling back at me, with smaller pictures of the three experts just below.

  “Ready to Get Married?”

  I click on the tab, biting my bottom lip as another screen appears, this one with a list of instructions and another button to click on:

  “Pay $399 Now to Start the Process!”

  I pause for a second, my father’s shark-in-the-boardroom genes no doubt asserting themselves as I consider paying almost four hundred dollars for something that isn’t guaranteed. But four gimlets and half a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc are determined to have their way. I click on the tab and upload my credit card information.

  “Fill Out Your Application!”

  I take another big gulp of wine as Simone declares a heavily beaded, Cinderella-style ball gown “the dress” and then refill my glass before clicking on the tab and waiting for the form to download.

  CHAPTER 2

  Josh

  Marriage.

  What an inappropriate fucking word to say during happy hour at the sleaziest high-end bar that New York’s hallowed financial district has to offer.

  I watch her weave her way through the many Wall Street douchebags in the crowd, feeling vaguely wistful when the front door closes behind her.

  Courtney Jane Salinger.

  I’ve been cashing her out for over a year now, and not only is she a consistently good tipper, she’s a sweetheart too.

  Her hair is blonde, and her eyes are blue, and she’s curvier than her friend, Dina. She looks like she comes from money, which I’m pretty sure she does. I’ve heard her talk about spending weekends at her parents’ house in Greenwich, and after an absence of two Fridays last summer, she came back from Nantucket with a respectable tan. But she doesn’t dress like a shark or a super model. She’s more about skirts and cardigans than power suits. Like I said, cute.

  She’s also a lot chattier than her friend. And as any bartender can tell you, you can learn a ton about your regulars with a little strategic eavesdropping. She likes her job but isn’t crazy about her boss, who is sometimes “handsy.” She lives in a building with a view of the Hudson, and when she sneezes, it actually sounds like “ah-choo!” She’s kind to everyone, though I’ve also heard her take down a Wall Street asshole with a clever one-liner.

  I like Courtney. Always have.

  Not to mention her surname is Salinger, and I have wondered about a million times if she’s related to one of my heroes, J. D. Salinger. Mayb
e someday I’ll figure out a way to ask her that won’t sound completely opportunistic.

  I’m going to go home and figure this out.

  I’m chuckling about it as the cougar at the end of the bar flashes a “fuck-me” smile in my general direction and lifts her empty wineglass. She’s hot. No question. But I don’t fuck the customers. Concealing a sigh, I cash out a guy near the tap before heading her way.

  “What can I get for you?” I ask.

  “Another glass,” she purrs, “and your phone number.”

  “You’re drinking the cab, right?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  I pull the bottle from under the bar and fill her glass.

  “That’ll be fourteen dollars.”

  “And how much for the digits?” she asks, placing a twenty on the bar.

  I take the bill. “Change?”

  She shrugs, her expression starting to cool. “Depends.”

  Oh, man. She’s persistent.

  I take the twenty to the register, then place six dollars in front of her before looking up.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “So that’s a no?”

  I don’t know what to say. Awkward shit like this will be the first thing I don’t miss when I quit this job someday. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, and she’s a good-looking woman, but no, I’m not interested. Do I need to spell it out in neon?

  “Sorry.”

  “Girlfriend?” she asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “The blonde chick with the sizeable ass. Your girlfriend?”

  Sizeable ass? Courtney? Huh. I’ve never thought of her as overweight. She’s not skinny, but she’s not “sizeable” either. What’s interesting, however, is that instead of telling myself this woman is entitled to her opinion and walking away, I find myself doing something I’m not supposed to—something I never do. Instead of turning away to help another customer, I engage.

  Placing both hands on the bar between us, I ask, “What if she is?”

  “You can do better.”

  “Can I?”

  She nods. “Aw, sweetheart. Of course you can. In case nobody ever told you, you’re hot. You’re young. Your eyes are moderately sharp.”

  Moderately? What a fucking bitch.

  “What do you do, honey? Are you an actor?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Well, whatever you are, you shouldn’t settle for her. Whatever she’s got, someone else has got it better. A lot better. I can guarantee you.”

  “You’ve never even met her.”

  “So? I know her type: Grew up in the suburbs. Went to some liberal arts college. Works at a financial firm. As soon as she meets the right guy, she’ll be driving the soccer car pool, and that caboose will grow three sizes bigger by the time she’s forty.” Cougar takes a long sip of the inky red wine. “Is that really what you want? To be stuck with some boring butterball out in suburbia? God. Kill me now.”

  “Wow,” I say, shaking my head back and forth. “You’re hardcore.”

  “You should see me in bed.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Her eyes flare, wide and angry.

  “Anything else?” I ask, taking a step back and crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Yeah,” she says softly, offering me a grin so mean and brittle, it’s a wonder it isn’t the crack that breaks her face. She leans closer. “You’re a bartender. A loser. You deserve each other.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to call her a washed-up hag, but I need this job…at least for now.

  “Yeah. Maybe we do,” I say softly, before turning around and heading to the other end of the bar. I’m feeling pissed, so I stop by the cash register to get myself together.

  “That was some heavy flirting,” says Annie, sidling up beside me while shaking some sort of fruity martini. “Even for you.”

  “Hardly. She’s a bitch.”

  “Oh, yeah?” asks Annie. “Huh. You usually get along with everyone.”

  She’s right. I usually do, but that woman really got under my skin for some reason. What right does she have to say any of that garbage about Courtney? Fuck her.

  “What’s going on in that head tonight?” Annie asks me.

  I take a deep breath and let it go. “You ever think about getting married, Annie?”

  “You asking?” She winks at me. Annie’s in her fifties and has a son my age. She’s like a surrogate mom to all the guys who work with her at Tidewaters. “No. Been there, done that. I like my freedom.”

  “Right.”

  She cocks her head to the side before pouring the pink contents of her shaker into a V-shaped glass. “You even have a girlfriend, Josh?”

  “No.”

  She places a lime twist on the rim and steps toward the bar. “Might want to get one first, huh? Before thinking about marriage?”

  I nod before sliding past her to the other end of the bar, where I take three orders in quick succession: four glasses of Chardonnay, an Amstel and a martini, two gin and tonics, and a whiskey sour. More drinks follow those, until Annie nudges me in the side a few hours later.

  “It’s one o’clock, honey, and I’m on the late shift. You can go.”

  My feet are tired and my hands are pruney. I’m more than ready to go home, but I know that sometimes Annie babysits her grandson in the morning, and an extra hour of sleep means a lot to her. “I can stay if you want.”

  Her smile is instantaneous. “You don’t mind?”

  “Nah,” I say. “Take off. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  She kisses my cheek before heading to the end of the bar and waving good-bye.

  It’s quieter now, and since we close in an hour, I can start cleaning up. As I look out over the thinning crowd, I see a couple making out in the corner and realize that Dina is still here.

  Dina and I have been flirting with each other since the first time she and Courtney walked through the door of Tidewaters last spring, and I have to admit: I always look forward to seeing her. It’s fun, just like I told Courtney. But for whatever reason, right this minute, I’m glad that it never went anywhere else. I’m glad it just remained a harmless flirtation.

  I come out from behind the bar and walk over to where Dina and Mr. Bond Trader are canoodling.

  “Hey, Dina,” I say, taking seven empty beer bottles off the table and weaving them between my fingers.

  “Josh-eee,” she says, pulling away from an intense lip-lock and looking up at me. “Hiiiii!”

  Her words are slurred and her lipstick’s smeared, but she’s in high spirits.

  “Hey there. You doing okay? You need a cab? Courtney left twenty bucks so I could grab you one.”

  “Court-ney! Ohmygod! I looooove her.”

  “Yeah. She’s nice.”

  “So nice! Literally, the nicest ever!” Dina agrees, nodding emphatically. “And you’re nice!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Under all that sex-eeeee-ness, you’re the boy next dooooooor.”

  I smile at her, shaking my head. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You know what? Ohmygod, Josheeeee! You should totally ask her out.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” I chuckle at her. “How about that cab?”

  She looks at the guy sitting next to her, who’s wearing half of her fire engine red lipstick around his lips. “You’re cute. Who are you again?”

  “Chip.”

  “Riiiiight. Are you takin’ me home or what?”

  He blinks at her, like he’s not entirely certain who she is, but he’s not going to let that get in his way. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. Let’s go.”

  His words are about as slurred as hers. A match made in drunken heaven.

  ***

  A week later, I find myself looking up at the door every few minutes, and it finally occurs to me that I’m looking for Courtney Jane Salinger.

  There’s no point in denying it: I’ve thought about her and our incredibly weird conversation about mawidge—thank you, Princess Bride—several times since
last Friday. More than anything, I want an update. Was her intention to “go home and figure this out” actualized? Or was it just the gimlets talking? She seemed so determined, I wouldn’t be surprised if she walked in tonight with a ring on her finger. As I pour a glass of Chardonnay for a lonely woman standing by the bar, the thought bugs me a little. I hope Courtney doesn’t do anything stupid.

  “Twelve dollars.”

  The woman places a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” It’s only five fifteen, so the crowd is still pretty thin. “Waiting for someone?”

  “My fiancé,” she says. “He works a few doors down.”

  “Stockbroker?”

  “Mm-hm.” She pulls out an empty barstool and sits down. The rock on her finger catches the light, refracting it onto the shiny chrome bar.

  “How long have you been engaged?”

  “Three months,” she says with a sweet smile.

  “When’s the big day?”

  “September.” She sighs. “Feels like a long way away.”

  I nod like I understand, not that I do. I’ve never even considered what planning a wedding entails. Hell, I’ve only been to a few weddings in my life, and those were when I was young and living at home. Most of my friends here in the city are holdovers from my New York University days, and not many of them are “marriage types.” Actors, singers, musicians, and playwrights tend to keep things fluid. You never know when your big break is going to come along and you’ll have to pick up stakes to follow your dreams.

  “It’ll be here before you know it,” I say, winking at her.

  She takes a sip of her Chardonnay. “Are you an actor?”

  I get this all the time. When I was in college, I had a professor who told me I had “the look” and encouraged me to go the acting route instead of the writing route. But my heart was—and still is—in my pen, regardless of how I look on the outside.

  “Playwright.”

  Her eyes widen. “Huh. Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met a playwright before.”