Be My Forever: A BWWM Romance (Make It Marriage Book 2)

by Nia Arthurs

  No. The answer is hell to the no.

  For obvious reasons.

  I’m naked.

  She’s hot.

  Eight years and I’m still mind-blisteringly attracted to her.

  She’s my best friend’s treasured sister.

  “I…” My body cuts in. Yes. Hold her. Take her clothes off. See what’s under that sexy little mini-skirt.

  Lord no.

  “I’m wet.”

  “I don’t care.” She waits for some other objection.

  I have none. Too busy wrangling the swirling thoughts in my head.

  Venus takes that as a sign of consent. Surges forward. Wraps her arms around me. Her hands slip against my side. Gather together at my back. Pull me closer.

  So close I’m sure she can tell I’m not impervious to her presence.

  And I’m not.

  Not now.

  Not eight years ago.

  She feels so freaking perfect. So soft against me. Or maybe that’s because my body’s so hard.

  Blood pumps faster in my veins.

  This is wrong.

  So wrong.

  She’s…

  I fist my hands at my side to keep them from sliding up her skirt. She’s doing this because she trusts me. She trusts me not to fling her against a wall, pin her there with my hip and thrust her panties to her ankles.

  Even buck-naked, she trusts me not to touch her.

  To treat her like a sister.

  To respect her.

  Even when the thoughts veering through my head are doused in so much filth they’d be blurred if filmed on screen.

  So I hold still.

  I don’t touch her because if I do…

  Yeah, I don’t touch her.

  But I’m aware of every inch of her body. Her chest scraping against mine. Her toes straining on the tips as she rises to reach me. The strain it must be causing on her calves.

  My body throbs.

  It’s too much.

  She’s… too…

  I want her.

  So I push her gently away and check the front door to make sure the coast is clear. If Venus snuck in, Evan can too and if my best friend finds me embracing his kid sister like this, staring at her like this…

  Venus’s arms return to her side. Her body shuffles away from mine.

  I’m still buzzing everywhere.

  My body’s still tuned to her, still rushing from every place she brushed.

  It was a hug, not a freaking orgy.

  Even if I’m naked, it’s not that big a deal.

  I’ve done worse.

  Much worse.

  With more women.

  Why am I so breathless?

  “You smell good.” She chuckles hesitantly. Backs away a step. “You look good.” She moves back again. “From what Evan tells me, your business is doing good.”

  I don’t know what to say. Her tone has shifted from admiring to thoughtful. Like we’ve transitioned from reunited friends to a police inspection.

  “What?”

  Brown eyes flit up. “You still want marriage?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. A wife. A family—one that’s way less jacked up than mine—it’s been the dream since… forever.

  She jabs her chin down like she just came to some grand conclusion. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  She lets out a deep breath. Meets my eyes. “I need a favor.”

  I tilt my head. Anything.

  Years ago, there was nothing Venus asked that I didn’t deliver. She had me wrapped around her little finger way before she had me panting for her touch.

  “Meet me for coffee tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she turns and stops at the door, “I’m going to find you a wife.”

  Four

  Venus

  I’m going to find you a wife.

  No. I haven’t gone crazy. And it’s not some ploy to get under his pants—or towel, as the case may be.

  I’m not the wife Troy’s going to marry.

  Even if I wanted to.

  And I don’t.

  I’m not delusional.

  Desperate? Maybe.

  I’ll give you that.

  But those feelings aren’t something I can control.

  The moment I saw Troy, I wanted to touch him.

  Instantly.

  Like my body had been waiting for that moment, holding it’s breath for that moment, since… forever.

  The thought of not putting my hands on him almost tore me to pieces. So I gave in to it. I pressed myself to that big, muscular body and soaked him in like the first drop of rain after a drought.

  I rasped my hands along the smooth skin of his back. Felt the plains of hard muscle and bone beneath my fingertips. Inhaled the scent of brown orange body gel and something else. Something pure Troy.

  I welcomed him home.

  As a friend.

  Just a friend.

  And that’s all we’ll ever be. All Troy will ever allow.

  That unreciprocated hug told me more than a thousand rejections. The moment I wrapped my arms around him, Troy fisted his hands at his sides and held himself so stiffly I thought he’d break in half if I squeezed him any harder.

  I wanted to cling to him and all he wanted to do was shrug me off.

  Even now, eight years later, Troy doesn’t see me as a woman.

  And that’s fine.

  Whatever.

  Do I look like I care?

  I’m grown and over my schoolgirl crush.

  Now, I’m a matchmaker on a mission.

  My mind thumbs through the eligible, high profile females in the system as I hustle down the street.

  Judy Carter?

  She’s a media darling. Charity worker. Daughter of a Supreme Court judge.

  I imagine her standing next to Troy. Smiling up at him for the cameras.

  Nah…

  My heels click against concrete.

  Winter Quan?

  She’s the C.E.O. of her own luxury pajamas company. Really bright and chatty. She’d get Troy’s passion for both business and the arts. They’d really click.

  But just as friends.

  My skirt slaps my thighs.

  I peek over my shoulder. My eyes graze the stop sign. The trees bending over a fence. A bird skittering by a lamppost. The feathery creature’s twittering breaks the silence.

  I’m alone.

  Troy isn’t coming after me.

  Not that I expect him to. He’s probably still frozen in the middle of his living room, a gorgeous statue, deliciously naked except for that towel, dark hair limp and clumping on his forehead, water dripping down his abs to his—

  Ahem.

  Business.

  This is just business.

  And if I get to spend a little more time around Troy while I fix him up with his future wife, well, it can’t hurt.

  A dog barks in a neighbor’s yard. The sun is beating down on me. I stick the flat of my hand against my forehead for shade and hustle down the street.

  Familiar landmarks catch my eye. The Jamaican restaurant Mom ordered from almost exclusively when we immigrated here. The liquor store. The park where Troy and Evan played ball with the other neighborhood guys on Sundays.

  Sometimes, after their game, Troy would push me on the swings.

  I’d laugh and scream ‘higher’.

  He always made me soar.

  Well, not always.

  At first he and Evan used to run away from me, but I was persistent if nothing else. Mom was on my side back then. She forced Evan to take me along wherever he went.

  Eventually, they tolerated me.

  But Troy…

  He was always kind, even when he was annoyed.

  Those deep, dark eyes always made me feel… important. Like I—we were the best things to ever happen to him.

  And he was the best thing that ever happened
to me.

  Shoving the memories away, I turn the bend. A familiar bungalow squats at the opposite end of the street. Whipping back around, I mentally measure the distance between Troy’s place and my old home.

  Troy moved close to Mom’s.

  That proximity is on purpose. He’s been a part of my family since… well, as long as I can remember.

  It’s why his abrupt decision to leave after my eighteenth birthday made no sense.

  And… also why I tried to fight my feelings like mad when I first fell for him.

  If he were any other guy, I wouldn’t have cared that he was eight years older or that he saw me as just a kid. I would have done everything in my power to change his mind.

  But Troy’s…

  He’s so important.

  It wasn’t worth the risk or the damage it would do to the dynamic between us all. And losing us… it would have ruined him.

  The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt my first love.

  So I held it in as best as I could.

  I did a damn good job.

  Troy still has no idea how I feel—I mean felt, past tense.

  And, as long as I’m living, it’s going to stay that way.

  The porch creaks as I mount the wooden steps. Hibiscus plants bloom in earthen pots next to the door. The flowers grow abundantly in Belize and the first thing Mom did when we moved to America was plant them.

  The screen door is locked so I pound on it with my knuckles. “Ma!”

  Shuffling sounds.

  A moment later, the door bursts open. An object—that looks suspiciously like a slipper—hurls past my head.

  My life flashes before my eyes.

  I feel the gust of wind as it shoots by my face and lands on the second step with a thud. Mom meant for that to miss. There’s no way I would have dodged the missile if she intended for it to smack me.

  “Glad to know you’re not dead.”

  “Was the shoe necessary, Ma?” I sigh and step into the house.

  Dark eyes narrow on me. “You disappeared for weeks without so much as a text. I should have done worse.”

  “I’ve been…”

  “Busy.” She rolls her eyes, which is an art form for Caribbean women. “Too busy selling women to their sugar daddies?”

  Here we go again. “Mom, that’s not what our agency—we don’t sell women. We match like-minded people with their soul mates. We’re not johns. We don’t ‘pimp’. Not unless you call arranging a meeting between a sweet teacher and a shy hedge fund manager to talk about their hopes and dreams… ‘pimping’.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “You know exactly who’s paying for these services. It’s all shady. Don’t try to pretty it up.”

  “Mom…”

  She flaps her T-shirt like she’s trying to cool down. “I spent so much money on that damn Economics degree and you’re letting it go to waste.” Mom paces to the left. “Do you know how expensive college tuition is?”

  “Yes.” She never lets me forget it.

  “Then at the very least, you should have become a doctor like your brother.”

  At the very least… “Mom, you can’t just become a doctor.”

  “You’re smart enough to.”

  “Medicine isn’t my passion.”

  “And pimping is?”

  “Matchmaking. It’s called matchmaking.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s called Letting My College Degree Go To Waste.”

  I rub my forehead. She doesn’t understand. She never understands. “See, this is why I—”

  Mom’s huff of disappointment cuts me off. “What?” She plants her hands on her wide hips. “That’s why you moved out?”

  Yes. “No. Of course not.”

  “It’s what you were going to say.” She points an accusing finger.

  I bite down on my lip to keep my temper in check. With gritted teeth, I ask, “What did you summon me for?”

  Mom goes quiet.

  “What, Mom?” I let the frustration seep into my voice.

  She fiddles with a lock of her short, straight hair. Despite the shedding, the breakage and the dryness it’s caused, Mom’s dedication to relaxers is rock-solid. One of our major arguments when I was a teen was my decision to wear my hair natural.

  ‘Feggy’ was what my mother called my natural hair in Creole.

  ‘Crazy’ was what she called it around non-Caribbean company.

  “Did you eat?”

  I stare at her.

  “Did you?”

  “Only breakfast,” I mumble.

  “You always do this, Venus. Do you think you’ll blow up like me if you eat three meals a day?” She gestures to her substantial girth. Dark eyes narrow. “I made your favorite. White rice and stew beans with fried fish. Eat.”

  My stomach grumbles.

  Mom’s got supernatural hearing because a corner of her lips tilts up in victory. “Don’t bother telling me you’re hungry or busy.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She snorts yeah right.

  I follow Mom to the kitchen. The smell of authentic Caribbean cooking unfurls around me, dragging me back to my childhood. I don’t remember much about Belize, weirdly. But I do remember how much I enjoyed the food.

  Mom darts around, filling a large plate with rice and beans for me.

  I watch her, my elbow slipping against the plastic covering the small dining room table. She puts her all into plating my food, as if she’s been waiting for this moment since we last saw each other.

  Warmth spreads in my chest. We don’t really get along—our personalities just don’t mix well, but I’ve never doubted for one second that my mother loves me.

  Not one.

  It’s just… I can’t live with her.

  Mom sets the plate in front of me and I dig in. The beans are soft and flavorful. Practically melt against my mouth. Ecstasy.

  I groan in pleasure. So good.

  Mom taps her blunt, brown fingers on the table. They’ve got callouses and wrinkles. The hands of a woman who did manual labor for twenty-five years to achieve the American dream.

  “Troy’s here,” she blurts.

  I almost choke on a fish bone.

  Mom hands me a glass of water, which is blurry thanks to the tears in my eyes. “Ma!” I choke.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head.

  “We’re having family dinner next weekend.” She slants me a be there or die look. “Family. Meaning everyone. I don’t want to hear that you’re busy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My mind whirs.

  So… my brother knew Troy was here.

  Mom knew too.

  The fork clinks against the plate.

  The only person Troy didn’t talk to was me.

  Five

  Troy

  I talk Evan into meeting me at the park. His lab coat flutters against his brown skin. Underneath the coat, he’s in a button-down shirt and pressed black pants.

  At least he’s wearing sneakers.

  Evan follows my line of sight and smirks at his shoes. When he glances back up, his eyes are mischievous.

  The same twinkle Venus has.

  Not that they look extremely similar.

  My best friend has darker skin and broader features.

  But the eyes are the same.

  Evan grins, his lips stretching across his face. “I would’ve kicked your butt in Crocs too. Don’t worry.”

  I scoff and toss him the ball.

  He catches it soundly. Bounces it on the concrete with one hand. Shrugs out of his white coat with the other.

  The sun lowers in the sky.

  Kids move in and out of the playground.

  It all fades to background noise.

  Nothing outside this game, outside this court and this basketball hoop exists.

  I win the first round.

  Evan’s stubbornness forces us to play a second.

  Then a third. Then a fourth.

  The
sun sets.

  The streetlights flick on.

  Evan heaves a breath and grabs his kneecaps. “Damn, Troy. You’ve been prepping for the NBA or something?”

  “Or something.” When Brook and I used to argue, instead of raging on her, I let my frustration out on the court. Towards the end, I spent most of my free time perfecting my three-pointer.

  Evan shoots me a look. A brotherly, concerned you’re freaking me out, man look. The one he used to give me back when we were kids.

  The one he gave me the day we first met.

  “You have any lunch, New Guy?”

  “No. And piss off.”

  “Shut up. No one tells me when to take a piss. Now here, Mom made too much rice and beans. Take some of mine.”

  “Troy?”

  “Water?” I divert his attention. Shake the memories off.

  Evan pants hell yeah.

  I gesture to the duffel I brought with me.

  Evan trudges to the bleachers.

  I turn the ball in my hands. Adjust my body in line with the hoop. Bend my knees. Aim. Let the ball drift from my fingers.

  Swoosh.

  Perfect.

  Nothing but net.

  Evan’s dark eyes flit to mine. He grips the water bottle in his taunt fingers. “You want to talk?”

  “About?”

  “Why you’re flogging my behind your first day back?”

  I scowl not really.

  But Evan doesn’t care.

  He guzzles the water. Wipes the little bit that dribbles on his chin with the back of his hand. “Let me guess. Brook?”

  No. Venus.

  I suck in a deep breath.

  Shrug one shoulder in a loose, I don’t give a damn gesture.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “You just attacked the court like it stole your girl. That’s not the sign of someone with a balanced and healthy mindset.”

  “Didn’t know you studied psychology.”

  The snark fails to get Evan off my back.

  “So you got dumped?”

  I freaking didn’t. “Ev…”

  “Everyone’s been heartbroken at one point or another.”

  Sure.

  “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

  Yeah.

  True.

  But there’s only one fish with reddish-brown hair that frizzes and curls however the hell it wants to. Only one with bright, come and get me eyes and a soft mouth just begging to be kissed.