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

by Nia Arthurs

  I get that Mrs. G is concerned but…geez.

  I should have listened to Venus when she warned me about her mother. Mrs. G can be a little… okay a lot—overbearing.

  But…

  Is it wrong that I love that?

  Having someone care that much about me is like a fairytale.

  Even when she yells at me for not standing up for myself, I just want to give Mrs. G a hug.

  Because I can see that she’s doing it out of love for me.

  And that feels…

  Freaking amazing.

  They all are.

  Evan, his girlfriend Corrine, Venus and Troy.

  Can’t say I’m not a little jealous. They’re all crazy in love.

  Especially Troy.

  He’s over-the-top, would-take-a bullet-for-her, in love with Venus. He’s always following her around, looking at her, smiling at her. It’s like he can’t believe that she’s right in front of him. Like she’s everything he’s ever wanted.

  And I want that for myself.

  Someday.

  If I ever…

  No, I WILL get over this.

  Venus says she’ll match me up with someone nice. Whenever I’m ready.

  I’m not ready yet.

  For now, I’m satisfied watching her tiptoe around with Troy, trying not to get caught sneaking around in her old bedroom.

  Mrs. G would flip if she ever found out how often they do that.

  Or maybe not.

  The bed is old and creaky.

  The headboard bashes right up against the wall.

  It’s not like they’re quiet.

  I think Mrs. G’s intentionally pretending not to know.

  It’s funny.

  They’re cute.

  Someday, I’ll…

  Someday…

  I’ll find someone who loves me like Troy loves Venus.

  Anyway, that’s not happening for a looong time. And I’m okay with that. Perfectly okay. When I’m ready, love will find me.

  I think.

  I hope.

  Alright, I think I’ve written enough.

  Goodbye for now.

  Grudgingly,

  Ina

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  Amina’s book, Be My Darling is coming soon. Turn the page for a teaser. If you loved the sweet, steamy and heartwarming romance of Be My Forever, you’ll love Be My Darling.

  Be My Darling

  Chapter 1

  Chandra

  “I give ‘em three years tops.”

  My heart lurches.

  I wrench my eyes away from the newly married couple on the dance floor. Twist my neck to level the drunken idiot my most withering go to hell stare.

  “What?” A burly white guy tips his champagne flute to his smirking lips. “You think I’m giving them too much credit?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on”—his eyes drop to the name card in front of my gold-rimmed plate with a perfectly proportioned meal of steak and vegetables—“Amina. We can be honest. It’s just you and me here at the Singles table.” He jerks his chin to the dance floor. “Our other colleagues are in the process of hooking up with each other or drinking off their loneliness.” He flutters his fingers in the direction of the open bar.

  I scoff. Unbelievable.

  “Do you have any idea how rude you’re being?”

  His eyes meet mine. “No.” He leans his elbow on the table. “But I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”

  “We’re at a wedding.”

  “Whaaat? I had no idea.” Brown eyes widen. Flecks of amber and honey break up the soulful hue. “No wonder they keep playing John Legend. I thought the playlist was super chill for a rave.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Depends on your definition of humor.”

  “I’m dying of laughter.”

  He chuckles. “Please don’t die on my account.”

  I study his pale cheeks and dark brown eyebrows.

  This guy isn’t drunk.

  He’s just obnoxiously stupid.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” He smirks.

  “I’ll bite. Why are you counting against them?”

  He folds his arms over his chest. They’re massive arms. Covered in a solid navy dress-shirt. Long sleeves. Suspenders.

  A basic white bro.

  All that’s missing is a backwards baseball cap and a beer can.

  “It’s not me that’s against them.” He points up. “There’s a higher power at work here.”

  I snort. “You’re bringing religion into this?”

  “Statistics.” He spreads his fingers. They’re big. Blunt. Like the rest of him. “Probability.”

  “Wow.”

  “Ever wonder why we throw huge parties, invite hundreds of people, and drop loads of cash just to sign a government document?”

  “Because… capitalism.”

  His laugh lights up his dark eyes.

  My lips tremble in tandem.

  I don’t know why I’m humoring him.

  Seriously.

  The guy is way too condescending to be worth my time.

  But I lean forward anyway. “Why?”

  “We’re minions.”

  “Alright then.”

  “We’re here to cancel all reasonable doubt.”

  “Doubt?”

  “Forever is a longtime.”

  “It’s romantic.”

  “It’s a prison sentence.” He cocks his head. “A ball and chain. They need validation from us to calm that niggling voice telling them to run as far as they can.”

  “You’re a pessimist.”

  “That or a genius.” He flashes a wide smile.

  There’s a dimple in his cheek, right under the corner of his bottom lip. A feature so adorable seems out of place on his conventionally attractive face.

  “You’re speaking your opinion as facts.”

  “Doesn’t matter one way or the other. Evidence is on our side.”

  “You’re saying I, by being here, am the villain of the story.”

  “The villain is society. You’re just the minion.”

  “Are you high?”

  “Perceptive.”

  “Then tell me,” I nod to the couple swaying on the dance floor. The groom has his arms wrapped around his new wife’s waist. The bride is pressed against him, her silk veil kissing his velvet tux.

  Kishana and Corbin.

  An adorable couple.

  I matched them two years ago, back when I was working at Black Love Matters.com. They’re the last of my long-term relationship clients to get married.

  Only took them two years.

  I couldn’t be prouder. Evidence in the loads of napkins I blew through during their moving wedding ceremony.

  “What are they—“ I point at Velma and Corbin, “thinking right now?”

  He taps his chin. Narrows his eyes. “‘All my friends are here. What will they say if I back out now?’” He tips his head in my direction. You?

  “‘I can’t wait to start the rest of my life with my soul mate’.” I arch an eyebrow top that?

  “If that version makes you feel better…”

  “Neither of us can read minds. Unless you’re about to tell me you have superpowers.”

  He motions to his face. “My power is superhuman good looks.”

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  This guy’s crazy.

  There’s no way he’s serious.

  No way.

  “So,” he leans back, smug, “who are you here for? The bride or the groom?”

  “Both.”

  “You knew them as a couple?”

  “I made them a couple.” How’s that?

  He nods, impressed. “So you are the villain.”
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  John Legend’s crooning tries and fails to wash his garbage from my ears. “How many refills have you had?”

  “Contrary to your desperate assumptions, I’m neither drunk nor high. Crazy?” He winks. “Maybe a little. But that’s a symptom of boredom.

  “Too bad. I’m having a great time.”

  “I’m going to believe that because I feel sorry for you.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re obnoxious?”

  “Not quite so blatantly.”

  “Hm.”

  He shrugs. “I’m curious.”

  “About why I’m still entertaining this conversation?” I take a sip of water. He’s blunt and cute—not my type, but still.

  The wedding just got a little more interesting.

  He smiles. The dimple peeps out. “About your skills.”

  “As a matchmaker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what?”

  He raises a brow. “Care for a demonstration?”

  “My time is expensive.”

  “You think I can’t pay?”

  I give him a once-over. His fingers are clean and trimmed, but they’re rough. Calloused. Could be because he’s a gym rat or because he does manual labor for a living.

  Moving my gaze back to his eyes, I lift a shoulder. “Unlike some people, I don’t judge a person without getting to know him first.”

  “Now when did I do that?”

  “You gave them—“ I jerk my chin in the bride and groom’s direction—“three years together.”

  “Which is rather generous considering most marriages fall apart in the first two.”

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

  “How about a dance with a brick wall?”

  I snort. “Right now?”

  He pushes away from the table. As he straightens, I realize that he’s much taller than I anticipated.

  Much.

  Definitely over six feet.

  The guy’s a bulky, painfully pale lumberjack—minus the crazy, unkempt beard and flannel.

  “Yeah.”

  “No thanks.”

  “You scared?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I dare you.”

  “What? You think this is third grade?”

  “I triple-double dare you.”

  Another laugh breaks free.

  Ridiculous. “Can you keep up with me?”

  “Only one way to find out.” He holds his hand out.

  It’s big, of course. Covered with a fine sprinkling of light brown hair. When I set my fingers in his, the shock of my dark skin against his palm is overpowered by how much his hand dwarfs mine.

  He wraps his fingers around my wrist. Yanks me toward the dance floor. Firm. And fast.

  The DJ shifts to Aretha Franklin. Her heavy, raspy voice croons about love and forever.

  Two words that were meant to be together.

  That so often get torn apart.

  Ugh.

  I don’t want to think like that.

  Fairytales have substance.

  Like gossip, they’re based at least partially on the truth.

  The world’s such a dark and ugly place. I breathe and move and take on each new day because I believe that love exists. Even if—as my dance partner so forebodingly pointed out, no… as my own attempts have proven—it doesn’t last.

  He wraps his arms around my waist. “What are you thinking?”

  “That you’ve got two left feet?”

  “Come on.” He makes a face. Rocks me to the right. “We haven’t even started properly yet.”

  “First impressions, bro.”

  “Bro?” He arches an eyebrow.

  “I never got a name.”

  “So you went with Bro?”

  “I can call you Jo. Mo. Bo. Which do you prefer?”

  He chuckles. Spins me. “Matt.”

  “Amina. But you knew…” something in the distance catches my eye—“that.”

  Matt notices my expression. He turns his neck, his gaze starting to move over his shoulder.

  “No.” I grab his face. Hold it in my palm.

  My heart thunders.

  Unbidden, my eyes zip back to him. He’s as handsome as ever, standing tall and proud in a navy, three-piece suit. Designer if I know him.

  And I do know him.

  At least I thought I did.

  What the hell is Gavin doing here?

  “Amina?” Matt mumbles.

  My body tightens.

  A knot winds tightly in my head.

  An alarm screams in my brain. Loud and shrieking.

  I’m not running away.

  Not again.

  As long as I don’t think about the night he—

  No.

  I’m over it.

  Done.

  “Um,” I run my tongue over my top lip.

  “What?”

  I study Matt’s face. Hesitate.

  Not running might cause a fight.

  Especially if I use a weapon like this.

  “Amina?”

  My eyes flit over his shoulder.

  A heavy breath gets caught in my throat.

  Gavin’s staring right back at me, his eyes drilling into my head.

  He saw.

  He saw me and—

  I suck in a deep breath. Glance desperately at Matt. “Kiss me.”

  His eyes widen.

  A figure moves toward us. A shadow in a navy blazer. Steady footsteps. Laser gaze.

  My heart beats like crazy. “I dare you.”

  “What?”

  My eyes return to the edge of the crowd. Meet Gavin again.

  His jaw cricks. Fingers tighten into fists.

  Something painful explodes in my stomach.

  Something toxic and ugly.

  Panic.

  I’m not ready.

  I can’t—

  Big hands grab my face. Fingers so pale they’re almost translucent. Carrying the fragrance of something earthy and manly. Unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

  The hands force my head away from Gavin.

  Then I’m falling into a pair of light brown eyes.

  Matt’s eyes.

  And those are Matt’s lips.

  Pink.

  Pink lips.

  I’ve never kissed someone with pink lips before.

  What am I—

  I can’t kiss some stranger.

  Some white man I don’t know.

  This isn’t…

  My body slams against his as Matt pulls me close.

  “You dared me,” he growls.

  He warns.

  And then he kisses me.

  Chapter 2

  MATT

  Her lips are full. Soft.

  Back at the table, I’d wondered.

  Not for long.

  I’m not a creep and it was clear she was nothing but amused by me. The way the quiet, studious types always seem to be when I open my mouth.

  But now, my mouth is on hers.

  And I don’t have to imagine what her lips feel like.

  Damn, they’re really as soft as they look.

  Tastes like cocoa butter too.

  She pulls back with a quiet “mmm”. Like she just sampled the best coffee this side of the Americas. Like she was waiting for that moment.

  Thick lashes bounce up. Down. Up again.

  A slender arm slides around my neck.

  Her fingers brush my ear.

  My body buzzes, pressing closer to her. Not quite getting the memo that this is happening randomly and thus deserves an explanation.

  Nah.

  My body’s not worried about explanations. It’s talking a whole ‘nother language.

  ‘Beautiful woman’—Caveman style.

  That’s all the reason it needs to send blood rushing south.

  I swallow. Inhale a deep breath.

  I’m not an animal.

  And there’s clearly a good story lurking here.


  I force my mind to hunt it out as a distraction from the mayhem that closed-mouthed kiss sparked inside me.

  Trying not to be obvious, I glance to the side.

  There’s a crowd around us. Dancers. Wedding guests in bare feet. Cheeks flushed. Half-drunk.

  No one’s paying us much attention.

  Except for one.

  A tall, dark-skinned guy in a fancy suit. He’s not dancing. He’s a stone statue in a sea of waving arms and gyrating bodies.

  And he’s staring at Amina. Staring at us.

  He looks pissed.

  It’s carefully controlled—smoldering beneath his twitching lips and his trembling fists—but I can feel it.

  Takes one to know one.

  Hell, if not for my high school wood-working teacher and my love of carpentry, I’d be gnashing my teeth and stomping around like Fancy Suit every day.

  I arch an eyebrow at Amina. “Ex?”

  Her eyes train on me. They’re slightly narrowed. Crinkling from her I’m so in love with you smile. “Ignore him.”

  The instruction’s delivered through gritted teeth, but it’s clear enough for me to understand.

  Okay.

  Ignore the huffing and puffing dude trying hard to act like seeing Amina with me isn’t driving him nuts?

  Easy.

  I can focus on her instead.

  Plenty to admire.

  She’s gorgeous.

  I noticed that the moment I caught her breaking down in snot and tears as the bride and groom exchanged their wedding vows.

  It was a social observation.

  She’s an attractive woman. Slender. Elegant. Sophisticated.

  All facts.

  I didn’t linger.

  Didn’t think I needed to.

  Until I saw her sitting around my table—dark skin glowing like there’s a fire inside her that can’t be contained, shoulders ramrod straight, eyes sharp, lips curling up.

  The way they are now.

  I train my eyes on her. Let a sigh break free from my mouth as her fingers slide up and down the back of my neck.

  “Matt?”

  “Hm?”

  Her nails lightly scrape my hair. “Is he gone?”

  I don’t want to look.

  Because a part of me doesn’t want to let her go.

  Crazy.

  I don’t know where that’s coming from. And if I inspect too closely, I’m sure any excuses I throw up will fall apart. So I don’t bother going deeper than the surface.