Marry Me Now: An Arranged Marriage Collection

by Wylder, Penny

  We’re a family. Whole and complete.

  It’s a beautiful dream. A happy one.

  “Mara!”

  So why is somebody interrupting it? I shift against John’s chest and lean back to look up at him. His mouth moves, his lips forming words.

  “Mara, can you hear me?”

  It’s John’s voice I’m hearing, I realize, belatedly, somewhere in a distant part of my brain that’s slowly clawing its way back to reality. Back to consciousness, and to a world I thought I’d checked out of for the time being. I shift my body, and groan at the feeling. I can feel bruises all over me. My whole left side flares with pain, it’s hard to move my left arm, and my head throbs like crazy, as if someone stuck the whole thing in a giant wood press, crushing my brain between two hard blocks.

  “Mara, honey.” John’s voice sounds a little louder now, a little clearer. I roll toward him, moaning softly, and I feel his fingers twine through mine. Not the John of my dream, hazy and imagined, but the real one. Here, with me, beside me.

  My eyelids flutter, and the bright white lights overhead spark a whole new rush of pain throughout my body. I groan again, louder this time, and I hear other voices now. Unfamiliar ones, male and female, murmuring something.

  “—gaining consciousness, that’s a good sign. Mrs. Walloway, can you hear me?”

  My eyelids flutter again, and the hospital room swims into sudden, painfully intense focus. There’s John, propped in a chair beside my bed, his hand wrapped around mine. My free hand is covered in bandages, attached to an IV. Something beeps somewhere over my head.

  I blink, and another figure swims into view. A female doctor, flanked by two male interns, squinting at my chart. Before I can register anything else, John wraps his arms around me, crushing me to him.

  “Thank God,” he murmurs against my hair, kissing my cheek, my jawline, the corner of my mouth, until the doctor laughs softly.

  “Mr. Walloway, please, let your wife breathe,” she says.

  But when he releases me, it feels harder to breathe than it was with his arms wrapped around me. Still, he doesn’t let go of my hand, and I hold onto it for dear life as I blink around the room, still trying to get my bearings. It comes back to me in flashes.

  The ominous creak of that set piece overhead. Bianca’s wide-eyed stare, her soft gasp. Me colliding with her, and then my head hitting the floor.

  I don’t remember anything after that.

  “That was quite a knock to the head you took,” the doctor is saying softly, and leans in to peer at my face. “Look at me, please.”

  I do, and am rewarded with a sudden sharp flash of pen light directly into my eyes. I groan in protest.

  “Good dilation response,” she murmurs, checking my other eye quickly, before she grips my chin and turns my head left and right. “Any pain, Mrs. Walloway?”

  “Yeah,” I groan, my voice coming out scratchy and thin. “I feel like my head is in a vice grip.”

  “Hmm. We’ll give you another dose of Ibuprofen soon,” she says. “What do you remember? Any gaps in your memory?”

  “I remember pushing Bianca out of the way of the crash… then… I think I hit my head.” I frown. “Did I pass out?”

  The doctor nods. John looks furious suddenly, though not at me. It looks like he wants to punch something, though. Probably he’s mad about the set collapse, or the negligence of whoever let that rope fray so badly before they hoisted up something so heavy on it.

  I push the thought away. The doctor is talking again, and with an effort, I focus on what she’s saying.

  “I don’t want to give you anything too strong, painkiller-wise, given your condition, but so far Ibuprofen seems like it should do the trick. You’ll let me know, though, if you have any discomfort…”

  Condition. My gaze drops from hers, toward my stomach. Oh God. John. He doesn’t know yet. I glance at him, fear and worry warring in my mind. “John, there’s something I need to tell you,” I start, but he shushes me with a finger to my lips, leaning in to kiss my temple. It helps soothe the throb there, at least a little bit.

  “I know,” he murmurs. “I found your letter.”

  My heart leaps into my throat—and I know, because I can hear the sudden rise in beeping on the machine I’m attached to.

  “I’ll give you two a minute,” the doctor says, wisely, and she ushers her two interns out of the room with a gesture. I wait until the door shuts behind them before I risk meeting John’s gaze, not sure what I expect to see there.

  What I find is sheer, pure joy. Unmistakable. Mingled with relief, as he touches my cheek, looks me over. “You’re okay? Really?”

  “I’m okay,” I promise him, and he leans in to press his forehead against mine.

  “When I found out… when I read that letter, and you were already in the ambulance on the way to the hospital… Mara, I can’t tell you how worried I was. How much I feared losing you… and our child.”

  Our child. Two simple words. Two words that change everything. But his hand goes to my stomach, and when he caresses the flat plane of my belly, there’s no sign of hesitation or regret on his face. Only excitement.

  “It’s really true? We’re going to have a family.”

  I smile through a sudden sting of tears. Happy tears mixed with relief that my injury wasn’t worse. “It’s true,” I tell him, and he kisses me again, slower this time.

  My lips part beneath his, and I melt against him, sinking into that kiss, savoring his taste, the familiar part of his lips against mine. It’s crazy how just a few weeks ago, we didn’t know one another at all, and now I can’t imagine my life without him in it. I can’t picture a future where we aren’t together.

  When we draw apart, I lean my head on his shoulder with a contented sigh, our fingers entwining. “I meant to tell you this news under better circumstances,” I say, and I can feel the vibration in his chest as he laughs softly.

  “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re safe.” He kisses the top of my head again, his arm tight around me.

  The words strike a memory in me. Bianca’s wide, fearful eyes, and her expression as I tackled her out of the way. I sit upright again, my brow furrowing. “What about Bianca? She was there too; was she hurt?”

  John’s expression darkens again, just like it did earlier. “Oh, Bianca is just fine. I wouldn’t be too worried about her.”

  I frown. “What happened?”

  He tells me everything, then. About the fray in the rope, the cut Bianca must have made before the crew hoisted the set piece into the air. About her sister, John’s ex, and why she was trying to get back at him. “She claims she didn’t want anyone to get hurt, that she just wanted to frighten you, but…”

  I grimace. “She could have killed someone. She could have gotten injured herself, or the crew could have dropped that on their own heads.” I ball my fists, but John brings his hand to rest over them.

  “I fired her, of course,” he says. “I’ll press charges too, if you want.”

  There’s a beat where I consider it. I think about how John could afford to ruin that girl’s life. But then I shake my head. People like that are always the authors of their own worst miseries. And now she’s jobless, too, and no doubt with a black mark on her resume. “It’s enough to never have to see her again,” I mutter, leaning back into John’s side as his arm snakes back around me, his fingers tracing through my hair. “She really wasn’t hurt, though?”

  John shakes his head. “She was fine. Shaken up, that was all.”

  “Good.” I heave a sigh. “Is that crazy? I should probably hate her, but I wouldn’t want her to get injured. Even if it would have been her own stupid fault.”

  “That’s not crazy.” John kisses my temple. “You’re a good person, Mara. Maybe too good sometimes.” He smiles.

  I roll my eyes. “Lea always tells me that too. Actually, I believe her exact words are that I’m ‘sickeningly good.’”

  “I’m inclined to
agree.” He grins and kisses me again, softer this time. “It’s both the best thing about you, and probably your only flaw—that you can’t just stick up for yourself and be an asshole when you need to.” He winks. “But don’t worry. I can handle that side of things for the both of us.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes, shoving his chest gently. “You can’t be that big of an asshole, or you’d have already hauled that girl off to jail with six different restraining orders.”

  His expression darkens. “Believe me, I was tempted. Especially after seeing you injured… But I thought about you, and I figured you wouldn’t want me to. Not before I talked to you about it.”

  “Well. I guess we balance each other’s bad and good sides out pretty well, don’t we?” I grin and reach up to cup his cheek.

  “I love you, Mara,” he whispers, not for the first time, but it feels new all over again, sends a chill down my back and makes my belly tighten with excitement.

  “I love you too.” I reach down to cup my belly. “And I hope you love our child just as much.”

  “Believe me.” He kisses the tip of my nose. Then my cheek. My jawline. “I already do,” he whispers, his breath hot against my skin as he kisses his way lower. Down the edges of my collarbone, across the hospital gown I’m wearing. Until his lips reach my belly. He gently kisses me, through the thin fabric of the gown, hard enough that I can feel the heat, the outline of his lips against the soft skin of my stomach. “I can’t wait to start this family with you, Mara Walloway,” he murmurs.

  And with his lips pressed against my stomach, I realize I can’t wait for it either.

  Epilogue

  Mara looks incredible in that gown. It’s bright red, tight in all the right places. A cascade of glitter and silk. It flares in just the right place to hide the bump underneath.

  Less than a month now, until the newest member of our family joins us. I can’t wait to meet him—we opted to find out the sex in our last ultrasound. We’re having a boy. My parents would have been thrilled, if I hadn’t cut them out of my life for the time being.

  It won’t be forever. I’ll let them see their grandchild someday. It’s important to Mara that we rebuild a relationship with them at some point, too. After all, family is family. But for now, I’m strong-arming my parents until they behave and start to treat my wife with the respect she deserves.

  No more gold-digging comments. No more implying she’s some kind of kept woman, or anything less than the brilliant architect of the best reviewed play about to leave previews in this city.

  Tonight is opening night. Everything we’ve worked toward. And even eight months pregnant, Mara looks like the most beautiful woman on the red carpet tonight. She blows all the actresses out of the water, without even trying.

  And I’m the lucky man who got to show up on her arm.

  “How does it feel to be married to LA’s biggest startup heartthrob?” one of the reporters asks, and Mara catches my eye. I’m standing a little to the side of the red carpet, her purse tucked under my arm.

  One glance is all it takes for me to read her mind, and I step in, bringing my hand to rest against the small of her back. “Shouldn’t you be asking me that question?” I tell the reporter with a grin. It draws a laugh from the surrounding reporters. But it does the trick, too. I watch them jot down a note, and the next person to address Mara does it properly.

  “What were some of your biggest challenges in creating this set?” they ask her.

  Mara flashes me a grateful wink, and turns to answer for herself, talking enthusiastically about the design, the props, everything that went into giving this play the background life it needed.

  There’s already been buzz about the sets. Talk of award nominations. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mara wound up with awards on her first attempt out in this business. After all, it’s just the kind of perfectionist she is.

  Just the kind of career-focused woman I married.

  The reporters ask me a few questions as well, and I give my usual talk about Pitfire, about our goals as a company, and how this play ties into them. Toward the end, unprompted, I add a little about how it’s been working with my wife—about how she inspires me to push myself, to question my decisions, and to always improve on old ideas. To never settle for the easy way, the way everyone expects you to take.

  The reporters lap that up like kittens with spilled milk. I’m usually not one to give interviews about my personal life or to talk about my dates with the general public. But this is different.

  Mara isn’t some date I’ve got on my arm for the time being. She’s my wife. She’s my forever. And I’ll always be happy to tell the world how much better she makes my life and our work together.

  When we finish with the press gauntlet, we’re finally allowed into the theater. Mara loops her arm through mine, and I tug her close to my side, one hand slipping around her waist, then lower, unable to resist, tracing the familiar curves of her ass. She shivers against me, and shoots me a little half-annoyed, half-turned on glare. One I’ve gotten used to over the last eight months together.

  “You are terrible,” she whispers, but she’s grinning as she says it.

  “So that’s a yes, you will meet me in the bathroom in fifteen minutes?” I whisper back, one eyebrow arched, a grin fixed on my mouth.

  She rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to even watch the play that we just spent months preparing?”

  “We’ve seen the dress rehearsals approximately a hundred times,” I point out.

  “But this is different. It’s opening night.”

  “Which means the actors will all be nervous, and it will, frankly, be worse than the first rehearsal,” I fire back, and she laughs, but rolls her eyes in that way that tells me she knows I’m right. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

  I expect her to resist, but her lips purse, and she studies the balconies. Then, to my surprise, she shoots me a sly smile. “I have a better idea.”

  It doesn’t take us long to give the reporters the slip. After all, they aren’t allowed past the main lobby—except for the ones who have tickets in the orchestra section, down on the first floor. Mara and I climb up to the top together, and she slips a key out of her pocket. The key to the rear projector room—one with glass windows, and a view of the stage. But we put the sound board for this show one level down. The only things in this room are spare parts, extra bulbs for the huge spotlights… And a nice view of the stage, with our own private lock and key.

  “Good thinking,” I murmur, grinning as she pushes the door open. I don’t wait, but drag her through it, one arm around her waist, and pin her against the windows, my lips going to her neck, tracing down the line of her dress toward her cleavage. “I knew I married you for your brains.”

  “I thought you married me because I was the sexiest bad dancer you ever met,” she counters, wriggling her hips against mine to demonstrate. Between the bulge of her belly and the sexy shimmer of those hips, it’s enough to drive me wild. I trace my hands over her stomach, following the wide curve over and down, until my hand slides between her thighs to cup her pussy.

  She gasps a little, shifting against me as her desire builds.

  “That too,” I reply, grinning. “And for how fucking sexy you look in this dress… do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands off of you tonight?” I murmur, my hands sliding around to grip her ass, pulling her against me quickly.

  She can already feel the hard bulge in my suit pants, I’m sure. I’ve been hard as a rock since the moment we stepped into this enclosed space. “Probably as hard as it’s been to stop myself from getting too wet,” she replies, shimmying against me. “After all, I’m not wearing any panties under this thing…”

  “I also married you for your dirty mind, you know.” I smirk.

  “Dirty, or practical?” She arches an eyebrow with a grin, as down below us, the house lights dim, and the stage begins to brighten. “At least from here we have a view.”

  Gently, I
turn her around so she’s facing the window too. And then I draw her dress up, inching it higher and higher, my hands tracing along the hem as I do, fingertips trailing up the back of her thighs until I reach the crease where they meet her hips. I run my hands over her firm, tight ass, squeezing hard, drawing her back against me, grinding my hips against hers, before I dip one hand between her thighs.

  She wasn’t lying. No panties whatsoever. And clearly the wet factor really was becoming a problem. I stroke a finger along her soaking wet slit, coating my fingertip in her juices, swirling it against her entrance.

  “My wife really is impressively dirty,” I murmur against the back of her neck, my lips moving against her skin.

  She shivers and arches her back against me. “My husband sure knows how to tease and toy with me,” she replies, her breath so hot it fogs the glass she’s leaning against.

  Down below, the curtains part to reveal the stage she worked so hard on. The play that’s a culmination of my long dream.

  Our dream, now. Like everything else in our life, we share it. And we work best together. United.

  “You are incredibly talented, you know that, Mara?” I nod toward the stage. “Look at what you built.”

  “What we built,” she corrects softly, leaning back to kiss my cheek, even as I continue to stroke her slit faster, feeling her growing even wetter beneath my touch. “We did this together.” Her hips arch beneath me, and I suck in a sharp breath as her ass grinds against my rock-hard cock.

  “It’s sexy, how well we work together,” I reply.

  In the foggy glass, I catch the reflection of her grin. “I couldn’t agree more.”