by Nia Arthurs
Be My Always
Make It Marriage Book 1
Nia Arthurs
First published in Belize, C.A. 2019
Copyright © Nia Arthurs
Cover Design: Oliviaprodesign
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
1. Kayla
2. Brendon
3. Kayla
4. Brendon
5. Kayla
6. Brendon
7. Kayla
8. Brendon
9. Kayla
10. Brendon
11. Brendon
12. Kayla
13. Brendon
14. Kayla
15. Brendon
16. Kayla
17. Brendon
18. Kayla
19. Brendon
20. Kayla
21. Brendon
22. Brendon
23. Kayla
24. Brendon
25. Kayla
26. Kayla
27. Brendon
28. Kayla
29. Kayla
30. Brendon
31. Brendon
32. Kayla
Epilogue
A Word From The Author
Also by Nia Arthurs
Sneak Peek: Be My Forever
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
One
Kayla
The lifestyle reporter has a thing for smirking.
Or maybe he’s just trying hard to hold back a laugh.
He clutches a thick tablet in his pudgy grip like it’s an extension of his very self and slouches in his chair.
As if he doesn’t care.
As if we’re not mid-interview.
I tap my nails against the back of my phone.
Try and fail to tamp down my rising irritation.
To hell with this journalist-exposé-wannabe who thinks my life’s work is beneath him.
If I hear one more condescending question...
The smile remains on my face despite my rising irritation.
Media interviews are a part of my job whether I like it or not.
Whether this journalist is a prick or not.
I keep my voice level. “Matchmaking is still relevant.”
“In this age of online dating?” He smirks again. Yeah right.
“I help people make real connections.” My gaze slides over his overtly skeptical expression. “Even jerks who’d be better off staying single.”
The insult flies way over his head.
Disappointing. I was hoping to piss him off and cut this boorish interview short.
I’m so done with this guy’s B.S.
“Love can’t be manipulated by strangers.”
Shows how much he knows.
Manipulation is the name of the game. My mission is to cut through the screen-savers, the lies, and the catfishing and get to the meaty stuff. “Feelings can’t be controlled, but intimacy between like-minded people can lead to love. Our strategies have proven that.”
“Strategies? Care to share?”
I look at him with a frown and toss my hair over my shoulder. “If I told you trade secrets, it wouldn’t be good for business, now would it?”
“I guess so.” He laughs. A high-pitched, yapping sound.
Damn, he’s annoying. It’s difficult to stay seated and professional.
My fingers clutch the handles of my chair. I start to push up. “Is that all?”
“One more question.” He tilts his head to the side. Drops his eyes to my ring finger.
I know what’s coming.
Why do they always go for the jugular in these stupid interviews?
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I play dumb.
“Have you found love?”
“I don’t plan to.”
His face wrinkles in confusion. A matchmaker uninterested in her own romance? I understand. I’m not exactly fitting the stereotypes here.
But at least I got him to drop that stupid smirk.
I feel a pair of eyes barreling into me. From the corner of the room, Venus crosses her arms. Don’t mess this up.
Though my fellow matchmaker and friend isn’t actually saying anything, I can hear her loud and clear.
A wave of annoyance washes over me. Venus is much better at these inane conversations than I am. And she actually enjoys them too.
Too bad I’m the one suffering.
Interviews are supposed to be a reward for good performance. Something I’m guilty of. Highest number of matches three years running. Whispers around the office claim I’m Cupid.
It’s dumb.
And untrue.
I don’t fly around in diapers trying to impale my clients with arrows.
As much as I’d want to do that sometimes.
Impale my clients, not wear diapers.
If I don’t watch myself, Venus will catch up to my record soon enough and then she’ll be the one in this chair.
I’m sure she’s looking forward to it.
I used to at one point.
When I’d first started the job, young and starry-eyed.
Before Drew…
Well, I definitely won’t discuss that here with this ignoramus.
I shoot the reporter an innocent look. “Everyone is different, but my personal beliefs have nothing to do with our results. We have enough satisfied clients to prove we’re on the right path.”
Venus flashes me a thumbs-up from the sidelines.
I barely restrain the eye-roll.
When will the torture end?
The guy leans forward, intrigued.
Not now, obviously.
He slants me a smile. The first genuine one since I sat down beneath the blaring lights and introduced myself as a matchmaker. “How does it feel, giving women their happily ever after without getting your own?”
“Who said marriage is the only happy ending a woman can have?”
“If it wasn’t, your company would’ve gone bankrupt long ago.”
“Maybe people are just tired of hook-up culture.”
“Casual sex is on the rise.”
“Getting naked with a man for one night does not translate to a lasting, solid relationship.”
He arches an eyebrow.
I quirk my lips. “You want to talk statistics, let’s talk.”
“It sounds like you’re getting defensive.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“And that is?” He leans forward.
My eyes narrow. Last I checked, this was an interview, not a therapy session. I’ve been through enough ‘so how do you feel about that’ moments to recogniz
e when someone’s prying.
Damn him.
And damn his silly little magazine that’s clinging to relevance too.
But I can’t say any of that. I’m getting paid to promote my company and I won’t jeopardize my position because of this twat. “The point is… Make It Marriage isn’t a hook up service. We don’t use algorithms to sort through a million dating profiles. We help real people make real connections. My happy ending is wrapped up in theirs.”
He stares me down. Searches for signs of a crack he can exploit.
I hold steady.
Meet his gaze.
He backs off. Surrenders with a nod. “How noble.”
I shrug.
“Thank you for the interview, Ms. Montgomery. It’s been a pleasure.” Liar.
“I had a lot of fun.”
Okay. So maybe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.
He extends a hand.
I shake it firmly.
He holds on when I try to pull back. Barely-there lips curl into an oily smile. “If you’re free after this—”
“I’m not.” I yank my hand back. Subtly wipe it against the side of my red pencil skirt.
It won’t be the first or the last time a male interviewer asks me out after learning I’m a single matchmaker. It’s like a primal side of men awakens when they hear those words. Grunts of conquer, conquer echo in their head.
Lord, I hate it.
I hate all of it.
“Kindly see yourself out from here.” I rise from the chair and move to the door.
It’s bad manners to leave before the journalist, but I don’t have the patience to endure another moment.
A quick, staccato rhythm—stilettos bashing hardwood—tells me that Venus is following. The rhythm quickens. She’s behind me. Then in front of me, shooting me a dark look with equally dark eyes.
I try to lengthen my stride.
Doesn’t work.
Wavy reddish-brown hair slaps her back with each quickening step. “Did you have to shut him down like that? Now the last thing he’ll remember is your attitude.”
“I don’t owe him a date.”
Venus glances over her shoulder at the door I just vacated. We have an interview room here at the agency. It’s small and cramped and not very welcoming, but it’s not used for anything else.
Her gaze returns to me. “I’m not saying you had to accept. Just… cut him some slack. He shot his shot.”
“A severe miscalculation on his part.”
“Men like to fix things.”
“That’s assuming I’m broken.”
“And?”
“I’m not. I like being single. It’s ten times better than being in a relationship.”
“Says the woman who sets people up for a living.”
“I never said I was uncomplicated.”
Venus huffs. “You’re such a Scrooge. How the hell are you so successful?”
“Luck?”
“Maybe you really are Cupid.”
I groan. “Don’t you start too.”
Venus chuckles. “He might be on to something. When was the last time you’ve gone on a date?”
A date?
An ache springs to life in my head.
A hammer against my skull.
It’s immediate.
Painful.
I flinch. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m done with dating.”
I don’t even deserve to think about it.
Not after everything.
“How ‘bout a tryst then?”
I stop. A tryst? What are we? In the nineteenth century. “Would I summon the guy via carrier pigeon?”
“If you’re into that.” Venus smirks.
She doesn’t give a damn about my sarcasm.
Sometimes, I hate her too.
“There’s another bachelorette party tonight…” She wiggles perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Around here we have enough bachelorette party and wedding invites to fill the building.
“I’m not going.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Then why bother asking?”
“Because,” she slides in front of me, barring me from getting into my office, “you need to loosen up.”
“And letting a strange man of questionable sexual health screw me will help?”
“Exactly.” She winks.
“I’ll pass.” I try to move past her.
Venus slaps her palm on the door. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something tight and slutty.”
“Sure I will.” I gesture to the office. Out of the way.
Her playful expression sobers. “I’m worried about you, K.”
The words are sincere.
And she has a reason to be.
A reason I haven’t admitted to anyone.
Not even my close friends.
A reason that’s taken over my life.
When did I become so unrecognizable?
I pause in the doorway.
Another wave of hopelessness attacks me.
I didn’t start out being this much of a downer.
I was always on the quiet side but this…
It feels like I’m living life in a cage. A prison with no escape.
Work became my sunshine.
And sleep became my only way to cope.
I don’t even count the days anymore. They all kind of blur together in one big mush.
I’m not really living.
Maybe something does need to change.
Venus is already turning away when I push out a sigh. “I’ll meet you there.”
She whirls around, big smile on her pretty face and hope in her eyes. “In something slutty?”
“Goodbye, Venus.” I grab my door. Push it forward.
“Keep it low-cut,” she presses her face into the sliver of space left and gestures to her chest. “You’ve got a nice—”
I slam the door.
My headache worsens.
I’m already starting to regret this.
Two
Brendon
The bar is crowded for a Friday night. Not that I expected any less. My team is crunched around a booth, trying and failing to act like they belong here. Like they fit.
They don’t.
None of us do.
This bar is a popular lounge in the heart of an artsy suburb. It was made for hipsters with beards and dumb causes.
We’re clearly misplaced in our business suits and perfect ties and capitalist airs.
Not that I care.
If I have to suffer, I might as well suffer with a well-made brew.
A full mug lunges through the air. The suit next to me stumbles to his feet.
Terrence.
He’s already piss-drunk and we haven’t even been here an hour.
Every eye turns his way.
He grins. Revels in the attention. “Here’s to Brendon and another successful merger!”
I nod my thanks.
“And screw all the people who call you a puppet behind your back! You deserve this, man!” Terrence hoists his glass as he completes his toast—that somehow feels like an insult.
Everyone around the table squirms in discomfort.
Eyes dart left and right.
I offer Terrence an unaffected grin and lift my glass. “Cheers.”
Nervous hands scramble to join me. Shot glasses collide in the middle of the wooden table. Alcohol sloshes over pale hands and white cufflinks.
A rumble of ‘cheers’ answers the silence.
I pull my hand back. Drink to give my mouth something to do other than smile as if I want to be here.
As if I’m enjoying myself.
Who would?
I sit surrounded by Dad’s spies and brainless yes-men. Those who don’t fall into the two afore-mentioned camps resent the hell out of me.
Not that I blame them.
Everyone here is at least twenty years older. They’ve worked in this indus
try all their lives. Sweated blood. Tears. Time. Climbed the ladder, hoping, praying to get their break.
And then I rolled along with the last name Humes and the crown of nepotism sitting crookedly on my head.
Life isn’t fair.
I don’t give jack about who thinks I deserve my position or not.
It is what it is.
Today’s a celebration and I’m stuck playing the part until it’s deemed polite to leave.
The tequila goes down burning. A streak of flames pours through my veins.
Liquid fire.
So good.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Savor the rush. Welcome the contentment that swoops in to unwind my tense muscles and relax my stomach.
It’s been a hectic few weeks working this acquisition. I freaking deserve this.
My gaze seeks out Franklin. One of Dad’s men. “Best bottle?”
“They kept it locked away in the back. You’ve got to know someone who knows someone.” He chuckles. A dark, self-satisfied sound that tells me he’d do anything to keep his lifestyle going, even ride on the coattails of an enemy. “Your dad taught me that.”
Discomfort bursts around the table.
Dad.
The simple mention of his name sucks the air out of a room.
I look away.
A voice draws my attention back. “Speaking of, what’s the great Mr. Humes up to these days?”
That question’s from Sol. He’s sitting at the other end of the table.
Dark eyes bore into me.
I glare right back.
The guy plots my death in his spare time, but he hasn’t quit yet and he’s too damn good at his job for me to let go.
