An Elegant Solution: Arranged Marriage Romance

by Rocklyn Ryder

  Table of Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  An Elegant Solution

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Michael

  Alicia

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Also by Rocklyn Ryder

  Untitled

  About the Wild Romance novels:

  Untitled

  About Rocklyn

  An Elegant Solution

  Arranged Marriage Romance

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Magpie Press

  Copyright © 2017 Rocklyn Ryder

  All rights reserved worldwide

  No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

  Sign up for Rocklyn's newsletter to keep track of everything she's got going on.

  ROCKLYN RYDER's NEWSLETTER

  An Elegant Solution

  Arranged Marriage Romance

  by

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Alicia

  I sigh and stir my second martini with the extra long toothpick that used to hold about 3 olives. Maybe it was 5? I don't know, it was an odd number, I remember that much.

  I pulled them off the stick one by one with my teeth before I took my first sip of this one. Chewing them slowly and carefully as I watched my mother and my aunt getting more and more excited about their plan and pretending to listen to the details of that plan while what I was really thinking was kill me now.

  Or rather, more along the lines of keep chewing so you don't tell them exactly what you're thinking.

  Which is also why I haven't downed this drink in a single gulp. It would sure as hell deaden some of the "touching a live nerve" feeling that this lunch is evoking, but it would also pretty much guarantee that all the responses I've been choking back would come foaming out of my mouth.

  Which just seems counter productive to my own self preservation.

  So here I am, stirring a drink I'd much rather slam down and politely nodding and smiling through a clenched jaw while my mother and her sister-in-law plot to marry me off to a stranger like it was the stone ages.

  "Alicia--"

  I hate the way my aunt pronounces my name, drawing the first syllable out with a long ahhhhh sound like she's trying to remember the rest of it.

  "--darling--"

  And then there's the "darling," like I'm 6 years old. It's so condescending.

  "Rhonda and I have been discussing this for some time--"

  And the way she refers to my mother by her first name, saying it like Mom is a stranger to me-- one of her snooty friends from the yacht club or what ever group is in with her social circles right now. Like I don't know my own mother or her first name.

  "and we agree that it's time for you to settle down and start a family."

  "You're not getting any younger, sweetheart," Mom interjects.

  Mom doesn't get many words in between Aunt Vera's constant monologue, and when she does say something, it's something like that. A quick, matter of fact point of observation in a tone tinged with something that's either a warning to keep me on my best behavior or an attempt to keep me calm because she knows I'm about to lose my shit.

  I manage to pull off the slight nod of my head but I almost choke-- full on choke-- when I try to make some sort of noise that they can interpret as my acquiescence.

  I finally break down and start sipping the martini.

  The idea that I am sitting at a table on a sunny patio at a posh San Francisco bistro actually nodding and smiling like I have any intention of going through with this plan is so absurd I can almost laugh about it.

  Almost.

  I take a longer sip of the martini-- a classic martini that would make James Bond proud-- because I know that no matter how surreal this all feels, Vera means it.

  Managing to smile without choking or crying or screaming or punching anyone, I set the glass down long before it's empty.

  "Well, Aunt Vera," I say in the politely syrupy sweet voice I mastered when speaking to my step-father's family when I was 8, "it certainly is a very nice gesture, but I don't think I need--"

  "Nonsense, darling," Vera coos at me with a limp dangle of her hand that seems more like she's shooing a fly off the centerpiece than trying to convey the "no trouble at all" sentiment that I know is what she's going for, "it's the least I can do. After all, if we leave it up to you, you'll wait till it's too late. Like Rhonda said, you're not getting any younger."

  My eyes plea silently with my mother to butt in, to talk sense-- modern, post women's lib, sense-- into her sister in law. Just save me already. Isn't that what mom's do?

  I see the look in my mom's eyes, though. On one hand, she knows that this arranged marriage bullshit of Vera's is insanity. She knows I am not going to go through with it and that it's only for her that I'm humoring this conversation at all.

  On the other hand, I see the sparkle in her eyes when she looks at me. I see the little upturn of her lips when Vera explains her "fabulous" discovery of this apparently "magical" marriage broker that-- Gasp! Can you believe it?-- is "actually" just down the coast from us.

  My mother is serious.

  Something inside me loses hope and shrivels up.

  My own mother is working against me. She actually wants me to go through with Vera's plan to strip me of my last vestiges of free will and personal choice in some old world ritual of letting anyone but me choose who I marry.

  "We've already begun the process, Darling," Vera is laying paperwork down on the table, lots of paperwork, "Ms. Swann just needs you to contact her directly now-- oh, and you need to fill out her questionnaire."

  Vera arranges about a reem's worth of papers back into the envelope and hands them across the table to me.

  I have no idea why she took all the papers out to begin with. Other than as some sort of show to prove to me that there really was a ton of paperwork in there or, more likely, in a last minute effort to memorize what ever's on those papers.

  My hand reaches over the water glasses, and the trendy little pots of fresh basil that this place uses for centerpieces, of its own accord. Lord knows I'm not putting any effort into taking that crap from her.

  "It's all very...personal," Vera winks at me, "She suggested you might want to return it directly to her, but I won't look at it if you'd rather have me take care of it for you."

  A shiver crawls across my skin. I'm sure my step aunt would love for me to trust her to "take care of it" for me. Whatever these papers are, I'm sure it's nothing I want Aunt Vera to be a part of...just like my wedding.

  "Thank you, Vera," I hear my sticky sweet voice
saying, "I'm sure I'll manage."

  The waiter brings our check and Vera has her credit card out and in his hand before he can drop it off. A few moments later, the bill is paid and Vera is ushering Mom and I out the gate without so much as a thank you to the poor guy who just put up with her without once losing his cool.

  I'm sure she undertipped him too.

  Vera does that puckered up fake kissing thing on each side of my face where she doesn't actually touch me-- she wouldn't want to mess up her make up. Which is fine by me, I don't want that shade of pink all over my face.

  Then Vera is on her way down the street toward the parking garage leaving me to finally get a moment alone with Mom.

  "I know, honey," she says before I can open my mouth, "but your aunt is right. You never meet any eligible men in your business, you're way too wrapped up in the shop to meet anyone, and you're not getting any younger."

  When she says "eligible" she means "straight."

  "Mom," I try not to whine, I'm too old to whine when I'm not getting my way,"this is ridiculous, you don't actually expect me to go through with this, do you?"

  "Well it would be nice to see you married, and your father and I wouldn't mind some grand kids you know."

  My father? I almost laugh at her. Stan isn't my father. He never has been. He's a good husband to my mother and he's certainly been good to me as her daughter, but referring to him as my father is laying it on a bit thick.

  My mother knows I'm onto her, she blushes and gives me a sheepish little grin, "I know it's a bit..."

  "Derogatory?" I offer.

  "Old fashioned," she corrects, "but this woman is very impressive and it's not nearly as..."

  "Demeaning?"

  "Primitive as it sounds. Just give Ms. Swann a call and talk to her yourself. Give it a try and keep an open mind, you never know," Mom smiles and brushes a stray hair off my face, "you might just find Mr. Right."

  "I'll talk to the lady," I promise even though I'm not 100 percent serious about it, "but this is over the top even for Vera, Mom."

  "I know, but she means well. I love you honey. Call me after you talk to the broker."

  Mom gives me a warm hug and then she hurries after Vera to the parking garage leaving me standing on the sidewalk wondering just what I'm going to do next.

  I look down at the thick Manila envelope in my hand. It has my name hand printed in neat letters on the front with Vera and Mom's names written in smaller letters beneath it. There's a label on the corner that says "Raven Swann, Professional Marriage Broker" with a web address, phone numbers, and a physical address that says this person is in Pacific Grove.

  Tucking the envelope under my arm, I turn in the other direction and head back to the shop.

  For Mom's sake, I'll read through all this stuff and look into this so-called marriage broker but I already know I'll be finding a way to get out of Aunt Vera's latest scheme to marry me off.

  I don't want to get married.

  Michael

  "What you need is to get yourself a wife."

  Jeremy doesn't even look up from his phone as he sits at my table and says it so casually I almost think I misheard him.

  "What the fuck do I need a wife for?" I should probably let it drop but I'm genuinely curious where he came up with this gem.

  My brother takes his time about finishing whatever he was doing and closing out the app before looking up at me.

  Jeremy leans back in his chair, letting the chair slide back on the wood floor of my apartment and kicking his feet out under the table as he takes a tentative sip of the wine I just poured for him.

  "Hmm." He sounds like he likes it, but the look on his face tells me he still hasn't learned to appreciate a good red.

  My older brother is a beer guy. Not even a beer guy with good taste in beer. He'd much rather sit in Mom and Dad's back yard under the big tree that still has the rotting remnants of our childhood treehouse up in the limbs, and drink some mass produced light beer out of the can with Dad than go to any of the gastro pubs or breweries within walking distance of my place here in town.

  Just the same, Jeremy and I have been tight since we were kids and I can occasionally knock back a few cheap beers with him in appreciation for all the times he lets me use him for taste practice.

  Most of the people that come through the restaurant these days don't have a genuine appreciation for wine, they're not looking for a high end recommendation, they just want something to go with their food.

  The guys who do order the expensive stuff do it to show off to their dates. Then they make the same face that Jeremy just made. Their dates don't drink it and I get blamed for not knowing my shit.

  That's what makes Jeremy the perfect Guinea pig.

  He puts the glass on the table, acting like he's just setting it there to warm or some shit-- like I'm not going to serve him everything at the right temp-- but I know his game.

  I pick up his glass and swap it out for another, another red blend that's a little sweeter on the palette, and I'm not at all surprised when his first sip of this one is met with more enthusiasm.

  "You were telling me that you're tired of the bimbos," he mentions.

  That's not what I said at all.

  I shake my head and dump the last glass before leaning back on the counter, "Nah, I like the bimbos," I grin, "I just need to find my way out of this particular situation."

  Jeremy laughs, shaking his head in his trademark way that says he shouldn't be surprised by anything I say but still is.

  "Yeah, let's talk about this 'particular situation' you mentioned. What'd you get yourself into that's so bad you needed me to come down here to bail you out?"

  Now my brother is sitting up in his chair, looking at me seriously, "You didn't knock some girl up, did you?"

  "Give me some fucking credit," I tell him, a little insulted that he thinks I'd be so careless.

  Jeremy visibly relaxes and leans back again, "OK then, hit me."

  Well now that I have to tell the whole story out loud, I realize how fucking stupid it sounds.

  No. Not how stupid the story sounds, but how stupid I sound for letting myself get pulled into it.

  "So I was sorta hooking up with this one chick--"

  Jeremy holds up his hand to put me on pause, "Just one?"

  "Dude, cut me some slack, I'm not that bad."

  My brother has been giving me shit since Cynthia Moore pulled me into the girls bathroom and kissed me on the lips in the second grade.

  Jeremy's 3 years older than I am and he didn't get a girl to put her lips on his till he was 15. Somehow I'm a player because the ladies love me.

  "Just saying, man, you've got a reputation."

  "You're fucking jealous."

  Jeremy laughs and I kick his foot where he's got his legs stretched out across the dining room floor.

  "Maybe used to be, I got a good thing now. You can have all the bimbos for yourself. So explain this situation."

  So I explain how I let myself get into a fake engagement to get Sandra's folks off her back.

  What the hell, you know? Sandra was fucking hot, nothing but legs and tits and long red hair. She could hold her liquor and her laugh didn't feel like a cheese grater against my ear drums. She makes her own money and she's a hell of a lot of fun.

  Right from the beginning, she was adamant that she was not looking for anything serious and that suited me just fine.

  Problem is, her baby sister was getting married. Her folks were giving her shit for still not being in something serious and so she hit me up with a plan to pass me off as her fiance to the family till after the wedding.

  It was a good time for 4 months but when baby sister's wedding was over and the family's eyes turned to us to set a date, "She didn't drop it. She didn't 'break up' with me. She tells me the other night that she loves me, man."

  Jeremy stares at me blankly and finally gets up and heads to my fridge rooting around on the lower shelf where he knows there's some of his
favorite brews stashed in the back where no one's gonna see them.

  "That's the dumbest damn reason I've ever heard for me having to drive 200 miles and drink your fancy grape juice, Bro," he deadpans as he pops the top on the can.

  "You act like you don't see the problem here," I say as I grab a seat at the table, "I have to come up with a reason I can't get married."

  Jeremy squints his eyes at me, "Like, oh hey, I don't know, 'Hey Sandra, this was a stupid joke we played on your family and now it's over. Peace out?'"

  It's my turn to squint at him, "Dude, you're not taking this seriously. It's-- complicated. You don't get it."

  "No man," Jeremy sits back down in his chair at the table and leans on his elbows, "I don't fucking get it. I don't get why you'd do a dumbass thing like that. I don't understand how breaking up with this chick is 'complicated' now. I don't understand why you're still running around with everything in heels and then bitching about how you can't find a good woman and I sure as fuck don't understand why you shouldn't go ahead and marry this Sandra chick...you know," he takes a pull from the beer and leans back in his chair with a sly grin, "other than your own mother is going to come un-fucking-glued that you went and got engaged without her meeting this girl first."

  "Why don't you just marry her?" Jeremy asks, "I mean, you said you like her, she's hot, you get along with her family."

  Shit. Maybe it was fun to play serious for a little while. Not that I'm about to admit that to my brother. My married with 2 kids already brother that's been hounding me to settle down since he did.

  Of course, the man does make it look good, I can't deny that.

  Maybe that's why I went along with Sandra's crazy ruse.

  I admit, it was fun shopping for a ring at the pawn shops. We found a nice one for cheap and now that I think about it, I should probably have noticed that Sandra never took it off.

  I was pretty settled for those few months. It felt good. Knowing where I was spending the night and what I was going to wake up next to in the morning.