Page 3 of Issued

In less thana minute, I’ll be meeting James A. Stephens, the man who’s assigned to be my husband, for the first time. A groan rumbles past my lips, my breath fogging the shield in front of my eyes. I clutch my left fist and downshift to third gear, and the loud whoosh of the wind against the bike drops a little in volume. The GPS alerts me through my earbuds that his house is three hundred feet away. What the hell am I thinking marrying a perfect stranger?

Oh, yeah. I’m homeless. My father was murdered. And the people responsible are walking free because there wasn’t enough evidence to convict the bastards. So, what better way for a fresh start on life than to volunteer to be assigned as a spouse to a member of the military? Didn’t sound so bad after everything I’d lost. Everything that was taken from me.

My heart hammers against my rib cage as my right thumb, ring finger and pinky reduce the throttle on my bike, two of my fingers always on the front brake. Some days, I wish I had a sibling, someone to grieve with over the loss of my father. After five months, the painful ache hurts as much as the day they lowered my dad’s coffin into the ground. I sigh and dip my shoulder as I lean into the unfamiliar turn of this street.

Virginia Beach, with its salty ocean air and the constant lull of crashing waves, is a fresh start. Complete with a roof over my head, medical benefits, and a built-in bodyguard. Not that I can’t protect myself, but when the person who killed the man I loved most is my former best friend that I’ve known since childhood, I’m at a loss. Marco knows me too well. And disappearing is the only way I can truly be safe.

When I overheard one of my former search and rescue teammates talking about the program at last year’s conference, I choked on my water laughing. An arranged marriage? Not my idea of happily ever after. But the sly veteran quirked his eyebrow in my direction and threw a five-hundred-dollar dare out, so I picked up my phone and made a quick buck. What were the chances my shoddy application would be picked?

I snort. I should’ve known better than to trust fate. But I had to go through the screening process. God only knows what the repercussions would’ve been if the military found out I wasn’t serious when I filled out the application. But since finding a match could’ve taken a while, I did have the option later to withdraw my application.

Except my circumstances changed in a terrible way. This new program is now about to become my saving grace... with a man whose name and address are on the piece of paper in my pocket. But who in their right mind signs up to be “issued” a husband, even with a rigorous screening process? At least I won’t have to look over my shoulder here. Or be reminded of everything that I lost at every corner.

My heart twists sharply at the memory of all that’s vanished forever, before kicking up to a rhythm of stampeding wild horses the closer I get to the two-story, cobalt-blue Colonial house where my future husband and the officiant are waiting. Holy hell, I’m going to be someone’s wife by the end of the day.

I pull up to the curb, kill the engine and push out the kickstand. Dismounting, I take a moment to look around while my ears adjust to the quiet after hours on the road. The landscaping is immaculate. The Ford F-250 looks brand new, or at least it’s washed and shined to reflect even the dimly lit morning. The rocks lining the walkway to the front door are perfectly spaced, like someone had laid them in rows by hand.

Everything is just... too perfect.

I close my eyes and mutter a prayer this man isn’t one of those people who has to line up his cereal boxes in size order. Or worse—alphabetically. Because I’m anything but organized. And I can’t cook for shit.

I shake my head and pull off my helmet and roll my shoulders before reaching back to rub along the crease between my neck and trapezius muscles. Upper body muscle kinks are the one thing I hate about long rides.

I take a deep breath and make my way up the stone walkway. Time to rip the Band-Aid off. This marriage is my choice. My chance at a new life in a new place. No sense in stalling now. Each step is slow and methodical until the heel of my boot strikes the first stair of the porch, while my fingers grip the white railing like a lifeline. My feet stall at the mat in front of the storm door, eyes unblinking and focused on the small eggshell button to the right. My finger stops merely a hair from the bell.

Somehow, my situation hasn’t felt real until this moment. The call from the Issued Partner Program committee the day after my house burned down was a miracle. I’d nearly forgotten about the application. The final interview had been three months prior and then radio silence. Perhaps fate does have something in store for me. I try again to press the doorbell but my hand freezes midair.

I shake myself.Get your shit together, Taya. You can do this.My finger crashes into the ivory button.Crap.Bending over and mumbling a string of curses, I yank at my finger joint to unjam it. The door clicks, and I recoil. A behemoth of a man stands in the entryway, tightlipped and unblinking. My earlobes burn from embarrassment. Every time I do something stupid, my earlobes decide they’d like to change colors. I hate it.

“Um, hi. I’m Taya.” I extend my hand.

The red-bearded giant stands there, arms folded across his chest. Staring.

I stare back, blinking. “I’m... uh... your soon-to-be wife. I guess. Sort of.”

“Not mine.” The gatekeeper smiles wide and steps aside, his arm holding open the door. “He’s inside.”

I curse myself. Perfect. I’ve already managed to misidentify the groom-to-be. And here I thought the most awkward part was over. Would’ve been helpful if the military sent me a color photo instead of a black-and-white, clean-shaven image. At least then I wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. I suck in a deep breath and squeeze between the meaty body in front of me and the doorframe, finally entering the foyer.

“Jim, your future wife’s here,” the giant bellows behind me, causing me to jump.

Inside, a low, smoky growl rumbles from the man leaning against the archway between the hallway and living room, thumbs tucked into the waistband of blue jeans, his frame seeming to take up the entire entryway. The bill of his green, tattered baseball cap dips down and casts a shadow over his eyes. His mouth twists into a scowl while the sunlight seeping through bay windows spotlights the hard angles of his jaw.

Pushing off his shoulder, the man stands tall, his head almost touching the top of the archway. The fingers of my left hand curl and the padding of my helmet squishes beneath the pressure as my mouth goes dry. His charcoal-gray T-shirt stretches when he folds his arms across his chest, the sleeves tightening around flexed biceps. His lips press into a thin line while his fingers drum against taut forearms. “You’re late.”

The corner of my eye twitches, and I bite hard into the wet flesh of my inner cheek, trying to contain the angry words threatening to erupt. While I’d like to blame it on being distantly related to the Huns, Mongolians are generally a calm race, contrary to popular belief. But he sounds just like my stepmother, who blew a gasket when we first met because I ran ten minutes behind for lunch. And growing up with the emotionally abusive bitch for a primary caregiver had been a special kind of hell, always having to defend myself and my actions to her. Maybe I should’ve looked for a program to be a mail-order bride to a yogi. Serenity would do me some good.

The redwood tree behind me glides past. For such a large guy, he’s not only graceful but makes no sound when he walks. Like a freakin’ ninja. He stops and his gaze bounces between me and my future husband, then smirks. “Officiant’s waiting. Let’s get this show on the road.”

My soon-to-be husband glares at the other man. “Glad you’re enjoying this, Bear.”

Bear—awesome name, by the way—continues to the kitchen and I follow with Jim taking up the rear. The tension in my body eases a small degree. Being between two large men, two SEALS, offers a level of safety I haven’t had in a long time. If only it could last forever.

I peek around Bear when we get to the archway. Holy shit. The kitchen is amazing and spacious. Everything is white, including the tiles of the backsplash, the gray granite countertops contrasting nicely. And the ceramic jars in size order. Countertop appliances lined up. Not a utensil out of place.

Just great.

My eyes drift from the stainless steel appliances over to the corner to the nook and my knees practically buckle. I can’t wait to sit there and read in the sunlight. Especially with the oversized windows.

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