Page 5 of Matched

“No clue.” He grins and puts his feet up on the coffee table. My coffee table. The wooden square that I’d picked out myself and would rather remained boot-free.

Jim runs a hand through his hair and his jaw ticks. “What’s ‘not cool’ is the fact I took the day off to help your ass move at the last minute, and you won’t even help carry the boxes.”

The doorbell rings again, snapping everyone’s attention to the storm door where an older man in a dark-gray suit stands. His black hair is neatly cut and sprinkled with gray, and rectangular, wire-framed glasses perch on his nose. In his hands, he holds a manila folder.

The officiant is here.

My heart beats erratically, nervousness replacing my ire. I’m about to get married to Tony. I swallow as I glance at my soon-to-be husband, then back to the officiant. Taya joined the IPP program because she’d been desperate to escape New York. But for me, well... I’m thirty-one years old and haven’t been in a relationship for longer than a few weeks. Something always goes wrong, like with the married jackass I took to Taya’s wedding. One time, after a nasty breakup with husband number three, Mami had a little too much to drink and told me the women in our family were cursed when it came to love. I scoffed back then, but as time marched on, well, part of me started to worry that she had a point. Which especially sucks given the way my biological clock ticks double time whenever I’m around Bear and his family or listen to Taya talk about Jim, making the lonely ache in my chest burrow a little deeper.

The officiant clears his throat.

“Inara?” Taya says gently.

I blink and look over my shoulder to find everyone is staring at me. Waiting for me to invite the man in, since it’s my house.

I steal a sidelong glance at Tony and gulp. At least, it was my house, until today. Now I guess it’s our house, technically speaking. Which is exactly what I wanted, right? A husband and someone to help me keep this place now that the landlord raised the rent.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and head over to the door to let the officiant in. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The officiant heads into the living room where Taya and Jim are seated. After saying a perfunctory hello to the two, he places his briefcase on the coffee table, then pulls the papers from the manila envelope in his hand. While he thumbs through them, the tension builds. To keep myself from hyperventilating, I mentally retrace the steps that led me here.

During the final interview, the member of the committee assigned to me explained how the military hopes the program will reduce the divorce rates among Spec Ops personnel by pairing them with compatible spouses. Up to that point, I’d been wavering a little, but that knowledge had sealed the deal for me. I didn’t want five husbands. I didn’t even want two. I wanted a partner I could count on to stick around. Since choosing her own partners hadn’t worked out for my mother, I figured maybe the solution was in letting experts pick for me.

Except... now I’m stuck with Tony. The man standing right next to me, shooting me wicked grins that I’m trying my best to ignore. God only knows why he signed up for the program. No one seems to know, and Tony is keeping his lips sealed. I’m hoping the big guy upstairs has the answers as to why the committee figured Tony and I would be a good match because our interactions have proven anything but.

I lift my chin. I can only hope Tony will take the program seriously because I am not getting married again. This is my one shot and, as much as Tony grates my nerves, I will make our union work because, when it comes to marriage, I refuse to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

I suck in a deep breath and try to calm myself down. I’m not the only one who signed up for the program. Tony did too. No one forced him into this, which means he’ll have his own reasons to make this mismatch work. Right?

The sound of the manila folder smacking the coffee table jerks my attention back to the officiant. He stands up straight and smiles at Tony and me. He explains to us he is here to both witness our consent and to validate the marriage for legal purposes.

This is it, then. No going back after this. I lace my hands together to hide their trembling as we recite the vows, Tony’s deep baritone voice a bit too loud in the enclosed space. When we finish, the officiant flips to a page marked with a Post-it. “I need both of you to look over the marriage license. Make sure your information is accurate and then sign it. Once that is complete, I’ll have your witnesses sign it.”

I take it and glance over my information. Everything is perfect. I grab a pen from the table and swallow past the lump in my throat as I scribble my signature on the empty line. Then I hand the license over to Tony. When he is done, he hands it back to the officiant.

Once the man completes his section of the license and Taya and Jim sign off, we all walk the man out. My shoulders sag as I sigh, not sure if I am relieved or sad. Either way, this is my life now.

The four of us make short work of moving the rest of the boxes out of the bed of Jim’s truck after the officiant drives off. Not that carrying in ten boxes would take anyone very long. Plus, what little Tony has isn’t all that heavy. Everything he owns fits in the entryway in three neat stacks.

I stare and my chest tightens. I’m not sure what bothers me more—the fact that Tony’s entire life could probably fit into my closet, or the fact that he will have a toothbrush in my bathroom. Panic tries to dig its claws into me, but I shove it away.

I glance outside. Jim is heading to his truck, scanning the middle-class neighborhood I’ve called home for the last five years. His shoulders are tense, hands ready at his sides, searching for signs of a threat. I turn away, unwilling to draw Taya’s attention to him and remind her about Santoro.

I extend my arms out and around Taya, hugging her goodbye. “Now go be with your man, and let me deal with this moron who I’m now married to.”

She makes a strange choking sound that ends in a laugh and pulls away. “If you need someone with a shovel, just give me a call. I’m sure we have an extra tarp in the garage somewhere too.”

Once she’s in the truck with Jim, I close the door and lean against the wood frame, some of my bravado leaving with my best friend. What am I supposed to do now with that man parked on my couch who’s expecting God knows what today from this ludicrous arrangement? Mierda. Surely he doesn’t think we’re going to jump straight into bed? My pulse pounds in my ears, my heart racing from a dizzying mix of anxiety and some other emotion I’d rather not examine too closely.

After straightening to my full height and pulling my shoulders back, I head into the living room. Tony is scrolling through Netflix but when he stops and looks up at me I’m struck, yet again, by how handsome he is, how imposing, even while sitting. It’s almost impossible to catch a breath when in the same room as a man who takes up so much damn space.

Then—as if by design—he ruins my silent appreciation by opening his damn mouth. “Where do I sleep, by the way? Is there like a guest room, or do you have bunk beds in the master bedroom? Not that I would mind sharing, but I really like bunk beds.”

Bunk beds.

I’m nervous about, oh, potentially being trapped with the wrong person for the rest of my life, and Tony’s talking about bunk beds. I grind my molars. Are my hands too small to wrap all the way around his stupid neck? On the plus side, my nerves have all but disappeared. Now I’m just irritated.

I huff and stomp down the hall to the linen closet where I grab a blanket and pillow. I return and chuck them at his lap with no small amount of satisfaction and then lean down and pat him on the cheek. “Oh honey, I have the next best thing. It’s called a couch.”

The disappointed slump of his shoulders gives me both a sense of satisfaction and sympathy as I spin and strut down the hall for the comfort of my own room for the rest of the evening. The man has been deployed and I’m asking him to sleep on the couch. But then again, this is Anthony Martinez and sharing my bedroom right away will give him the wrong impression. A marriage isn’t built on sex.

So for now, the couch will have to do.

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