Page 1 of Bitter Arrangement

Chapter1

Riley

Riley McGrath, 22.

Alexan Sarkissian, 30.

Baltimore, Maryland.

Seven weeks until the wedding.

They sayrobbery is the best way to get to know a man.

Well, okay, I doubt anyone in the history of the world ever said that, but it’s probably true.

At least, it felt true when I came up with it last night.

Right about now, as I use a Slim Jim to jam open the lock on this back window in the middle of the day?

Not so much.

Still, come on, there’s some logic here. People are their truest selves at home, right? And a person’s stuff can tell a compelling story about who they are. My thinking is I’ll never get to know my arranged husband before we’re forced into this stupid marriage without taking some drastic steps.

So I’m going to rob him.

My cousin Liam made it pretty clear that I’m supposed to stay far away from Alexan Sarkissian until I walk down the aisle and sell myself to him. And as the head of the McGrath clan, one of the most influential and powerful Irish crime families on the Eastern Seaboard, what Liam says is immutable law.

But unfortunately for basically everyone that knows me, I’ve never been the kind of girl who follows orders.

So instead of meeting Alexan at some nice gastropub for overpriced burgers and mediocre hoppy beer, I’m going to break into his house.

Seems like a super reasonable and solid plan.

No possible way this could go wrong!

“Open up, you piece of crap stinking bastard.” The window lock suddenly clicks, and the frame cracks as my tool pries too hard. I curse and slip it back out before sliding the top sash upward.

I get a waft of cool interior air to combat the muggy summer afternoon.

“Okay, hard part done,” I mumble to myself as I hoist myself over the ledge and tumble down into a spacious, modern kitchen. I brace myself on the counter and deftly flip onto my feet, landing with a little flourish as I bow to invisible judges. “Thank you, thank you, oh, no need for the perfect tens.”

It’s a nice house in a decent Baltimore neighborhood. The interior’s clearly been redone in the last few years. The hardwood gleams, and the counters are all pristine, almost like they’re never used. I spot only the most basic evidence that a human actually lives here: healthy food in the refrigerator and a neatly stacked pile of history books on the coffee table.

Otherwise, it’s pristine. Almost sanitized. It’s like a tomb for an Instagram influencer or something.

I head down the hallway, heart pattering. It’s a little past noon, and I’m sure nobody’s home, but there’s always the chance I’m wrong. Most amateurs think slinking around in darkness is the way to go, but breaking into a house at night is stupid since people are more likely to be around.

Most regular humans are working in the afternoon. More and more jobs are remote, which complicates things, but my bet is this guy doesn’t sit around his house.

I suspect there aren’t many stay-at-home members of the Armenian Brotherhood.

Upstairs is just like the first floor. Clean almost to the point of obsession. There’s an extra bedroom, tidy and untouched, an office with a huge computer setup and a couch against one wall looking like it’s never actually touched by human hands, and a spacious master. A huge four-poster bed dominates the gray area rug. The furniture is wooden and gleaming, polished to a shine. Watches are lined up on the bureau, and there’s a desk in the corner with another huge computer. Fans whir quietly from the tower next to the monitors.

“What a neat freak,” I whisper to myself as I peer into his closet. I like the way it smells: cedar, nutmeg, masculine. I grab a white dress shirt at random, feeling that old familiar thrill of doing something very, very wrong. It’s Armani and expensive. I stand in front of a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and hold the shirt up against my body.

It’s huge. It would fit me like a dress. And for whatever bizarre reason, I want it.

Maybe it’s the way the shirt smells. I breathe it in, holding it close. Soapy in a good way. Citrusy and fresh.Hissmell, whoever he is. I smile, tilting my head, wondering what the man that wears this shirt looks like.

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