Page 6 of The Alpha's Mail Order Bride

It was a welcome distraction, too, from the looming end of their lease. Suzanne wasn’t home much—she was moving her things into her fiancé’s apartment, where the two of them planned to stay until construction on their home was finished. Claire tried to ignore the creeping sadness of it, the way every time she emerged from her room the place felt a little more bare, a little less like the home the two of them had shared. The two of them had moved at least a dozen times during their long tenure as roommates, but this was different. They’d never been moved to different places before.

“I can’t believe it’s our last weekend,” Suzanne said wistfully as she poured the wine.

“Our last weekendhere,” Claire corrected her firmly. “Good vibes only on Wine and Trash Night.”

“True, true. Far be it from me to violate a sacred institution.” The two of them clinked their glasses together solemnly before hitting play on their final trashy rom-com. It would be the last night they could watch anything together; over the weekend, they’d be moving the bulk of the furniture to a storage container, including the television. But Claire was refusing to feel sad about it—or stressed about the fact that every single apartment she’d applied for had rejected her, including the ones she’d assumed were too dilapidated for anyone else to want.

No stress tonight, she told herself firmly, sipping her wine a little faster than she usually did. No stress, no sadness, no bad vibes.

“I wish you could move in with us,” Suzanne said, shooting her a glance from the other end of the couch. “Really, I’d kick James out in a heartbeat—”

“Absolutely not,” Claire said firmly. They’d had this discussion a dozen times, and she was resolute. “I’ll be third-wheeling your entire marriage, Suzanne, I refuse to third-wheel your engagement as well.”

“I hate the thought of you staying in some crappy motel,” Suzanne complained. “The rental market’s an absolute racket.”

“It’s only for a few weeks.” She’d picked out a place earlier that week, when the final round of rental rejections had come through and it had become grimly clear that she wasn’t going to find a place in time. “Something will come up.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll pack myself into a box and post myself to some rich guy who wants a wife.” She chuckled, but Suzanne was looking at her thoughtfully. “I’m joking.”

“Why?” her friend asked simply. “It sounds like a pretty good idea to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it.” Suzanne leaned forward and turned the volume down on the television, her dark eyes serious. “Why keep losing money on some crappy motel when you could live in the lap of luxury with some guy who’d worship the ground you walk on?”

“What, just—marry some guy for a place to stay? Divorce him once I’m approved for an apartment?”

“Well, yeah,” Suzanne said blankly. “It’s just paperwork, babe. It doesn’t mean anything. Just make sure you don’t sign anything you can’t get out of, and you’re golden. You know how to read a contract better than anyone, right?”

Claire grimaced. Suzanne was right—it was a skill she’d had to develop quickly in the world of online publishing. But something told her that royalty agreements were a slightly different kettle of legal fish to marriage contracts. “Sure, but—”

“But what? You’re always saying you wish you’d gone on more adventures, right? You write about this kind of thing all the time. There’s nothing in this city that you can’t leave behind for a few months. And that includes me,” she added quickly as Claire opened her mouth to protest. “We’ve got phones, we’ve got email. So long as you’re back in time to be my maid of honor in a couple of years, we’re golden. Until then…” She tapped on her phone. “You could be living on a tropical island with some hot millionaire, or you could move into some crappy motel with a busted mattress and the creepiest neighbors on earth. Hard choice, I know.”

“You can’t be serious. I’ll get murdered.”

“Do you think I’d let my best friend get murdered? There are safety measures, Claire. You’ll have a panic button, an escape plan, you’ll have me checking in every day—every hour, if you want—but that’s not what you’re scared of, is it? You’re scared of change.”

“What else is new?” she said, grimacing down at her wine glass.

“Babe, things are changing anyway.” Suzanne looped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against her. “And as much as you’re putting your usual sunshiny spin on it, I know when you’re depressed. But if the world’s changing anyway…why not take some control of it?”

“Normal people just get a daring haircut,” Claire pointed out, fighting a creeping sense of unreality. Everything Suzanne was saying made a bizarre kind of sense. Was she really considering this?

“Unfortunately, I’ve already packed the kitchen scissors,” Suzanne said. “Mail-order marriage is the only other option.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. It felt good to break the tension, to lessen the strangeness of this conversation. “Who’d want to mail-order me, anyway?” she gestured down at herself, feeling self-conscious.

“Are you kidding? You’re gorgeous, for a start. Those eyes, those curls, those curves?” Suzanne whistled, and Claire flushed with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “But it’s about more than looks. You’re a writer. Rich guys love feeling like they’re supporting the arts.”

“I write romantic fantasy about werewolves,” Claire said exasperatedly. “Not exactly the Great American Novel.”

“I think your readers would disagree,” Suzanne retorted. “But most of all, you’re a delight, Claire. You’re like a ray of sunshine in human form. I’ve said it a thousand times, because it’s true—the man you marry is going to be the luckiest man on the planet.”

“Second luckiest,” Claire said, feeling tears threatening. “James wins.”

“Two-way tie,” Suzanne said with a flick of her hand. “Seriously, babe. You’re a prize that any one of these rich bozos would be lucky to have. If you don’t believe me, why don’t we send an inquiry?”

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